Have Bride, Need Groom. Maureen Child
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“Well, Jenny Blake,” he started, telling himself to keep his eyes safely away from the swell of her breasts and his mind off the fact that his right hand still tingled from her touch. “Instead of making such a stupid request, you ought to be thanking me for stopping that wedding.”
“You don’t understand.”
“No, Jenny Blake,” he countered, leaning one elbow on the dirty roof of his car, “you don’t understand.” Jerking his head toward the direction of the front seat, he said, “Ol’ Jimmy in there would’ve married you, stuck around for the wedding night and then been gone by first light, carrying anything of yours that was worth ten cents.”
She flushed and even in the half-light of a Vegas twilight, Nick saw the telltale red creeping up her neck and cheeks. Unbelievable. A woman who actually blushed! And she wanted to marry Jimmy of all people!
“There isn’t going to be a wedding night,” she insisted.
“You’re damn right there isn’t.”
“Mr. Tarantelli, you don’t understand.”
“Right again, honey. I surely don’t.” He straightened, reached for the door handle and opened his car door. “Even better, I don’t want to understand.” Glancing back at her over his shoulder, he added, “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to turn Jimmy over to the cops, then take myself home for some sleep.”
“But you can’t take him.”
Nick told himself it wasn’t any of his business. It wasn’t his fault that this crazy woman actually wanted to marry a louse like Jimmy. And it most certainly wasn’t his fault that the look on her face reminded him of all the desperate kids in every Lassie movie he’d ever seen.
Gritting his teeth, he deliberately looked away from her, climbed into the car and shut the door firmly. The sooner he got home, the better. Rolling down the window, he rested his left forearm on the door top and said quietly, “Goodbye, Jenny Blake.”
Then he slipped the gearshift into reverse, half turned to look over his shoulder and started backing up.
“Uh, T....” Jimmy said quietly.
“You shut up,” Nick told him. “If you hadn’t escaped from me this morning, none of this would be happening.”
“But T.—” the other man ventured again.
“Enough, Jimmy.” Nick shot a quick look at his prisoner. “God knows, I can’t figure out how you keep getting women to marry you, but I am not one of your fans. So stick a sock in it for a while, okay?”
Jimmy shrugged but kept quiet.
Nick sighed and finished backing out of the parking slot. Turning around, he slipped the gearshift into drive, looked through the windshield and cursed.
“I tried to tell you.” Jimmy laughed, but stopped quickly enough when Nick glared at him.
Slamming the shift into park, Nick threw the car door open wide and stepped out. The fast-idling engine rumbled dangerously, and Nick’s temper was boiling at the same rate. Balled fists at his hips, he stared down at the woman sprawled across the hood of his car.
Two
Jenny’s fingers curled around the windshield wiper as she held on tight. Her right hand was cupped over the front of the car, her fingers digging into the hood latch. Her back was arched over the hump in the hood and her head shook in time with the hot, vibrating engine beneath her.
She stared up at Nick Tarantelli and swallowed heavily. Even though his image wavered with her shaking head, he looked furious. Well, she told herself, this wasn’t how she’d planned to spend her evening, either.
“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” he shouted.
“Stopping you.”
“way?”
“I have to get married!”
He didn’t answer right away and she chewed at her lip nervously. A thoughtful, almost sympathetic expression crept into his brown eyes. A flare of hope burst into life in Jenny’s chest. Perhaps everything would be all right after all. Maybe the bounty hunter wasn’t completely without a heart. Surely he could see how important this wedding was to her.
Oh, heaven knew Jimmy the Lip wasn’t anyone’s idea of a wonderful husband. But she was out of time and out of options.
Although, a voice in the back of her mind whispered, did a marriage to a bigamist count?
Jenny frowned and pushed the annoying voice aside. A marriage was a marriage. The rules didn’t say it had to be a good marriage.
Nick Tarantelli reached a decision then and walked back to the driver’s side of the car. A moment later the engine stopped and Jenny sighed in relief. She didn’t move, though, reluctant to give up the hold she had on his car until the bounty hunter promised not to drive away with her groom.
Then he was back, staring down at her, and Jenny felt her mouth go dry. Strange, she hadn’t noticed before just what a lovely shade of brown his eyes were. In the chapel they’d simply looked dark. But here, in the uncertain twilight, they looked more the color of fine brandy.
She shook her head and told herself she was being fanciful. It was probably nothing more than the weird desert light playing tricks. Besides, what difference did it make what color his eyes were?
“Why didn’t you say so?” he asked suddenly.
“Hmm?”
“You should have said something about the baby.”
“Baby?”
“Hell, you shouldn’t be crawling onto moving cars,” he said, and reached out to pull her off the hood. “You could get hurt.”
When her feet hit the gravel parking lot, she wobbled uncertainly for a moment. She grabbed his forearms to steady herself, then released him and straightened. He smelled of Old Spice and something else she couldn’t quite identify.
Old Spice. She’d always loved that scent but she hadn’t thought there were any men left who appreciated the old-fashioned cologne. Most men these days were more into buying French fragrances that battled with and usually overpowered ladies’ perfumes.
But the Old Spice seemed to suit Nick Tarantelli. Maybe it was just the brainwashing of those old commercials, but he reminded Jenny of the swashbuckling type of male she’d always associated with that cologne.
Now she was being fanciful, she told herself and dismissed her wayward thoughts.
“You probably shouldn’t be wearing those high heels, either,” Nick told her.
“Why not?” she asked, glancing down at the three-and-a-half-inch heeled sandals she’d bought the week before.
“The baby, of course. Everybody knows pregnant women should wear flats. That way they don’t lose their balance.”
How ridiculous, Jenny thought. As if footwear had anything at all to do with a pregnant woman’s health. Then her brain lurched, stopped and backed up.
Pregnant?
“What baby?” she asked.
“Yours.”
“Mine?” Jenny’s palm slapped against the open V of her neckline. “I’m not going to have a baby!”
“Of course you are.”
“I think I would know if I was pregnant, for heaven’s sake.”
“Then what was all that stuff about you have to get married?”
He loomed over her. Jenny’d never had occasion to use that word before, not even to herself. Yet there was no other way to describe what the tall, angry-looking