Prelude to a Wedding (23 page)

"Bette . . ." He reached for her, hut she
hitched her shoulder away and he lowered his hand.

She took a deep, slow breath that for a
terrifying moment he thought might turn into a sob. The thought of
Bette crying turned something sharp and painful inside him.

"They sold the house to someone else."

Her words didn't connect in his mind
immediately.

"Your house?"

"Yeah, my house." The bitter sarcasm was
worse than her earlier calm.

"A couple looked at the house this morning,
and put in an offer at two-thirty—two and a half hours after I had
planned to be here making my offer. No inspection, no research,
they just sailed in and made an offer. Thirty minutes later, the
seller accepted. It's all done. The house is off the market."

Reaction jumbled on top of reaction. He
wanted to celebrate. She wouldn't be moving farther away, at least
not yet. He wanted to console her. Disappointment slumped her
shoulders, and he knew he was largely at fault. But he couldn't
regret it.

"I'm sorry I got you here late." He knew he
should stop with the apology, but he couldn't stem the next,
belligerent words. "But it wasn't the right house for you."

"Oh, really? When did you become an expert on
real estate?"

"It doesn't take an expert to see anything so
obvious. It's not the right house for you," he repeated
stubbornly.

"Why not?" she challenged, her voice this
time shorn of the sarcasm.

What could he tell her, when he wasn't sure
himself? "It was too far away."

"From what?"

"From your work, from downtown, from—"
From me
.

The words were nearly through his lips before
he stopped them. He could have said them; she would have taken them
as he meant them. Only how did he mean them? Was he talking about
geographic distance? So what if it would be a fifty-five-minute
drive instead of thirty-five?

But in some indefinable, unalterable way he
felt that buying this house, maybe any house, would take her away
from him.

It was stupid. He wasn't making any sense. If
she'd already owned a house when they met he wouldn't feel this
way, so what was the big deal?

He shook his head, and watched her frown
deepen. "From everything," he finished flatly. They looked at each
other. He thought perhaps they both regretted the isolation that
surrounded each of them. He wished he could reach out, hold her in
his arms. But a crowded parking lot didn't offer the privacy for
delivering an apology. He had to satisfy himself with touching her
hair, pushing the silky dark cloud back behind her shoulder and
cupping her cheek with his palm.

"I'm sorry, Bette. I'm sorry you're
disappointed. I'm sorry I disappointed you."

Tears pooled immediately in her eyes, her
lips parted, but no words came. She gave a futile gesture with her
hands. He had never had an apology so eloquently accepted.

"You'll find another house. A better one," he
promised. "I'll help you." No matter how he felt, if that was what
she wanted, he'd do his damnedest to help her.

"Thank you," she mumbled in a tear-clogged
voice. He dredged up a smile and switched on the ignition. Bette
stared at her gloved hands as they twisted in her lap, but the
tears threatened to fall, so she faced the side window. She'd seen
the confusion in Paul's eyes, and she couldn't blame him. She'd
lashed out at him, and it was herself she should have been
berating.

She owed him an apology at least equal to the
one he'd given her. But how could she apologize without betraying
herself?

She'd been trapped by her own good sense and
organization. She'd set up the criteria, the checklists, the
measurements, and then, when she'd found the house that fit them
all, she didn't want it. It didn't feel right.

But she'd ignored that. She'd planned so
carefully that following each step
had
to take her to the
right place. That was the lesson she'd learned from her
grandfather, it was the tenet she'd followed through life.

She'd arranged to put the bid on the house.
But when she realized Paul's schedule-be-damned attitude had cost
her the house, the spurt of relief had been so strong it had
terrified her. So she'd put all her confusion and anxiety on Paul's
shoulders.

Now she had another problem.

She didn't want to find another house—at
least not one to live in alone.

Watching Jan and Ed, she'd finally admitted
to herself how tempted she was to look to a future with Paul. She
wanted what the Robsons had—a marriage, a child, a home—and she was
having a harder and harder time not thinking of those things in
connection with Paul.

Jan, she feared, had seen her longing. If she
wasn't careful, she'd give herself away to Paul. She didn't know
how much longer she could fight off the wanting before the sorrow
of knowing it wouldn't happen would poison the present he could
give her.

* * * *

Paul eased his chair back from the table
still laden with Thanksgiving dinner, even after seven people had
spent the better part of two hours depleting its bounty, and let
the conversation flow over him.

He'd started it off with a comment to Grady
about the blonde he and Bette had seen him escorting the previous
Friday night. Now he was content to listen to Grady try to explain
his relationship with Randi, which with Grady consisted of the
chase, one big weekend and a goodbye ranging from pleasant to
sticky, depending on the woman.

Since Judi and Michael also knew Grady's
habits, the questions aimed at him were pointed enough to have him
shifting in his seat and darting occasional looks at Nancy and
James Monroe. Paul could practically read his mind; it was one
thing for his friends to tease him about being a lady-killer, it
was another to have the couple who'd been more like parents to him
than his own get that impression.

It was an old game among them, and Paul
usually served as ringleader, but today . . . today he felt too
peaceful and too restless, too comfortable and too discontent.

He looked around the table, his mother at one
end, Judi and Grady side by side, his father at the other end, then
Michael, Bette and himself. His gaze lingered on Bette.

Elbows on the edge of the table, she rested
her chin on her laced fingers, her eyes glinting blue humor as she
listened to the interplay among the others. The urge to touch her
pulled at him. If her hands had been free, he'd have taken one of
them. Instead, he placed his palm, fingers spread wide, against the
soft jade wool of her dress at the small of her back, remembering
the sensation he'd experienced from the same gesture when he'd
introduced her to his parents. He felt that now, and so much
more.

She lifted her chin from her hands and turned
to him, a half smile, half question in her eyes. He shook his head
slightly, telling her he hadn't been trying to draw her attention;
he'd just needed to touch her.

But now, meeting her eyes, the need was for
more than physical contact. It hit him often these days. The urge
to give in to it was nearly as strong as the urge to yank back
against it. Sometimes when he wanted to give in the most, he yanked
back the hardest.

"Want to go for a walk?" he asked in a voice
low enough that only Bette would hear.

"All right."

He gave a brief excuse to the others as he
and Bette rose. He thought the look his parents exchanged down the
length of the table held a significance he wasn't sure of, but all
his mother said was to wear warm coats and not go far, since she'd
be serving dessert a little later.

They walked in silence, covering blocks of
his parents' neighborhood, scuffing the final, sodden leaves out of
their way and holding hands. They got by, just barely, without
gloves by holding hands tightly, feeding off the warmth of where
they joined.

"How'd you like to see my secret
hideaway?"

She looked at him, with the gleam in her eyes
he liked to tell himself he'd put there. "What self-respecting
person could say no to a question like that?"

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes, that's a yes."

He started off at a jog, pulling her along.
By the time they reached the driveway clogged with the cars
belonging to him, Michael and Grady, they were both breathless with
exertion and stifled laughter.

"Aren't we going in?" she protested around
gasps.

He continued leading her along the driveway,
around the house. "Nope. My hideaway's not in the house."

At the garage, he drew her up an exterior
stairway to a second story, then slipped a key into the heavy
wooden door at the top, all without letting go of her hand.

"This is it," he announced. He shut the door
against the chilling wind, and glanced at the sheet-draped forms of
furniture. "When Walter Mulholland owned the house, it was
servants' quarters. When I was a teenager, Mom and Dad let me make
it my room most of the time. Now they close it up for the winter,
drain the pipes and stuff. But back then, I'd stay here for all but
the coldest nights of the year. It used to make me feel like I was
independent, on my own."

She glanced at him, but in the deepening
gloom he couldn't read the expression in her eyes. She wandered
into the room, looking toward the kitchenette behind the counter
that doubled as a table, taking in the wide bed, trailing fingers
across the back of a love seat his mother had added when he took
the old couch for his apartment. At the picture window, framing
winter twilight, she turned. Her movement swirled the skirt of her
dress, the same jade-green dress she'd worn to his office that
first time when he'd fantasized about making love to her there,
right on the black leather couch. He knew the reality now, and the
fantasy seemed pale.

Against the light behind her, she was a
shadowed outline. But, he realized with a sensation that was more
pain than anything else he could identify, she was the most vital
thing in his life.

"It must have been great for a teenager. Only
in high school, and already the possessor of a wild bachelor
pad."

He knew she was teasing, but for once he
didn't want humor. He wanted her. Here and now, yes, but in other
ways, too.

He crossed the room in quick, impatient
strides and his mouth came down on hers with an urgency he still
wasn't quite used to, even after the weeks of experiencing it every
time he touched her. Her arms came around his neck and her lips
parted, and that opening of herself sent emotion swimming into his
blood. The kiss deepened, ripened, eased, then gave way to another,
and another.

Breathing hard, he pulled back only enough to
murmur against her lips, "No. No wild bachelor pad. All the time I
was in high school, I think the only other person who slept here
was Grady."

But he wanted
her
to. He wanted her
beneath him in his bed—here, in his apartment, or wherever that bed
was.

Now. And tomorrow. And the day after.

His need for her. He could feel it reeling
him in, drawing him closer. He dropped his hands from her hair,
took a half step back.

He said the first words that came to mind.
"Poor Grady."

"Poor Grady? Why? Because you all tease him
unmercifully?" She seemed to speak automatically. Crossing her
arms, she rubbed at her upper arms, as though the distance he'd put
between them made her feel the cold.

He grinned, sure it didn't hold enough true
humor to fool anyone, least of all Bette. "Hell, no, he brings that
on himself. I say poor Grady because he's always running into these
women who want to tie him down, when he just wants to have a good
time."

Bette's hands stilled. "You think every woman
has marriage in mind the minute she sees a man?"

"Some women. A certain type. They can't help
it. They think in terms of husband material. They immediately
assess and project." The same kind who always looked ahead. The
kind who saw the present strictly as a training ground for the
future. The kind who lived by five-year plans and appointment
calendars. The kind who could get under your skin and inside your
life until you wondered what you'd do if they ever left. The kind
you chased even though you knew you shouldn't. The kind you pushed
away with unfair cracks, then prayed they'd stay.

He moved his head just enough to watch
her.

She stared ahead a moment, then turned. "So,
you think I'm that type?"

"How could I be talking about you when I was
the cha—"

"You know one thing about types is they can
change," she went on, not heeding his answer. "They can meet
someone totally unsuitable as a husband and still—" her eyes
flitted from his, returning only when she'd found a word, a
safe
word, he thought, and wondered what he meant by that
"—enjoy him, learn from him. They can start learning to live for
the moment, have fun while there's fun to be had and let the
assessments project themselves right into oblivion."

She was saying that was what had happened to
her. He wasn't sure he believed it. He wasn't sure he
wanted
to believe it. What did she mean, 'totally unsuitable as a
husband'? And why the hell did that make him feel as if he wanted
to ram a fist into the wall?

"And one other thing." She tapped a finger to
his chest, with a strange half-sad smile on her lips. "You chased
me, remember?"

"Yeah, I remember." He remembered too much,
felt the need for her too strongly. "But you know what they say:
the man chases the woman until she turns around and catches
him.'

He saw the hurt in her eyes, and regretted it
instantly and deeply. Some part of him also welcomed it, because he
knew it would make her retreat from him. And some part of him
grieved for it, because it would make her retreat from him.