Wedding Vows: With This Ring. Barbara Hannay
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voice was at least as sensual as the silk where the dress caressed her naked skin.
Molly could feel her cheeks turning a shade of red that was probably going to put her hair to shame.
“A little,” she said proudly. “It’s nothing. Excuse me.” She tried to lift her chin, to prove how nothing it was, but her hair was caught hard enough that she could not, and she also could not prevent a little wince of pain as the movement caused the stuck hair to yank at her tender scalp.
“That looks painful,” he said quietly, getting to his feet with that casual grace one associated with athletes, the kind of ease of movement that disguised how swift they really were. But he was swift, because he was standing in front of her before she could gather her wits and make good her escape.
The smart thing to do would be to step back as he took that final step toward her. But she was astounded to find herself rooted to the spot, paralyzed, helpless to move away from him.
The world went very still. It seemed as if all the busy activity on the street outside ceased, the noises faded, the background and Miss Viv melted into a fuzzy kaleidoscope as the stranger leaned in close to her.
With the ease born of supreme confidence in himself—as if he performed this kind of rescue on a daily basis—he lifted the pressure of the dress up off her shoulder with one hand, and with the other, he carefully unwound her hair from the pearls they were caught in.
Given that outlaw remoteness in his eyes, he was unbelievably gentle, his fingers unhurried in her hair.
Molly’s awareness of him was nothing less than shocking, his nearness tingling along her skin, his touch melting parts of her that she had hoped were turned to ice permanently.
The moment took way too long. And not nearly long enough. His concentration was complete, the intensity of his steely-gray gaze as he dealt with her tangled hair, his unsettling nearness, the graze of his fingers along her neck, stealing her breath.
At least Molly didn’t feel as if she was breathing, but then she realized she must, indeed, be pulling air in and out, because she could smell him.
His scent was wonderful, bitingly masculine, good aftershave, expensive soap, freshly pressed linen.
Molly gazed helplessly into his face, unwillingly marveling at the chiseled perfection of his features, the intrigue of the faint crook in his nose, the white line of that scar, the brilliance of his eyes. He, however, was pure focus, as if the only task that mattered to him was freeing her hair from the remaining pearl that held it captive.
Apparently he was not marveling at the circumstances that had brought his hands to her hair and the soft place on her neck just below her ear, apparently he was not swamped by their scents mingling nor was he fighting a deep awareness that a move of a mere half inch would bring them together, full frontal contact, the swell of her breast pressing into the hard line of his chest…
The dress, suddenly freed, fell back onto her shoulder. He actually smiled then, the faintest quirk of a gorgeous mouth, and she felt herself floundering in the depths of stormy sea eyes, the chill gray suddenly illuminated by the sun.
“Did you say the zipper was stuck as well?” he asked.
Oh, God. Had she said that? She could not prolong this encounter! It was much more of a test of the new confidently-sitting-at-the-café-alone her than she was ready for!
But mutely, caught in a spell, she turned her back to him and stood stock-still, waiting. She shivered at the thought of a wedding night, what this moment meant, and at the same time that unwanted thought seeped warmly into her brain, he touched her.
She felt the slight brush of his hand, again, on delicate skin, this time at the back of her neck. Her senses were so intensely engaged that she heard the faint pop of the hook parting from the eye. She registered the feel of his hand, felt astounded by the hard, unyielding texture of his skin.
He looked like he was pure business, a banker maybe, a wealthy benefactor, but there was nothing soft about his hand that suggested a life behind a desk, his tools a phone and a computer. For some reason it occurred to her that hands like that belonged to people who handled ropes…range riders, mountain climbers. Pirates. Ah, yes, pirates with all that mysterious charm.
He dispensed with the hook at the top of the zipper in a split second, a man who had dispensed with such delicate items many times? And then he paused, apparently realizing the height of the zipper would make it nearly impossible for her to manage the rest by herself—she hoped he would not consider how much determination it had taken her to get it up in the first place—and then slid the zipper down a sensuous inch or two.
With that same altered sense of alertness Molly could feel cool air on that small area of her newly exposed naked back, and then, though she did not glance back, she could feel heat. His gaze? Her own jumbled thoughts?
Molly fought the chicken in her that just wanted to bolt out the open door. Instead, she turned and faced him.
“There you go,” he said mildly, rocking back on his heels. The heat must have come from her own badly rattled thoughts, because his eyes were cool, something veiled in their intriguing silver depths.
“Thank you,” she said, struggling to keep her voice deliberately controlled to match the look in his eyes. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”
“No, no, Molly,” Miss Viv said, and it was a mark of the intensity of her encounter with him that Molly was actually jarred by the fact Miss Viv was still in the room. “I called your office to invite you to meet Mr. Whitford. I’m going on an unscheduled holiday, and Mr. Whitford is taking the helm.”
Molly felt the shock of Miss Viv’s announcement ripple down a spine that had already been thoroughly shocked this morning. But even as she dealt with the shock, part of her mused with annoying dreaminess, helm. Pirate. I knew it.
“Houston Whitford, Molly Michaels,” Miss Viv said. The introduction seemed ridiculously formal considering the rather astounding sense of intimacy Molly had just felt under his touch.
Still, now she felt duty-bound to extend her hand, and be touched again, even as she was digesting the fact he was in charge. How could that be? Molly was always in charge when Miss Viv was away!
And Miss Viv was going on a holiday, but hadn’t told anyone? Second Chances was a family and far better than Molly’s family of origin at providing a place that was safe, and supportive, and rarely unpredictable.
“There are going to be a few changes,” Miss Viv said, cheerfully, as if Molly’s nice safe world was in no way being threatened. “And no one is more qualified to make them than Mr. Whitford. I expect Second Chances is going to blossom, absolutely go to the next level, under his leadership. I’m thrilled to pass the reins to him.”
But Molly felt the threat of her whole world shifting. Miss Viv was stepping down? The feeling only intensified when Houston Whitford’s hand—warm, strong, cool—touched her skin again. His hand enveloped her hand and despite the pure professionalism of his shake, the hardness of his grip told her something, as did the glittering silver light in his eyes.
He was not the usual kind of person who worked an ill-paying job at a charity. His suit said something his hands did not: that he was used to a world of higher finances, higher-power, higher-tech.
The only thing that was higher at Second Chances was the satisfaction, the feeling of changing the world for the better.
The cost of his suit probably added up to their operating budget for a month! He didn’t fit the cozy, casual and rather shabby atmosphere of the Second Chances office at all.
She felt the unmistakable tingle of pure danger all along her spine. There was something about Houston Whitford that was not adding up. Change followed a man like that as surely as pounding rain followed the thunderstorm.
Molly, her father had said, on the eve of leaving their family home forever, there is going to be a change.
And