Mr. Unforgettable (8 page)

“Two months,” said Liz. They might not have come up with a surname but she and Luke
had
discussed this.

“Is it serious?” Megan asked the question casually enough but her hands tightened around the stem of her champagne glass.

Luke had instructed Liz to answer an emphatic yes to that question, but faced with Xena, Warrior Princess, Liz chickened out. Apparently Jordan's youngest sister had hero-worshipped Luke for years.

“You'll have to ask Luke.”

“Well, I'm ticked.” Bernice May untucked the champagne bottle from under her arm and refilled everyone's flutes with a liberal hand, ignoring Liz's demur. She herself was drinking beer. “Luke was going to be rebound guy now Jordan's off the market.”

The bride looked down at her white satin Manolos, said meekly, “I'm sorry for stealing Jordan.”

“Apology accepted.” The old lady took a swig from her Steinlager and her pearls clunked against the base of the green bottle. “I was going off him anyway. Call me shallow but I can't feel the same about him since he cut his long hair.”

Everyone looked expectantly at Liz who was finally getting the hang of how things worked around here.

“I guess you saw Luke first,” she conceded reluctantly.

Mollified, Bernice May patted her hand. “Tell me he's useless in bed and I'll relinquish my claim.”

“Not entirely useless.” Liz sipped her champagne. “That washboard stomach is great for balancing a teacup.”

She jumped as two warm hands tightened around her neck, then dropped to give her shoulders a gentle massage. “Fred's a great kidder,” said Luke behind her. “She did a year at clown school but had to drop out.” She felt him shrug. “Not funny enough. I think it was the chicken suit, pumpkin.”

Liz leaned back against him. “But we found another use for it, didn't we, cabbage?”

His long fingers found a sore spot and dug deep. She tried not to wince.

“What
do
you do, Fred?” said Bernice May, tucking a gray curl behind her ear. One false crimson nail stayed behind.

Liz retrieved the nail and handed it back to her. “Manicurist.”

Bernice May tucked the nail into her purse. “Don't suppose you carry a repair kit?”

“Sadly, no.”

“I have one,” said Kate, a sparkle in her hazel eyes. “Let me get it.”

Liz tensed and Luke's fingers returned to the knotted muscles. “Won't do you any good,” he said lazily. “Fred's a pet manicurist. Specializing in shih tzu.”

Liz met Kate's eyes, read her amusement and had to bite her lip.

“There can't be much money in
that
!” Megan was jealously watching Luke's hands on Liz's shoulders. Liz was intensely conscious of them herself.

“Enough to fund her Irish dancing,” he said.

Kate started to laugh, but Bernice May pricked up her ears. “Michael Flatley, now,
there's
a rebound guy.”

That finished everyone off.

“Okay, you two,” Kate said when they'd stopped laughing. “Keep your secrets—while you can.”

“Fred, did I tell you about the time I first met Kate?” Luke reminisced. “It was at a surprise party for Jordan, only his friends and family got the biggest surprise. We caught them—”

Liz ducked as Kate threw a pillow at him. “Bring that up during the speeches and I'll kill you, Luke Carter, do you hear me?”

“No pillow fights until after the photos,” he countered. “Which reminds me, we're needed in the garden.”

“Don't worry about Fred.” Bernice May refilled Liz's champagne glass. “I'll look after her.”

S
IPPING HER CHAMPAGNE
, Liz sat on a garden bench with Bernice May listening to heat-drowsy bees, and watching Luke pose for photos with the bridal party amid the red roses.

Other guests smiled and nodded, sometimes stopping for a brief chat as they wandered between the house and the marquee, now being reconfigured for the reception.

Bernice May introduced Liz as the quirky Fred, a former clown turned dog manicurist, most notable for being the woman lucky enough to be sleeping with the drop-dead-gorgeous Luke Carter.

No one chewed her ear about rate rises or council policy. No one expected her to be intelligent, impartial and sensible. Liz pulled at her French twist and her fine hair fell around her shoulders.

Sun protection, she told herself, trying to remember when she'd last worn her hair down. Years. Long before she'd met Harry.

Her sense of well-being was headier than the champagne bubbles, more piquant than the surrounding flowers.

Luke glanced over to make sure she was okay. Fluttering her fingers, she blew him a kiss and his eyes blazed a lazy warning.

Maybe she had a tiger by the tail, but Liz was having too much fun as Fred to let go. Since finding out about her past, Luke had stopped flirting with her, and behind her relief was a woman's pique that he could switch off his attraction so easily.

“He still hasn't forgiven you for that crack about how lousy he is in bed,” noted Bernice May. “You're in for it, later.”

“I'm driving myself home tonight, so I'm safe.” Liz put the slight pang in her stomach down to hunger. It was now two o'clock and she hadn't eaten since breakfast. “Which also means no more champagne.” The old lady was still carting around her bottle like a geriatric genie.

“You won't be driving for hours yet.” Bernice May removed Liz's hand from the top of her glass and refilled it.

Politely sipping her champagne, Liz glanced back to the bridal party. “Wow,” she said softly.

The photographer had positioned the three men for a buddy shot. The breeze ruffled Luke's dark hair and molded Jordan's thin silk shirt against his impressive frame. He'd already dispensed with the waistcoat and jacket. And no dress could detract from Christian's charismatic masculinity.

They all smiled for the camera, the shot was taken and the group broke up. Jordan rejoined his bride and sisters; Christian wandered over to Kezia and took their small daughter from her arms. Luke sought the shade of a magnolia and stood alone, his expression shuttered, his arms folded.

Instinctively, Liz stood. But Jordan's sister, Megan, peeled off from the others and approached him with two glasses of champagne. Feeling silly, Liz sat down again. Of course he wasn't lonely.

Bernice May waved to Jordan's mother, a tiny woman to have produced so many tall children. “Lemme go find out when the food's being served. We want pole position at the buffet.”

Aware of being slightly tipsy, Liz put down her champagne glass. Was this her third? It was hard to tell when Bernice May kept it filled. As she tried to count back, a rodent was thrust under her nose. Seeing white rats was not a good sign.

“Wanna pat it?” asked a gleeful voice.

Turning around, Liz saw the six-year-old lamb-catcher she'd met earlier. A lick of light brown hair fell across his forehead and he looked a lot dirtier now. She adopted a stern expression. “You were hoping I'd scream, weren't you?”

“It works sometimes,” he admitted cheerfully.

Behind him the older boy shuffled his feet. “I told him not to do it.” Skinny, small-boned with expressive brown eyes and wearing clothes that looked too big for him, he was obviously feeling the moral weight of being the oldest.

“I bet it's funny when you do get screams though,” Liz said, and the boys cracked grins. “I'm trying to remember your names.

“I'm Dillon,” said the bigger boy, “and this is John Jason.”

Liz scratched the rat behind the ears. “I always wanted a pet when I was a kid but I couldn't have one.”

John Jason looked interested. “Have you got one now you're old?”

She blinked, then laughed. “No, my hus…the person I lived with was allergic. I've been thinking about getting one lately.” Except the thought of being solely reliant on an animal for companionship depressed her. Suddenly Liz did feel old.

“Luke said you cut dogs' toenails,” Dillon said and her mood lightened. That man would pay. Because the boys were obviously impressed, she invented a few stories that made their eyes widen, then told John Jason his rat had the best cuticles she'd ever seen.

“I didn't know rats had cuticles,” Luke said. He'd taken off his jacket and tie and undone a couple of buttons on his shirt under the silver-gray waistcoat, which moved with his body like a second skin.

Dillon turned around eagerly. “Luke, did you remember to bring your medals?”

“Yeah, they're in the car.” He threw the boy the keys. “Don't bite them this time, John Jason.”

The boys raced off, whooping at the top of their lungs. Dillon stopped, yelling, “I like your girlfriend!”

Luke turned back to Liz. “So do I…when she's not slandering my reputation as a lover.”

She refused to blush. “You can talk, cutting dogs' toenails, Irish dancing…I sound like a complete flake. Thank you, I haven't had so much fun in years.”

“Good.” He sat down and began rolling up his sleeves, revealing builder's forearms. He had a cut across one knuckle on his left hand. “You look gorgeous by the way.” He said it casually, as though it was true, and this time she did color up.

“So do you.” Realizing she was staring, Liz glanced down at the bridal party. “I gave the game away earlier, didn't I? Jumping when you touched me?”

“Blowing me a kiss was a nice counter. With a little work I think we can swing the balance in our favor.”

He rested his arm along the bench behind her, and tipped his champagne glass to hers with a slow sexy smile that made her blink.

Distracted, Liz sipped her champagne, the fizz on her tongue matching the one in her blood. “Be careful with those molten glances,” she warned. “Fred might be able to handle them but Elizabeth is prone to palpitations.”

His laugh rang out across the garden.

“Hey, you two.” Jordan strode up the hill. “We need you both down here for a group shot.”

“No!” Liz reacted instinctively. “Besides, it wouldn't be right.” She realized she wasn't playing her part and added hastily, “I mean, I take
terrible
pictures. Ruin every shot I'm in. Moonfaced.” She looked to Luke for support.

“Oh, I don't know, pumpkin.” He lifted her hand and kissed it, deliberately teasing her. “Those Polaroids I took of you on the sheepskin came out okay. Different moon of course.” When she frowned at him he turned to Jordan and said easily, “We're staying under the radar as long as we can.”

His friend looked at Liz. “Jealous ex?”

A shadow passed over her eyes, and Luke answered for her. “Something like that.”

“We still need you, buddy.”

“I'll be right down.” He waited until Jordan was out of earshot. “Sorry.”

“It's fine,” she said in her mayor's voice.

He hesitated. “When I saw you accept a hankie from Kezia, I did wonder whether seeing all this happy-couple stuff was difficult for you. It wasn't something I considered when I asked you to come.”

“Don't worry about it, I always cry at weddings. And frankly, my own isn't something I get nostalgic over. Harry insisted we do it loud and proud, but I had to cough wherever I went to save people the embarrassment of being caught talking about how long our marriage would last.” She laughed. “My throat was raw by the end of the day.”

She was expecting him to smile, so Luke did, but he thought it a pity that she'd had no family to take her side. Knowing her background explained so much about her, including why she'd been attracted to an older man. Security.

“How about yours?”

For a moment he forgot what they were talking about, then he grimaced. “Completely out of hand…turtledoves, pink champagne, balloons in the shape of hearts and Amanda so stressed she slapped my hand away whenever I touched her.”

Her dark eyes danced. “Better luck next time.”

“There won't be a next time.”

“You sound sure.”

He shrugged. “I don't have the gene for emotional intimacy. Amanda left me for someone who did.”

Liz said nothing, simply brushed her knuckles against his cheek.

Abruptly, Luke caught her hand. “I don't accept pity, either.”

“Actually I was trying to return the empathy you showed me the other night,” she said mildly, and tapped their joined hands against his cheek, harder this time. “Much tougher to be the recipient, isn't it?”

Understanding passed between them, unexpected and surprising. Ruefully, he released her hand. “Much tougher…sorry.”

Then because he needed to remind himself why kissing her wasn't a good idea, he gestured to John Jason and Dillon, who were tearing back across the field with his medals. “You're great with kids. I'm surprised you and Harry never had any.”

“Luke!” Jordan shouted from the garden. Raising a hand in acknowledgment, he lingered, curious to hear Liz's reply.

She smoothed out her dress. “He didn't want more children.”

“What about you?”

Liz clasped one wrist. “I made my decision when I married him.”

He needed to know where she stood on relationships, so Luke pushed. “It's not too late, you're only thirty-five.”

But she was shaking her head before he'd finished. “I won't get married again.”

Before Luke could ask further questions, the boys arrived, panting like overheated puppies, and a shrill whistle recalled him to his duties.

“Later,” he said, and it was a promise.

 

L
UKE HADN'T EXPECTED
to enjoy this wedding.

He'd already tried to resurrect the old Luke on the stag night, but alcohol had only exacerbated his sense of alienation. Whatever happened to the workaholic wunderkind, too damn busy being successful to think about nebulous bullshit like the meaning of life?

But tonight he was having fun. On the dance floor he sent Liz into a spin and admired her legs as the green dress swirled. Her arms, lightly tanned, gleamed under the lights.

He was finding it difficult to equate the collected, controlled mayor with the woman before him, all flying hair, flushed cheeks and smart mouth, and with a way of moving that in any other woman Luke would have considered foreplay.

For all her political astuteness, he'd sensed a sexual naïveté in Liz.

If she wasn't naive she wouldn't be teasing him with affectionate touches and flirtatious remarks. If she wasn't naive she wouldn't assume that because he was her friend she was safe.

Her expectation that he'd behave himself amused him as much as her mistaken belief that he was no longer attracted to her because he'd stopped flirting with her this week.

He hadn't backed off because he wasn't interested; he'd backed off because he was too interested. Elizabeth Light was a complex woman, and his life didn't need any more complications. But she'd removed the biggest hurdle earlier this afternoon when she'd told him remarriage wasn't on her agenda.

The dance ended, and Liz fell against him breathless and laughing—a warmhearted infectious sound that caused dancers nearby to smile.

He caught her against him, enjoying her exhilaration. “Fred, those Irish dancing lessons have really paid off. You're not standing on my feet anymore.”

“Because you don't move them, they're easy to avoid. But I need a rest.”

“You're supposed to be gazing into my eyes, Fred, not insulting me.” Their table was deserted; everyone else was still dancing. Luke pulled out her chair and sat down beside her. “My friends are watching us,” he lied, “so now would be a good time.”

Liz lowered her chin, glanced up at him with wide eyes. “How's this?”

“Too Bambi.”

She tilted her head, shot him a sideways glance through half-closed lashes. “This?”

“You look like you need a chiropractor.”

“Fine,” she said, exasperated, “I'll count the flecks in your irises.” She leaned closer and concentrated. “One…two…” Liz had always thought them steel in color, but this close they were as ethereal as smoke. “Two…three.”

“You said two already.”

She started again. “One, two…”

His pupils dilated until they were black orbs ringed by silver. Unleashed, his expression was seductively predatory. Suddenly she was nervous. “I'll get us some water.”