Drop Dead Gorgeous (13 page)

He slugged back a glass of water,
then
set the glass down with a definite clink. "Is it time for your period, or something?"

With unerring instinct, he'd found a great big red button, and pushed it. Wyatt fights to win, which means he fights dirty. I understand the concept because that's how I fight, too, but understanding it didn't stop me from reacting. I could practically feel my blood bubbling with steam. "
What
?"

He turned around, all controlled aggression, and damned if he didn't push the button again. "What is it about having a period that makes women so bitchy?"

I paused for a moment, struggling against the urge to leap on him and tear him limb from limb. For one thing, I love him. Even when he's being an asshole, I love him. For another, any attempt to leap and tear right now would hurt me way worse than I could possibly hurt him. It was an effort, but I said as sweetly as possible, "It isn't that we're bitchier, it's that having a period makes us feel all tired and achy, so we have less tolerance for all the
bullshit
we
normally SUFFER IN SILENCE
." By the time the sentence ended the sweetness was long gone, my jaw was clenched, and I think my eyes were bugging out.

Wyatt took a step back, belatedly looking alarmed.

I took a step forward, my chin lowering as my eyes
narrowed,
watching him like a starving puma watches a wounded rabbit. "Furthermore, that's the kind of question that makes a normally sweet-tempered woman anticipate, with great pleasure, standing over a man's bloody… mutilated…
dismembered
body." It's
really,
really impossible to sound sweet when your teeth are clenched.

He took another step back, and his right hand actually went to his hip, though of course his weapon was upstairs on the bedside table. "It's against the law to threaten an officer of the law," he warned.

I paused, considered that,
then
gave a dismissive flip of my hand. "Some things," I growled, "are just worth eternal damnation."

Then, with Herculean effort, I turned around and left the kitchen, went back upstairs, and lay down on the bed. My head was throbbing, maybe because my blood pressure had shot up during the last couple of minutes.

He followed a couple of minutes later, lying down beside me and easing me into his arms so my head was pillowed on his shoulder. I settled against him with a sigh, the tension in me melting as I was surrounded by his heat and the hard solidity of his body. The scent of crisp air, the hint of approaching winter, still clung to his clothing and I buried my nose against him, sniffing in appreciation.

"Are you crying?" he asked suspiciously.

"Of course not.
I'm smelling
your clothes."

"Why? They're clean." He raised his arm, the one I wasn't lying on, and sniffed
himself
. "I don't smell anything."

"They smell like winter, like cold air." I snuggled closer.
"Makes me want to cuddle."

"In that case, I'll hang all my clothes outside." His mouth curved as he turned on his side to face me, his hand going to my butt and urging my hips closer to his. Sure enough, a full erection prodded at me. Some things are as reliable as Old Faithful.

I love having sex with him. I wanted to have sex with him right then. And knowing that we couldn't, that the headache would be too severe for me to enjoy it if we tried, was in a way its own turn-on.
Forbidden fruit, and all that.
We couldn't make up after our argument the way we usually made up, which made the making out even more delicious.

He had me half-naked in no time, his hand between my legs, two big fingers gently moving in and out while his thumb took care of other business.

"Don't make me come," I moaned, pleading as I arched into his hand. "It'll make my head hurt." Oh, God, I was so close. Stopping now would be wonderfully frustrating and I would go nuts.

"I don't think so," he murmured, kissing his way down my neck and making sparks fizzle behind my closed eyelids. "No jostling. Just relax, and let me take care of you." Then he bit the side of my neck and forget "close," I was there, wave after wave of orgasm shuddering through me while he held me down and kept me from moving.

In a way, we were both right. My head hurt, but who cared?

"What about you?" I murmured as I began drifting off to sleep.

"I'll think of something extra you can do, to make it up to me."

Extra?
What "extra"? We already did everything I was willing to do. Vaguely alarmed, I forced my eyes open. "What do you mean, 'extra
?'
"

He chuckled and didn't reply. I went to sleep wondering where I could get a suit of armor.

Wyatt has making up down to a fine art.

Chapter Nine

I felt much better the next day, Sunday. The headache had subsided from a pounding presence to just a presence, and one that I could almost ignore.

Wyatt drove me over to his mother's house so I could inspect the arbor; as
Jenni
had said, it needed a coat of paint—as well as scraping and sanding before it was painted. But it was the perfect size, and the shape was wonderful, with a graceful arch that reminded me of the onion domes on buildings in Moscow. Roberta was in love with the arbor and wanted it as a permanent addition to her garden. We agreed that sanding and painting the arbor was a perfect job for Wyatt, since he was in charge of the flowers.

I could tell from the faintly wary look in his eyes as he studied the arbor that he was beginning to realize "the flowers" meant more than a couple of vases and a bouquet. Roberta could barely hide her grin, but until he asked for help she was going to let him stew, while she quietly handled the flowers herself.

There was always a chance he wouldn't ask for help—his inborn aggressive, dominant streak might keep him from admitting he couldn't handle the job. We had agreed we wouldn't let the charade go on any longer than two weeks. That was long enough to let him share in the stress, without actually letting him do something that would interfere with our plans.

Yes, it was mean.
So?

From there we went to my parents' house for lunch, to satisfy Mom's need to fuss over me and my need to be fussed over. We were grilling pork chops—grilling is never out of season in the South—so Dad and Wyatt immediately went outside, beers in hand, to see to the grill. I thought it was cute, the way they'd bonded, two guys trying to stay afloat in a sea of estrogen.

Dad's very philosophical and smart about it, but he's had years of experience with Mom
and
Grammy—Grammy equals, like, two of me. Plus, Dad had raised three daughters. Wyatt, on the other hand, was accustomed to being immersed in guy stuff: first football, then law enforcement. Even worse, he's an alpha personality, and has a hard time understanding the concept of "no."
Getting
me was a testament to all the dominant, aggressive facets of his personality;
keeping
me was a testament to his intelligence, because he'd seen right away that Dad was an expert in the war between the sexes. Okay, so it isn't really a war; it's more like different species. Dad speaks the language. Wyatt was learning.

Mom and I got everything ready for the grilling to start, all the while making more war plans—
er
, wedding plans—and when the men took over the pork chops we had a few minutes to rest. She'd found a dress online that she liked, which she'd ordered, and she showed it to me on the computer. I wasn't having any attendants, the wedding would be smaller and more informal than that, so I didn't have to deal with picking out
bridesmaids
dresses or anything like that, thank heavens. We looked some more for the gown I had in mind and once again came up empty, which was really annoying because it wasn't as if I wanted some over-the-top wedding dress with lace and flowers and seed-pearl embroidery. I'd had that the first time I got married, and didn't want to go through the experience again.

"I know!" Mom suddenly said, her face lighting up with inspiration. "Sally can
make
the gown, and this way you'll know it'll fit perfectly. Sketch the design you want, and we can go tomorrow to find the fabric."

"Call Sally first," I suggested, "to make certain she can do it."

Sally had her own troubles right now, what with Jazz being mad because she tried to hit him with her
car,
and her being mad because he ruined her bedroom by having it redecorated behind her back. They were living apart, after being married for thirty-five years, and they were both miserable. I

was
excited by the possibility that she could make the gown, though, because that was the perfect solution. Sally was a whiz with a sewing machine; she'd made Tammy's prom gowns, which had looked gorgeous.

Mom called Sally right then. Sally said of course she could do it, then Mom passed the phone to me and I described the gown I wanted to Sally, who, bless her, said it would be simple to make. It
was
a simple design, no frou-frou to it at all. The way I envisioned it, the magic would be in the flow of the fabric and the way it fit, and Wyatt wouldn't be able to think of anything except getting me alone and out of the gown.

I was so relieved I could barely stand it. I still had to find the perfect fabric, but finding fabric is much easier than finding the perfect ready-made gown. If I'd been prepared to settle for something that merely looked good I wouldn't have been so worried, but I'm not the best in the world at "settling." Sometimes I have to, but I don't like it.

Over lunch we told Dad and Wyatt how Sally was saving the day. "She needs something to get her mind off Jazz, too," Mom said.

Wyatt's gaze met mine and I saw his expression. It isn't that he doesn't get Mom's and my position on the matter, which is that Jazz deserved being hit with a car for what he did, because I've explained it to him; it's that his cop instincts are outraged. He looks at Sally trying to ram Jazz with her car as attempted murder, even though Jazz jumped out of the way and wasn't hurt, and he thinks Jazz should have reported the incident to the police and pressed charges against her. Sometimes I think his sense of right and wrong is a little warped by all those criminal justice classes he took in college.

He didn't say anything, but I knew he wasn't happy about Sally making my dress; I also knew he'd have plenty to say when we were alone, but he wasn't going to start an argument in front of my parents, especially when it was about Mom's best friend. The glint in his eyes, though, told me we'd be discussing it plenty when we were alone.