Runaway Bridesmaid (21 page)

“I'm her evil twin sister Serena,” she said, leaning one arm against the door frame, the other hand on her hip, a position that had a decided effect on the already dicey position of her breasts in the strapless garment. The shiny fabric slithered down over her ribs and hips, only to explode in a full skirt that exposed lots and lots and
lots
of leg, ending in a pair of strappy four-inch heels. Tilting her head to regard him from beneath lashes thicker and darker than he remembered them, she added, “I've stuffed Sarah in the fruit cellar until after you leave.”

“You don't have a fruit cellar.”

“I also don't have a twin sister.”

Dean swallowed. “Would you excuse me a moment? I need to push my eyeballs back in my head.”

A brilliant smile told him how much his comment pleased her. “While you're doing that, would you like a beer?”

“You have beer?”

“Rarely. But I ran over to the Jenkinses' and bummed a couple off Percy.”

“In
that?
”

She laughed again. “No, no. Before I changed.”

“Thank God. You'd give poor Percy a heart attack.”

Almost afraid she'd disappear if he let her out of his sight, Dean followed her into the kitchen, lit only by a small fluorescent fixture over the stove. Hoping he appeared at least somewhat relaxed, he leaned against the counter as she opened the refrigerator, the sudden harsh illumination starkly outlining every nuance of the front of her body. He couldn't tear his eyes away from her legs as she bent over to pull two cans of beer out of the fridge. Legs like that should be licensed. Legs like that should not spend most of their waking hours stuffed inside baggy blue jeans inside a barn somewhere.

Then again, maybe they should. Otherwise, they'd cause traffic accidents.

Sarah started to hand one of the beers to him, then jerked it
back with a sharp shake of her head. “I just can't see chugging beer from a can in this getup. Wait a minute.”

She vanished into the dining room, reappearing a second later with two crystal champagne glasses. “Isn't beer called ‘poor man's champagne,' anyway?” She delicately poured the beer into the glasses and lifted hers to his in a toast, with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

He'd heard the wobble in her voice, too, even though she clearly tried to hide it. It was more than nervousness, he was sure. Somehow, somewhere during those few seconds she had been out of the room, some doubt or other had resettled in her thought. He lightly touched her arm with his free hand.

“Hey, honey—something wrong?”

Her brows shot up underneath soft, wispy bangs as she sipped her beer. “Wrong? Of course not.” Her mouth twitched up a little. “I'm just starving, is all.” She set down her glass and snatched an oven mitt off a hook over the stove, then pulled out the baked potatoes, tossing them onto a nearby plate. “Get the salad, would you?” she called over her shoulder, suddenly a model of efficiency. “Let's get this show on the road—”

“Sarah. Put down the potatoes.”

She was facing the counter when he spoke, and he could see her muscles tense in her bare back; then she slowly set down the plate.

Dean took her hand and pulled her around to him. “You're not really all
that
hungry, are you?”

Her eyes entwined with his, wide and trusting and scared as hell, as a tiny sound like a whimper fell from her lips. Dean cradled the side of her face in his hand, letting his thumb skate over her cheek.

“What are we doing here?” he asked softly, letting his forehead nearly—but not quite—touch hers.

“Having dinner?” she replied, her voice squeaky, like a baby bird's.

“I don't think so, honey.”

She valiantly attempted a smile. “Then what the hell did I cook those steaks for?”

“Hmm. I could have sworn it was me who cooked the steaks.” He tugged her into his arms, letting himself savor the feel of her, the soapy, womanly scent of her, letting the ache blossom into sweet, hopeful anticipation.

“Oh. Yeah.” After a moment, she melted against him, her hands linked behind his back. He enfolded her completely, one hand stroking her silky bare back, his chin resting on the top of those soft curls.

“I'm plumb crazy about you, Sarah Louise,” he said quietly. Carefully. “I always have been, even at my jerkiest. And I always will be, no matter what stupid things I may do in the future.”

He could feel her swallow against his chest. “I know.”

He waited. And then it came.

“I'm crazy about you, too,” she said, her voice so soft he could barely hear her. “No matter what…” At this, her voice caught, and she didn't finish her sentence.

Dean had never yearned so intensely for anybody, for anything, in his life. He wanted her. He wanted her to want
him.
And he was well aware that, still, in spite of how things appeared, this might not work out. He could barely speak over his hammering heart. “So…what do you think we should do now?”

“Have dinner?” she whispered.

She wasn't biting. Not yet, anyway.

“Okay, baby,” he said with a soft laugh. “We'll have dinner. Then afterward, I think we should go dancing.”

Her face jerked up to his, the expression vintage Sarah Smart-ass. “This is Sweetbranch. Not exactly replete with nightclubs, you know.”

He shrugged. “You do have a radio, don't you?” His mouth hitched into a smile as he teased her shoulder with his fingertip. “Even out here in the boonies?”

“Oh, um…” She shivered from his touch. “Yeah.” He went rock hard, pressed her closer, figuring there was little
point in keeping it a secret. Her gaze zinged to his, her expression a curious, tantalizing mixture of amusement and cautiousness. “A CD player, even,” she said after one too many beats had passed.

“Any jazz?”

“There, um, might be one or two pieces that would…fit.”

“Then we're set on the…dancing.”

Oh, man…they were
so
close. In more ways than one. But he didn't dare take things to the next notch. Not yet. If he did, everything she'd accused him of that first night would seem to be true. And making love was not all he wanted from her.

Not
all
he wanted from her.

He could feel her heart rate increase as he held her, saw her run her tongue over her lower lip, had to bite his own to keep from swooping down on her right then and there.

She studied him for several seconds, then cocked her head to the side. A smile slowly, shyly pulled at her lips. He almost missed the tremor in her voice. “And after the dancing?”

Now his own heart rate went ballistic; she wasn't suggesting they watch TV.

“After that,” he finally managed to say, “is up to you.”

S
arah could feel Dean staring at her all through dinner. Except, somehow, she didn't mind so much this time. It was, at least, an appreciative stare. Actually, he looked as though he wanted to devour her.

For some reason, that made her feel…powerful. In charge. Oh, both of them knew what that dosey-do in the kitchen had meant, and she was well aware Dean had taken the “discretion being the better part of valor” route in not being the one to actually suggest they make love. Well—she bit back a smile, remembering—not in so many words, at least. But that's what was going to happen. As soon as she gave the signal. Which, if she weren't careful, she'd unwittingly give before she was really ready.

Not that she
wasn't
ready. Because she was. She just wasn't right-this-minute ready.

She refused to let herself even consider whether or not she was being fair. Which she wasn't, was she? After all, if he knew, would he be quite so hot to take her to bed?

Not a chance she was willing to take. Besides, how else was she going prove she'd forgiven
him?

Giving. Taking. She wasn't at all sure which she was doing tonight. A little of both, she supposed. But if this did turn out to be her only chance, she was determined to go out in one helluva blaze of glory.

She was amazed she'd eaten, but when she looked down at her plate, it was empty, so she supposed she had. Dean insisted on cleaning up, that she was to sit tight until he got back. What did he expect her to do—make small talk with a palm?

He'd been gone maybe all of three minutes when she carefully pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen, in case Dean might be in its path. The water was running in the sink; already absorbed in his chore, he didn't hear her at first, giving her a moment to savor the picture of how things might have been. What they might have been even still, had circumstances been different.

He'd removed his jacket and tie and rolled up his sleeves, the white shirt almost luminous against his tanned skin in the incandescent light from overhead. Sarah found the effect incredibly sexy—that hint of muscles rippling from underneath the makeshift cuffs, the light dusting of golden hair on his forearms. It made her want to run her fingers up underneath the cuffs, to unbutton the shirt and splay her fingers across his chest.

Silently, she instead pressed her tingling fingers to her own cheeks, thinking how remarkable she'd never, ever wanted to splay her hands across any other man's chest. And that thinking such things about Dean seemed so natural and good and right.

But what she found most alluring about the tableau was the comfortable ease with which he assumed the household chore. He wasn't doing her a favor; he was simply doing something that needed to be done. As if they were a team, like they used to be before life got so damned complicated. And
that
was enough to make her want to grab him by the hand and haul him upstairs to her bedroom right then and there.

And keep him there, forever, safe in a world in which there were no mistakes.

She momentarily lost her balance in the heels, making her bang into the door. Over his shoulder, Dean threw her a smile. “Thought I'd told you to stay.”

“I'm not a dog, for crying out loud,” she countered good-naturedly, realizing her voice had gone unnaturally high. She cleared her throat and aimed for
sultry.
“Besides, I got lonely.”

He seemed to assess her comment for a moment, then said, “Well, if you're that bored—” he threw her a towel “—you can dry.”

She stared at the towel for a moment. This was a seduction?

Then she smiled. No, this was
them.

“Uh…okay. But first let me just—” she reached down and pushed the back strap off one heel, then the other, and kicked off the shoes “—return to sea level.” Now barefoot, she joined him at the sink, only to be immediately overwhelmed by the tang of his after-shave, the fragrance heightened by the dishwater steam.

She picked up a dinner plate and gave it a cursory swipe with the towel. “You sure smell a lot better than you did a few hours ago.”

He laughed, then leaned over, his hands still immersed in suds, and sniffed her neck. “Mmm…so do you.”

Certain parts of her body immediately perked up. Especially when he lingered over her shoulder a fraction longer than necessary, his breath causing hers to catch in a rush of anticipation. Then, so softly she almost couldn't feel it, he kissed the juncture of shoulder and neck, the same spot he'd blown on earlier, in the barn. A sweet promise of what was to come. She let her gaze drift to his, into those eyes she'd avoided letting herself fall into, and fell. Willingly and completely.

He just smiled then, and nodded toward the sink.

She nodded, too, in reply.

They didn't speak for several minutes as they went about this mundane, everyday job. Dean washed, rinsed, handed the
dish or glass or bundle of silverware to her, and she would take it from him as if they were performing some ritual of monumental importance. Over the stream of water, she could hear his breathing, steady at first, then becoming just the slightest bit ragged, the change so minute she wouldn't have noticed it at all except she was so achingly aware of his presence. She knew he watched her as he passed over each item, knew he was imagining what the next few hours would bring. Knew it, because she was imagining exactly the same thing. And knew that to wait longer would serve no purpose save to frustrate the life out of both of them.

Finally, Dean rinsed off the last of the dishes and set them in the drainer, after which he took the towel from her and dried off his hands, still watching her. Still waiting for a signal she had no idea how to give.

She looked up at him, swallowed, then swallowed again. And noticed he'd come to a complete standstill, his hands motionless in the towel.

Somehow, she'd given it. The signal.

She couldn't believe how scared she was. And how much she wanted him. And how scared she was of wanting him this much.

Heart hammering, she twisted around to pick up the champagne glasses to put them away; one slipped out of her hand, shattering around her bare feet. Her lips parted, but no sound made it past the lump in her throat.

“Don't move,” Dean instructed, disappearing into the pantry. But by the time he got back with a broom and dustpan, she was squatting, gingerly picking up the larger pieces with hands shaking so violently the shards were a blur. He crouched in front of her, placing a steadying hand on her wrist. “Why are you doing that? Just let me get it.”

Eyes stinging, she shook her head, even though she had no idea what she was objecting to as she stared at the broken glass sparkling like frost over the floor. She felt fevered, her senses raw, tattered, oversensitized. The rasp of the broom against the floor, the tinkling glass, even the still-lingering scent of the
dish liquid, throbbed inside her, around her, until it was all she could do not to clamp her hands to her ears.

Dean tidily swept up the mess, set the full dustpan on the counter, then lifted her up by the elbows to stand in front of him. One finger, then two, touched her cheek, his fingertips burning a trail of heat where they stroked. With a soft cry, she leaned into him, seeking surcease from the onslaught.

And…forgiveness.

“What?” he whispered.

Never had one word, spoken so gently it hardly seemed to be formed by vocal cords at all, said so much, or had so much power.

But she couldn't answer, couldn't admit her own lack of control, whether from fear or pride or whatever balled-up reason, she had no idea.

“Shall we skip the dancing?” he asked, tucking her chin in his fingers.

He, too, she realized, sought forgiveness. Pleaded for it.

Demanded it.

Her nod was barely perceptible.

In one motion, he swept her into his arms and carried her upstairs.

 

It wouldn't be her old bedroom, with its frilly trappings and white French provincial furniture; that, he knew, had been given over to Katey when she was born. But the instant Dean set Sarah down just inside the doorway of the darkened room, the fragrance of line-dried linens and lilac potpourri and talcum powder told him he was home.

His breath lodged painfully in his throat.

A sense of unfulfilled longing slammed into him when, not surprisingly, she slipped out of his arms, the dress rustling with each step she took to her dresser to click on a small lamp. The sudden light, dim though it was, made him blink as he watched her then cross to her window, closing lace curtains which a sudden breeze almost immediately billowed back into the room. He expected—willed—her to turn, but she remained in
front of the window, the curtains rippling at her back like an overdone bridal veil, as her fingers idly skimmed the sash. Deep in his belly, desire and patience clashed.

Damn near shaking with restraint, he came up behind her—slowly, carefully—pushing the curtains aside to thread his arms around her waist. The satiny material of her dress was warm, slick against his hands; her skin cool, smooth, fragrant beneath his lips. He let his mouth graze her shoulder, drift to the base of her neck, enjoying her fluttering sigh, enjoying the sharp bite of arousal even more.

“It's cloudy again, so there's not much moonlight,” she said unnecessarily, pinning his arms in place with hers. Her head dropped back against his shoulder, allowing him an unimpeded view of the swell of her breasts over the neckline of the dress. “So I turned on a lamp so we could see.”

“And what is it, exactly, you'd like to see?” he whispered, bringing his hand up to tease one breast through the gleaming fabric.

She hesitated, then covered his hand with hers, assenting, encouraging. “What I thought had been taken away from me for good.”

A battalion of emotions screaming in his head, he spun her around, fighting to remain calm, the one in control, when in fact his wasn't sure how much longer he could remain standing. He brought his mouth down on hers, hard, nothing held back, his only goal to convey all the sorrow and frustration and regret of those lost years from his mouth to hers. She opened to him, her own kiss just as hard, just as demanding, and giving, and—dared he hope?—accepting, even as her arms snaked around his neck, clinging to him with a rapaciousness only matched by his own.

Blood-curdling panic and heart-swelling joy, both, raced through him, preventing him from relinquishing her mouth, even for a second, for fear in that atom of time she'd change her mind, pull away, run away. He backed her to the windowsill, bracing her against it, almost sobbing in relief when her legs entwined around his waist—

She jerked away, substituting her trembling fingers for her lips against his.

What?

Their off-sync, frantic breathing brutally shattered the peace of the room as Dean's gaze locked hungrily into Sarah's. And through the desire—and no, this time, his imagination wasn't even a player—he thought he saw…

Ah.

He smiled, shakily, smoothing her bottom lip with one trembling finger. “I've got that all taken care of.”

She backed up. An inch, maybe. But she clearly understood. “You do?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She studied his face for a second or two, then burst out laughing, shaking her head, the diamonds winking in her earlobes. “Nothing like playing your hunches.”

He captured her face in his hands, hell-bent on making her understand. “I really had no idea what, if anything, might happen tonight. But I wasn't about to take any chances. Not like last time.” He nuzzled her forehead, needing to shut his eyes against the fierce, almost unbearable wave of tenderness that enveloped him. “We were damn lucky nothing happened.”

Everything stilled.

The silence roaring in his ears, he gathered her close, swearing softly. “That probably was not the best subject to bring up right now. Sorry.”

Her hair tickled his chin as she shook her head. “It's not that. Exactly.”

He waited a few seconds, then said, “You can change your mind, you know—”

“No!” Her head flew up, amber flames flickering in the depths of those bourbon eyes. “I want this as much as you do.” The smile that followed was as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa's. “Maybe more.”

He searched her face, realizing what her admission meant. Hope, and a foretaste of triumph, surged through him as he kissed her, softly, knuckling her silken cheek. Then he backed
away, skimming one hand down her arm until their fingers linked. She smiled for him, and his heart constricted, exploded. He wordlessly led her to the bed, feeling almost drunkenly romantic.

Romantic? Never before had Dean thought of sex in that connotation. Except once, a long time ago. Sex had always been a purely physical endeavor, pleasant and fun and sometimes even ego-building. But, while he had been attracted to all of his partners, and infatuated with a couple of them, love had never been a part of the picture.

Except with Sarah.

Dean stumbled over a slight ridge in the rug, sat down hard on the edge of the bed, laughing as he tugged her into his lap. She laughed as well, a sweet, low sound he caught in his mouth as she melted into his kiss, her arms looped around his neck.

Love.
There had to be a better, bigger, more all-inclusive word to describe what he felt for the woman in his arms. How could a word with just four letters possibly be adequate to contain the myriad emotions flooding his heart and brain at this moment?

He wanted her. Needed her. And not just in bed, despite how much he ached for her. Funny how he'd chalked up the…magic of that first time to the fact that it
was
the first time. No scale of comparison and all that.

Yeah, well, just goes to show.

As they clumsily, greedily, crawled over each other to the center of her bed, he was nearly overcome with an almost savage desire to protect her from whatever might make her sad or frightened or angry, even though he knew that, one, she would really pop him one if she knew he felt that way, and, two, that he was actually powerless to keep her from ever being hurt. But tough. That's the way he felt.