Here Comes the Bride (12 page)

Fiona finished pouring her drink, then set the pitcher down with a thunk. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Nick scowled. “Your father’s been hovering over Auntie all afternoon, pampering her silly.”

“And you feel unneeded,” she added for him. She knew how much he loved his aunt, saw how worried he’d been about her. Since his uncle Gray died, he’d been the one to look after her, care for her—now Fiona’s father was doing that. And Nick didn’t like it. Nick didn’t trust him, any man, to make her happy.

“They haven’t even noticed the rest of us are around.”

“I think that’s called love,” Fiona said, realizing the pair were indeed very much in love.

He gave a disapproving snort. He didn’t believe in love, any more than he believed in
marriage. But she was having second thoughts about her father’s relationship with Winnie.

Fiona had always thought love needed to be developed, nurtured, allowed to bloom. She didn’t believe love could spring to life so quickly between two people, but it obviously had for her father and Winnie.

She’d seen it shining brightly in his eyes as he catered to Winnie’s every need. She saw it in Winnie’s eyes as she allowed his solicitous pampering.

“So, did you get all the calls made? Is the wedding officially off again?”

“The wedding’s officially off.”

For how long, Fiona didn’t know. She didn’t know whether to stay here in town until it was on again or go home to Boston.

Each day she stayed she knew she was at risk, at risk of falling in love with Nick. Falling in love as quickly as her father had with Winnie.

She sighed and leaned back against the bright tiled countertop. Maybe it was something in the water here. Maybe it was the hot desert wind, firing up passions. She didn’t know. All she knew was that she was deep in danger.

“Since we’re not needed here, wanna blow this joint?” Nick asked. He shoved aside the unfinished crossword puzzle and came over to nuzzle her neck.

“Leave?”

“Yes, leave.”

His breath whispered down the neckline of her T-shirt, sending dangerous little shivers skittering over her body. She tried to ignore it … 
him
 … and took a sip of lemonade. Between its delicious coolness and Nick’s nuzzling nips to her delicate skin, she was transported. Heat curled low inside her.

She longed to slide into his embrace and spend the rest of the day and all of the night there, being loved and wooed by him. But did she dare? Nick was a man who could shred her heart.

“Kiss me, Fiona.” His voice was a soft command, an order from some baser part of him. It reached out to some baser part of herself, one she couldn’t ignore. Like someone drugged into willingness, she sought the urgency of his lips.

“Mmmm, you taste like lemonade,” he murmured. He drew his tongue with infinite slowness over her top lip, then her lower, rasping every nerve ending into life. He nipped; he kissed; he stroked; he caressed. Until Fiona was quivering.

He reached for her glass that she’d barely touched and set it down on the counter behind her. “I want both your hands free to roam over me,” he said with that naughty smile she knew not to trust.

Widening his stance, he straddled her frame, pinning her against the countertop, against him, like a prisoner without a will. The heat of his arousal pressed into her and she sucked in a breath, barely able to control her own need.

Nick was all-encompassing whenever he was around—and even when he wasn’t. He filled her thoughts, he filled her dreams. She wanted to touch him, every inch of him. No, not touch, but stroke, explore, caress, drink in his maleness with her fingertips.

She could feel the hard plane of muscle beneath his shirt as she ran the palms of her hands over his chest. His own traveled down her back, making her spinal column as limp as a noodle. All the while his mouth teased and tortured and plundered hers, sapping her of strength.

She hoped no one came into the kitchen, hoped this feeling could go on forever, this feeling of being owned by Nick. The feeling that she possessed him as well. For she knew she did, if only for this moment.

She moved her hands over the wide expanse of his shoulders, where his sinewy muscles bunched and relaxed beneath her touch. She brushed her fingers up the strong column of his neck, feeling his pulse throb there, sure and powerful, in sync with her own thudding heartbeat. Her fingertips learned the shape of
his jaw, the curve of his ear. She wanted, needed, to know the feel of him.

“You’re setting me on fire, woman,” Nick groaned as he reveled in her tentative explorations. He wanted to peel off his clothes, let her touch him everywhere. He wanted to strip her naked and return the pleasure tenfold.

“That’s not the half of what you do to me, Nick Killian.” Her soft voice was a seductive whisper next to his ear, as if the words came from some secret place deep inside her.

“Have dinner with me tonight, Fiona. Just us. Away from the family.” His request was a plea, one he hoped she wouldn’t refuse.

“I … I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Nick.”

“I make a mean omelette. Now, how can you refuse a free meal from such a charming guy?”

He tilted her chin up. A small worried frown had insinuated itself between her pretty eyebrows. She was afraid. Of him? Of what was happening between them?

Oh, Lord, so was he. Terrified. He couldn’t remember a woman who’d had this kind of hold on him. And he didn’t want it to end. Not yet.

Her green-eyed gaze swept his face, as if searching for reassurance that her heart … and her virtue … would be safe with him.

He prayed his eyes didn’t reflect a hint of
the lust he felt in his soul at that moment and swore to himself this would be an innocent little dinner between them. Above all else he wanted her company.

When her answer came, it was soft and whispery. “Okay, Nick.”

His heart soared.

Before she had a chance to change her mind, he swept her through the family room, uttered hasty good-byes to the rest of the family, and spirited her away to his car.

The man was gorgeous and he cooked, too. A woman would be lucky to land him.

Fiona sat on a bar stool in Nick’s state-of-the-art kitchen, holding a goblet of rosé wine, and pondered what sort of woman might fit into his life. Someone tall, chic, and sophisticated came to mind.

Try as she might, the title
wife
didn’t seem to work. A live-in would be more to his liking. A woman who came with no strings and who wanted none herself.

He propped open the door of the fridge with one lean hip as he sorted through ingredients for their omelettes. “Monterey Jack, green peppers, fresh mushrooms,” he enumerated, placing each item on the red-tiled countertop beside him.

“I vote for all of the above,” she answered.

Fiona enjoyed his deft movements, the way his off-white slacks fit his sexy, male tush, the way the fine linen of his shirt hugged his muscled torso. She knew what those muscles felt like beneath the fabric of that shirt. She’d memorized them with her fingertips a short while before—and she liked what she’d found. Nick Killian was solid male. She’d felt his vibrancy and his heat.

And it excited her.

“So, do you cook often?” she asked, deciding to keep her mind on dinner instead of what came with the meal—Nick.

He turned and smiled at her. “Define what you mean by often.”

To her, more than once a month would be often. She had very little time for the culinary arts, beyond a fast sandwich or a salad hurriedly tossed together before she had to get back to the business of running her shop. “Do you entertain?”

One dark eyebrow rose in amusement. “Ah, the lady has a nosy streak.”

“Dinner parties,” she added quickly. “Do you do dinner parties?”

He shook his head. “I’m not into the social scene, if that’s what you mean. I prefer to keep things simple. A few healthy meals for myself, an occasional barbecue, that sort of thing.”

He took out a butcher-block chopping board and began dicing ingredients.

“If you don’t think too many cooks spoil the broth, I can help,” she offered, setting down her wineglass.

He turned and smiled. “How are you at beating eggs?”

“Just try me.”

His smile widened. “Don’t tempt me, lady.”

She felt a hot blush taint her cheeks. “I meant my ability.”

His eyebrow only raised.

“My
egg-beating
ability,” she clarified.

He shoved a bowl and whisk toward her. “Let’s see some wrist action then,” he said in challenge.

She slid off the bar stool and reached for a blue apron, dangling from the copper peg rack on the wall, carefully avoiding the red one with the invitation to kiss the cook. She suspected the man didn’t need any encouragement. There was danger enough just being in this kitchen with him. “Wrist action coming up.”

She cracked eggs while he grated cheese, working side by side. It was a nice feeling—like when they’d spent the day exploring the ghost town.

Fiona beat the eggs harder. She was beginning to forget she had another life, a life to go back to once this wedding finally came off, a whole other existence, one that didn’t include
a man with beautiful shoulders and a powder-blue shirt that rendered his eyes more vivid than the sky.

Nick’s broad hand came down on hers. “Don’t beat ’em to death, Fiona. Use a gentle touch so you don’t break down the protein.”

She glanced up. “Right. Gentle.”

A short while later they were seated on the floor of the living room, Nick’s perfect omelettes spread out on the glass-topped coffee table in front of them.

“Nick, this is wonderful,” she said after one bite, a bite that had melted in her mouth. The man could definitely cook.

“We make a good team,” he said with a dangerous smile. He leaned over and refilled her wineglass.

The wine, the food, the evening alone with Nick was a heady experience. She wanted him to kiss her again. Like he had earlier in Winnie’s kitchen. Once or twice she’d thought he might when his gaze had strayed to her mouth, lingering there just long enough to raise her body temperature.

Or maybe it was the wine. It was a light blend, with a delicate bouquet, that went well with the fluffy omelettes. She took another sip and studied him over her goblet. He ate with gusto. It was, no doubt, the way he did everything.…

That thought made her smile. Nick would
be the perfect lover, hot, passionate, giving. She set her goblet down on the coffee table, realizing she’d had far too much.

“So, you think your father and Auntie are in love.” Nick didn’t look at her, but concentrated on his plate. “When did this change of heart occur, might I ask?”

She tucked her feet under her on the floor. She’d kicked off her sandals earlier, making herself comfortable in his living room. “Today,” she said quietly. “Watching them together, seeing the concern in my father’s eyes, the brightness in Winnie’s. Nick, I’ve decided to take back my objections to this wedding. If it’s what Dad wants, what Winnie wants, then I intend to be happy for them.”

Nick glanced over at Fiona, studying her for a long moment. She meant it. She was selling out, going over to the other side, leaving him as the only dissenting voice. “I see.”

“Nick, I’m sorry, but it’s how I feel. The only thing I’ve ever wanted was for my father to be happy—and I think he can be,
will
be, with Winnie.”

He took a swallow of wine. “Then you believe two very different people can be happy together?”

“In certain circumstances, yes. At least, that seems to be the case with Dad and Winnie.”

He pushed a straying tendril of hair away
from her face, his fingers brushing her cheek. Her hair was soft and thick and he wanted to plunge his hands into it, revel in its luxuriousness. “And what about us, Fiona? We’re just as different.”

She started to speak, then stopped and caught her lower lip with her even white teeth, worrying it slightly. At that moment he knew he wanted to kiss her,
had
to kiss her, to taste the differences between them.

He inclined his head, lowering his mouth to hers, to the sweetness he knew he’d find there. He found that and more. He found need, need as strong as his own; and that, he feared, would be his undoing.

He wished one of them had the power to say no, to pull away, to end this now. He wished one of them had the power to resist the temptation that had hung in the air between them, possibly from the first moment they’d met, certainly from the first moment they’d kissed.

As he sank into the divine taste of her, he knew the power to resist wouldn’t come from him. He didn’t possess it.

They didn’t touch—except for their lips—but he felt as hot as if Fiona had her hands on him. He kissed each succulent corner of her mouth, then the sensitive skin along her neck. “Different is nice,” she murmured. “Very nice.”

He was dying here—drowning in the scent of her, the flowery fragrance of her hair, her musky feminine scent of want, need.

He had to touch her, had to feel her softness, her heat. Hand trembling, he slid his wineglass onto the coffee table, then cupped her face between his palms. With his thumbs he stroked the hot blush of her cheeks, while his mouth sought hers again. He could romance those lips all night, until she was swollen from the taste of him. He kissed them, bathed them with his tongue, nipped their fullness.

She made a soft groan of pleasure and murmured his name. Her voice, low and husky, vibrated on his senses. His name had never sounded so intimate as it did falling from her lips.

He drew her against him. This time it was his turn to groan out in pleasure as she wound her arms around his neck and pressed her lush breasts into him. Yes, different was very nice, indeed.

He reveled in the differences of man and woman, this one woman, who fit so perfectly against him. He groaned again as he thought about their other parts that would fit together so perfectly, too.

Fiona was certain nothing would ever feel so right as this, the taste of Nick’s mouth on hers, their bodies pressed against each other—
his, hard and strong and male, and hers, soft and pliant and female.