There Goes the Bride. Crystal Green
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over her senses. It was a man’s abode, all right, with patterned Indian blankets strewn over a spindly-legged couch, with woven mats serving as rugs and with a pillow-tossed, unmade bed resting in the corner. A T-shirt slouched over a chair back, trailing a pair of well-worn jeans that had found pooled sanctuary on the hardwood floor. It looked as if he’d stepped out of the clothing on the way to bed.
She could almost imagine him without a stitch of material covering his body, could almost imagine shadows playing over his hard chest while a rumpled sheet hid everything below. What if she slid that phantom sheet lower and lower…?
Stop right there, she told herself.
When she glanced at him, his brow was cocked, obviously aware that she was aware of the discarded clothes.
As if the sight of them was enough to unnerve her. All her life, she’d been paraded in front of judges, cheering parents, back-stabbing Miss So-and-so’s. Did he think she was so easily flustered?
Daisy pasted on her best panel-winning smile. “I want to take this opportunity to thank you for your help, Rick.”
Hmmm. She shouldn’t have said his name. It seemed far too intimate in light of the tossed-away jeans.
He must have possessed nerves radar, because just as soon as she thought “Hmmm,” he started moving toward her, shadowing her with his long body.
“Don’t thank me now. We’ve got a ways to go, darlin’.”
Daisy swallowed, coating her suddenly dry throat with indifference. “Well, it needed to be said.”
Well? The word was a time buyer, a dead giveaway to a loss of composure.
He took a step closer, bringing with him the slight scent of tobacco. Closer, close enough so she could see the outline of his Adam’s apple against a corded throat.
Close enough so his low voice rained through her with a liquid vibration. “You actually think this hare-brained plan is going to work?”
He reached out, grasping her blanket with both hands, the heat from his fingers making the skin of her throat tingle.
“It’s got to work.” Oh, she sounded scared, desperate.
Nervous.
He tugged the coarse material off her shoulders, her veil whispering against it. Cold air hit her chest, and she peered downward, realizing how much cleavage was exposed. She shifted, hoping he wasn’t as aware of it as she was.
His voice softened. “You really think Tarkin is coming after you.”
It was a statement, not a question. She remembered Peter’s face when he’d threatened her in his oh-so-silky way. Remembered his fingers, tightening, cutting off her gulp of surprise.
“Yes, he will,” she said.
Rick floated a dark glance over her shoulder, and she couldn’t help thinking that there was more to him than just being a black-sheep layabout.
When had he changed from a lean-against-the-lockers kid to this dark cloud?
He was looking at her again. Not at her breasts, but into her eyes, as if searching for an answer he’d never find. He reached out once more.
She wanted to rear back, but couldn’t. The good girl still wanted to be touched by the bad boy. She wanted to kick off the white-satin shoes and dance around in red stilettos.
She didn’t move.
Gently, he skimmed a hand over her veil, stopping when he came to the tiara. She felt bobby pins being loosened from her hair as he worked them free, and she closed her eyes, feeling the room spin. Then, finally, the weight of the accessory disappeared.
When she opened her eyes, he cradled the faux diamonds in his hands, almost like a man cupping a woman’s face before he whispered promises to her. The moment slowed, lasting a short infinity, before he grinned and tossed the tiara on the couch.
Then he focused on her again, his gaze hungry enough to put the fear of a good girl back into her soul.
He said, “Have you ever been to St. Louis?”
“Yes.” Croak.
“Not a safe place.”
As he moved forward, she moved back. Straight into the wall. He caged her between his muscled arms, leaning a lace-veil’s breath away from her lips.
She controlled her breathing, her hopscotch heartbeat, trying to keep calm, trying not to appear rattled. “St. Louis is where I’ll find a new life. Freedom.”
The word rang between them, as fleeting as a fear-driven skip of the pulse.
“You’re running away from your problems, Daisy.” His breath warmed her mouth, tingling her lips with thoughts of what might come next.
Daisy. The way he said her name made her want to run her fingers over his chest, to dip them into the tight space between his shirt and waistband. “I’m doing the right thing,” she said.
She didn’t know how she was even able to speak, what, with this loss of breath. When Rick was near, it was almost like running through rarefied air. She couldn’t help being light-headed and weak-kneed.
How could this even be happening? Didn’t Rick realize that the woman he had trapped in his arms wasn’t the same as she was in high school? Hadn’t he noticed that she was layered with a protective coat of chub these days?
Evidently, he was blind.
But he was still moving closer, his lips brushing over hers. “You’d better hope you’re doing the right thing,” he said, tickling the skin around her mouth with the heat of his words.
Before she could answer, he’d leaned down and pressed his lips against hers, his mouth soft as a flame’s curve, hinting at an element of danger.
Daisy heard herself moan low in her throat, heard it echoing down the halls of her heart. The sound slipped down her skin like the caress of a wilted rose petal, lost and fallen.
As she rubbed closer to him, her breasts crushed against his hard chest, satin and skin against the rough cotton of his shirt, wisping against each other with the easy rhythm of a fulfilled wish.
So this was what it felt like to kiss Rick Shane. This was what it felt like to wrap yourself in a rebel’s leather jacket, waving goodbye to your astonished friends and your past morals. His mouth felt so good on hers, so right.
Why had she resisted in the first place?
Though he still held her captive between his arms, Rick pulled back, depriving her of heat, a maddening grin on those lips. “Think about whether you’re flying into more danger now, Ms. Daisy Cox.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs as he increased his distance. She couldn’t believe he’d just stopped, leaving her wide-eyed and cold.
He ran a hand through his wind-ruffled hair. “If you’re still sure you want to go, use the phone to make your arrangements in St. Louis. I’ve got my own plans to make.”
As he walked away, Daisy slumped against the wall, angry with herself for giving in so easily.
But it wouldn’t happen again. She’d make sure of it.
Outside, after making his own calls, Rick clicked off his cell phone and convinced himself, yet again, that kissing Daisy had been a good idea.
Hell, half of him—the uselessly sentimental half—had given into those high-school hormones, kissing her because he’d always wondered what it would feel like. The more cynical half of him had only wanted to show her that running away from her problems in Kane’s Crossing wouldn’t end her misery. She needed to face them head-on.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
His conscience slapped him upside the skull. Pardon me, but aren’t you the hardhead who’s been running