Project: Runaway Bride (8 page)

Lower, he caressed her waist and hip, the inside of her thighs. Gently, he pushed them apart, making even more room for himself. Room to move and rub and drive her crazy.

Still kissing her senseless, urged on by her fingers in his hair and her nails raking his scalp, he cupped her rear in one hand, her feminine mound in the other. She moaned into his mouth, writhing against him, straining even more as his fingers teased her swollen folds.

She was wet with desire, growing even more so as he tormented her relentlessly. Rubbing, kneading, mimicking with his hand what she wished he were already doing with his strong, hard body.

“Reid,” she panted, her voice little more than a thready whisper. “Please.”

“Done with the foreplay, huh?”

She felt his grin as he brushed the sandpaper roughness of one cheek against her own.

She gave a strangled laugh. “Hours ago. I didn’t need it to begin with.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so,” he all but growled.

Bending her knees and hitching her legs at his hips, he found her slick opening with the tip of his shaft and slid inside in one slow, easy glide.

She sucked in a sharp breath and held it as his size, his heat, the fullness of his entry swamped her.

“Okay?” he asked just above her ear, his own breath sawing in and out raggedly.

In answer, she gave a long moan and tightened her legs around his waist.

He chuckled. Or attempted to, anyway. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him even closer, arching her pelvis and giving her inner muscles an encouraging squeeze.
“Yesss.”

Reid muttered a curse, lips peeling back from his straight white teeth and eyes nearly rolling in their sockets. In the next moment, he was moving, thrusting with smooth, powerful strokes. Each time he withdrew, she wanted to whimper at the loss. Each time he filled her again, she wanted to cry out in ecstasy.

Pressure and sensation built, first flowing outward like the ripples of a pond after a pebble has been thrown in, then winding tighter and tighter like the coils of a spring. She scored his back with her nails, afraid she would leave welts but unable to control herself.

Reid’s own hands seemed to be everywhere at once. He clutched her shoulders before running his palms down either side of her spine, cupping her bottom, roving back up to her waist and around to plump her breasts, plucking the nipples until every nerve in her body sat up and took notice.

For long minutes, only the sounds of their heavy, staccato breathing and their bodies moving in tandem filled the room. She thought she tasted blood from where she was biting so hard on her lower lip, her head thrown back in growing ecstasy.

She clutched at him, panting, desperate, murmuring his name over and over as she strained for what she needed. That pinnacle of pleasure only he could give her, but that he was holding just out of reach.

And then Reid’s own grip on her tightened, a steel-like vise of fingers on flesh while he drove into her. Hard, fast, deep—so good it brought stars to her eyes.

Her climax, when it came, hit her like a runaway train. Out of nowhere and with enough force to bow her spine and push her into the mattress while Reid stiffened above her and pressed her down even more.

He collapsed atop her on a long, satisfied sigh. His weight blanketed her. A hot, heavy blanket that should have been smothering but instead made her feel safe, enveloped, content enough to remain this way forever.

Reid started to shift, pulling out of her and rolling to his side. A tiny part of her cried,
No, no, please not yet. Please don’t let it be over just yet.

But instead of getting up, instead of leaving her in the bed alone, he tugged her close, wrapping his arm around her and draping her across his chest.

“Hope you don’t mind,” he said in a dry, graveled voice near her temple, “but I’m going to stay for a while.”

The part of her that had panicked a moment before did a happy little flip-flop, grinning like a girl who’d discovered her birthday party included pony rides.

“If your sisters come home, I’ll hide in the closet.”

That reminder burst one of her birthday balloons. Pushing it aside, she held on to her happiness as tight as she could and responded with something she knew he would find amusing.

“Mind if I hide in there with you?”

He chuckled, the rumble of his chest vibrating beneath her cheek. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Seven

S
itting at the kitchen island of Juliet’s family lake house, Reid checked his watch for the fourth time in ten minutes. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the countertop and resisted the urge to tip his stool back on two legs like a grade-schooler.

What was taking her so long?

Granted, he didn’t know the ins and outs of her daily routine—at least not as well as he might once have wanted to—but sleeping past ten o’clock in the morning seemed somewhat excessive for a woman like Juliet. She may have been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but she’d also been raised with a strong work ethic. She and her sisters hadn’t built Zaccaro Fashions into a successful design label by lying in bed all day.

Plus, he knew Juliet. She was much more put-together than that. More of the early-to-bed, early-to-rise type.

Of course, it didn’t help that he’d been up since 6:00 a.m.—after a night of zero sleep. But how the hell was he supposed to rest knowing she was just across the hall? Only two thin wooden panels and a few feet of oaken floorboards away, close enough to touch.

He’d paced his room half the night, as edgy as a caged tiger, working off some of the frustration and restless energy he hadn’t so much as hinted at while he’d been in the same room as Juliet. Because the last thing he wanted to do was kill time at her family’s lake house when they should have been headed back to New York already. He wasn’t entirely sure what would happen once they got back to the city, but turning her over to her sisters would be one huge item off his to-do list.

And that was what he wanted, right? To be done with Juliet and the whole Zaccaro clan as soon as possible.

Yet for some reason, he hadn’t pressured Juliet to head back to New York last night. Hadn’t tossed her over his shoulder and carried her to his Range Rover, tying her up in the backseat if necessary.

Flicking his wrist, he checked his watch again. Ten-twenty.

Enough was enough. Whatever was going to happen today, it was going to happen soon. Even if he had to throw a bucket of ice water on Sleeping Beauty to get her out of bed.

Stalking down the hallway, he lifted a fist to knock, but froze as he heard a peculiar sound on the other side of her closed bedroom door. He cocked his head, listening.

Silence.

He waited a few seconds, then raised his hand again, but before knuckles met oak, the same sort of noise reached his ears, less muffled this time.

Frowning, he turned the knob and slowly stepped inside, looking to see if Juliet was sleeping in the bed. It was empty. The covers were rumpled, proving she
had
been there at some point, but she wasn’t there now.

The strange sound came again, and his head swiveled in the direction of the master bath. What
was
that? It sounded like...

Four long strides took him to the bathroom doorway, and one glance inside showed him that he’d been right. Juliet was on the floor, curled around the commode, retching like a drunk after a weeklong bender.

“Good God. Juliet.”

He reached her in the blink of an eye, going down on one knee on the cool tile floor and brushing the hair back from her face. She was ashen, her dry lips parted slightly, lashes fluttering above her pale cheeks.

“Are you all right?” he asked in a harsh whisper. Then felt like an idiot for asking such a stupid question. Clearly she was far from all right.

Though what could have happened in the past ten to twelve hours that would cause her to be this sick? She’d been fine last night, so if it was the flu, it had come on fast.

Could it be...food poisoning? They’d both eaten exactly the same things, and he was okay, but... If something he’d prepared had done this to her, he would feel horrible. Grab-a-shotgun-and-take-a-long-walk-in-the-woods horrible.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, frowning so hard it almost gave him a headache. “I’m so sorry. Here, let me help you.”

She groaned and tried to swat him away, but he only brushed damp blond locks from her face before getting up and moving to the sink. Wetting a washcloth with cold water, he wrung it out, then brought it back and began to gently pat her cheeks, her brow, the back of her neck.

To his relief, she sighed and seemed to relax, as though the cool cloth was some small bit of comfort on the deserted island of her misery.

A minute, maybe two passed while he continued to bathe her face and stroke her hair. Then, without warning, she lurched forward and began throwing up again.

Reid’s heart twisted in his chest. Yes, it was awful to be around someone who was this sick, and normally all he’d want was to get as far away from the puking as possible. But he couldn’t leave Juliet. The thought never even crossed his mind. The only thing he wanted was to make it stop, to try to make her feel better.

As soon as the latest round of illness ended and Juliet slumped over weakly, Reid jumped up and grabbed a towel, folding it into a makeshift pillow and easing her onto the tile floor. Rewetting the washcloth, he placed it on her forehead, then said, “I’ll be right back.”

Taking off at a sprint, he hit the refrigerator and was back beside her again in under sixty seconds.

“Here,” he murmured, sinking down in front of the tub and lifting her up beside him, into his arms. She moaned, the sound a wordless plea as he brushed his lips along her brow and popped the tab on the can of soda he’d brought back with him.

“Here,” he said, holding it to her lips. “Take a sip. It will help you feel better, I promise.”

She did as instructed, and he thought he heard a small sigh of delight. He only let her have a little bit, though, pulling the can away to run its chilled aluminum surface here and there over her perspiration-damp face. She liked that, too, he could tell.

After several long minutes of sipping the clear soda and running the cold can along her cheeks and brow, she began to stir. Her lashes slowly parted and she stared up at him with fever-bright eyes. She wasn’t actually that hot, though—warm from exertion, but not burning up with fever.

“Feeling better?” he asked, still brushing back her hair and patting her with the cool soda can.

She nodded, struggling to lick her lips. “What time is it?” she wanted to know, but the words came out cracked and dry.

He offered her another sip of soda, lifting his arm to glance at his watch. “A little after eleven, why?”

“I should be okay soon,” she murmured, pushing herself up and away from him to lean against the side of the tub alone.

Reid popped his jaw, trying not to feel annoyed by her sudden rejection. Then he zeroed in on what she’d said.

“What do you mean you should be okay soon?”

Food poisoning or the flu or whatever other unknown virus she might have picked up wouldn’t come with a scheduled end time, would it?

Leaning her head back against the edge of the tub, she let her eyes slide closed. “It usually passes by eleven or eleven-thirty.”

“
What
passes by eleven or eleven-thirty?” His brows drew down, confusion and suspicion warring inside his brain.

She shook her head, essentially dismissing him as she rolled away from him and climbed none too steadily to her feet. She held on to the side of the bathtub, rested a hand on the back of the toilet, and lurched her way to the sink. Running a bit of cold water, she splashed her face and patted it dry with a nearby hand towel before smoothing her hair back into a tight ponytail and setting it in place with a band from the vanity.

Without a word, she left the bathroom on shaky Bambi legs, making Reid wonder if she was going to walk away from him on stubborn principle alone only to drop into a dead faint on the other side of the bedroom door.

On a huff of frustration, he pushed to his feet and followed her, carrying the half-empty can of soda along with him.

Sure enough, he found Juliet collapsed on her side on the bed, as though she’d made it as far as she could before her short burst of energy abandoned her and she could go no farther.

Damn obstinate woman. She would freeze to death in the Arctic before accepting a coat from someone she didn’t want to speak to.

Crossing to the bed, he set the soda on the nightstand, then nudged her over a couple inches and hitched a hip on the mattress beside her. He didn’t touch her, pretty sure any attention on his part right now wouldn’t be welcome, but had to curl his fingers into his palm to keep from stroking her hair again or brushing his knuckles lightly across her cheek.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” he asked softly.

She rolled her head back and forth in response, doing her best to ignore him otherwise.

“Let me rephrase,” he said a bit more firmly. “What is going on?”

With a moan, she squeezed her eyes shut even tighter, refusing to answer.

“Do you have food poisoning?” he wanted to know.

“Yes.”

Too quick, which meant no. “Funny, because we ate exactly the same thing last night, and I’m fine.”

A beat passed in total silence.

“Do you have the flu?”

“Yes.”

Again, instant response. She was lying, but why?

“That’s funny, too, because you’re not all that feverish, and you were perfectly well last night. No complaints that you were feeling under the weather. And I’m okay. You’d think I’d have a few symptoms, too, if you were contagious.”

He could hear crickets. Or maybe this far out, they’d be cicadas.

“So that leaves...what?” he continued when she didn’t show signs of giving in. “Meningitis? Scarlet fever? Ebola? Rabies?”

“Morning sickness!” she shouted without warning, interrupting his long list of not-very-likely communicable diseases. “It’s morning sickness, okay?” And then she yanked a pillow from its spot near the headboard and buried herself beneath it.

* * *

Pregnant. She was pregnant.

Reid had been shell-shocked a few times in his life—once even literally while in combat—but never before had he been struck deaf, dumb and blind as a bat all in one fell swoop.

Maybe Juliet really did have something contagious, because he was suddenly dizzy, sweaty, clammy and nauseated. It had taken every ounce of strength he could muster just to stand up and drunkenly make his way out of the master bedroom, down the hall to the great room and outside onto the porch.

He’d stood there for he didn’t know how long, the sturdy wooden railing the only thing keeping him upright as his knees did some sort of gelatinous jiggle that threatened to dump him flat on his ass and he dragged giant gulps of fresh air into his lungs in an attempt to avoid doing something totally embarrassing like passing out or throwing up.

Damn it, he shouldn’t be this worked up by Juliet’s news. After all, it was none of his business, was it? If she wanted to get herself knocked up by her jerk of a fiancé then run away from her wedding before the bastard could make an honest woman of her, that was no concern of his.

He was only upset—and physically ill—at the thought of her having another man’s baby. Especially
that
man’s. Reid might never have met the guy in person, but he knew a lot more about Paul and Juliet’s relationship than he would have liked. Worse, he knew how the so-called groom had treated his bride-to-be, and it was enough to make Reid see red.

And now she was tied to that son of a bitch. Forever.

Pulling himself together as best he could, he went back into the house. Juliet was nowhere to be seen, so he assumed she was still in her room. To kill time and burn off some of the angry energy prickling like needles just under his skin, he prowled the kitchen, opening and closing cupboard doors, looking for nothing in particular. He sure could use a drink, though, he thought, and wondered where her father kept the good, hard liquor.

A few minutes later, still sadly lacking the buzz of aged scotch in his bloodstream, he heard a click followed by soft footsteps coming down the hall. Turning in that direction, he straightened, taking a deep breath and steeling his spine for whatever was to come.

The first thing he noticed when Juliet came into view was that she looked a hell of a lot better than she had a little while ago. She was dressed, her face freshly washed and her hair freshly brushed, though still pulled back in a sexy, bouncy ponytail.

No, not sexy. He shouldn’t—
couldn’t—
be thinking stuff like that about her any longer. She looked better, that was all. Less like death warmed over.

Acting nervous and uncomfortable, she stuffed her hands into the front pockets of her tan slacks and slowly approached the marble island.

“Hey,” she said, so low he barely heard her.

“Hey,” he greeted in return. “Feeling better?” he asked, even though he could already tell she was.

A flush of pink washed over her high cheekbones. “Yes, thank you.”

And then a thick, awkward silence fell over the room. They stood there, on opposite sides of the central countertop, and neither of them knew what the hell to say.

What Reid
did
know, however, was that he had to put this situation back on solid ground. He, especially, needed his professional footing beneath him.

No more kid gloves. No more taking it easy on her because of their history. Time to remind himself that he was on the job.
She
was a job. Just get it done and get back to the office.

“Look,” he said, pushing away from the counter but keeping his hands safely curled around the edge. “I’m sorry you were sick this morning, but it’s clear you’re all right now. Generally speaking. I’ll go back to New York and reassure your sisters that you’re okay. I won’t tell them where you are, just that you need a bit of time to yourself and will come home or call when you’re ready.”

Licking her lips, she lowered her gaze for a moment, then raised it again, her blue eyes sharp but wary.

“Aren’t you going to ask me about...earlier?”

His chest hitched, and for a second he held his breath. Then he forced himself to relax, forced himself to breathe evenly.

“None of my business,” he said as much for her benefit as for his own. “I assume you had your reasons for skipping out on your wedding in your condition, even though most women would be running toward the father of their child, not away from him.”