The Bachelor's Bride

The Bachelor’s Bride

Audra Adams

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Acknowledgments

Special thanks to two special men… Jim Reid, for lending his name and his inspiration…

-and-

Frank Banas, for teaching me the difference between “separate” and “spread.”

Contents

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Epilogue

Prologue

Everything was white. The walls were white, the curtains billowing out from the dark, open windows were white, the bed was very white, its sheets, its satin comforter, the netting hanging from the ceiling. All pristine, blemishless.

White.

She cradled her head in her arm as she laid back against the smooth pillow. A brilliant moon bathed the room in pale light. Her eyes were wide open and she watched him approach her, slowly, steadily, a cigarette in his hand. He, too, was dressed in white, a casual summer suit and half-buttoned shirt.

He smiled, and she smiled back at him. She didn’t move as he sat on the edge of the bed. His eyes roamed her face, her body, caressing her. They were green, like emeralds with a fire ring of blue around the outer rims. She said something and he laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling, making him look far less forbidding than before.

He put out the cigarette in the white ashtray, leaned forward and kissed her. She let him. He felt wonderful. His lips were cool as they brushed against hers. He pulled back and stared at her, the smile gone, and in its place was another look, not the forbidden one, but something different.

Desire.

She’d seen it before in a man’s eyes, of course, but never like this. This was intense, and a blip of fear invaded her belly. Or was it excitement? She raised her hand to his face to brush away a strand of very blond hair, and he turned into her palm. His skin was warm, dry, smooth.

He moved closer, his face only inches away from hers. “I want to make love with you,” he whispered.

“Yes...” she answered with a long hissing sound that he cut off as his mouth descended once again.

He parted her lips with his tongue this time and swept inside her mouth with the power and finesse of a tempest at sea. She had never been kissed like this, had never felt a mouth this hot, this wet, this controlling. She could only follow his lead, do his bidding, and she did, willingly.

His hands touched her, moving up her arms ever so slowly to her collarbone and onto the tops of her breasts. He played there for a moment until the straps of her sundress fell from her shoulders. With a slight tug, he had it to her waist, baring her breasts to his burning gaze.

He flicked his fingers against her nipples, the peaks so sensitive, they hardened immediately under his ministrations. He smiled again, murmuring words of praise that twisted her insides with their meaning.

She closed her eyes as his mouth replaced his fingers, and once again she was taken by surprise by the heat of him. Her body arched. He ran his hands down her sides, lifted her dress and caressed the insides of her thighs with featherless movements of his fingertips.

“Open,” he said, his head pillowed on her breast, his breath fanning her sensitive skin.

Obediently she spread her legs, anxious for him to touch her. But he took his time, teasing her as he ran a fingertip into the elastic band of her panties, back and forth, pulling the material, stretching it until he managed to get past the barrier to the sweetness that lay beyond.

She called out when he touched her, and he raised his head to kiss her once again, taking her mouth whole, swallowing her moan as his fingers grew bolder. He dipped into her, stroked her. She felt her body melt against his fingers. She was wet, hot, needy.

And she wanted more. Her hands roamed inside his open shirt. She splayed her fingers across the expanse of his chest, running her fingernails through the soft tufts of hair, scratching her way down his body until she reached his waistband.

His fingers hesitated for the briefest moment before he continued the slow, steady, intimate stroking. He sat back and watched as her fumbling fingers unbuckled his belt, freed the fastening, and unzipped his pants. His eyes were intense as she ran her fingers over the length of him. He was smooth, hot and hard, a reward, she felt, for her persistence.

They stared into each other’s eyes as their hands, their fingers, continued to drive their bodies to the brink. She was the first to look away. She shut her eyes tightly as her body took control, pulsing to the rhythm of his stroking, building, climbing toward a light so blinding she felt she would fall into it.

“Now,” he said, and she did not argue.

Within seconds his body covered hers, and he was there. She had never been this full, this stretched, this consumed by a man. Her hips rose and fell in tandem with his movements. They danced the ancient dance of men and women in perfect harmony, so sweet, so pure, so wonderful that she could not stop the spasms of pleasure when they came. So she didn’t try. She rose to greet them, rejoicing in the way he made her feel, rejoicing in her own ability to feel this at all, rejoicing in his response as he tensed and followed her headlong into the burst of light.

After a long moment he raised himself up onto his elbows. His eyes were mesmerizing. They sparkled in the bright moonlight. Again he smiled, and the eyes crinkled. He kissed her nose, and she smiled, too.

She studied his face, so tanned and handsome with his high cheekbones, strong jaw and very blond hair falling down across his forehead. A nice face, a trustworthy face, a face she could love, she thought.

A face in a dream....

One

The dot was blue. She held it up to the light to double check. Just in case she’d made a mistake.

For the second time.

No. There was no doubt. It was blue all right.

Rachel Morgan slowly sat on the commode in the bathroom of her tiny studio apartment. She exhaled a long-held, overly hopeful breath. There would be no point in taking the test a third time. The results were sure to be the same.

She was pregnant.

The question was, how?

Her hands began to shake as she lost her adrenaline high. This couldn’t be happening, couldn’t be real. Rachel hadn’t had a serious relationship since she’d moved to New York City two years ago after her mother’s death and the breakup of her engagement to Tom. There was no one in her life—if you could call the mess she’d made of things to date a life. Biting her lip, she fought back tears.

Jobless. And now pregnant.

But again, the how came back to haunt her. She was a rational human being. There was no such thing as an immaculate conception—at least not that she knew of, not in this day and age, and not to someone as imperfect as she. So there had to be another explanation. Her stomach churned.

Which meant that The Dream had to be real.

The phone rang and she forced herself to rise and walk into the L-shaped room that served as her kitchen, living room and bedroom. She sat on the edge of her Murphy bed and lifted the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Rachel? Trudy. I’m glad I caught you. I may have a lead on a job. One of our suppliers is looking—”

“I’m pregnant.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“How?”

“Darned if I know. I’m sitting here trying to figure it out.” She didn’t mention the nausea or the shaking.

“Don’t move,” Trudy said. “I’ll be right over.”

A half hour later Rachel’s buzzer sounded. She pressed the button and leaned into it, then waited at the door until she heard the elevator ping. Opening the door, she rested against the jamb and watched her best friend in the entire world walk toward her.

A tall, slim, gorgeous redhead, Trudy Levin was a walking neurosis—ambitious, hyper, driven to succeed in the high-powered world of the cosmetics industry.

When Rachel had first arrived in the city two years ago, she had “hick” written all over her. They’d met on the subway when Rachel had gotten hopelessly lost going crosstown. Trudy, a rare Manhattan native, had rescued her, yapping on her heels like a mother hen. They’d been fast friends ever since.

“I don’t believe this,” Trudy said, brushing past Rachel as she hurried into the apartment. But then, Trudy didn’t walk, she hurried—everywhere.

Rachel made a slow turn and shut the door behind her.

“Lock it,” Trudy said, dropping her oversize bag onto a kitchen chair.

Rachel smiled and obeyed. Trudy was always ordering her around, mostly with warnings on how to survive in the big, bad city. Rachel knew she did it out of love, and found it no chore to deal with her friend’s paranoia.

“Now, tell me what happened.”

Rachel lifted the wand off the counter with more aplomb than she felt and held it out for Trudy’s inspection. “Blue.”

“I don’t believe it,” Trudy repeated.

“How do you think I feel?” Rachel said.

To cover her agitation, Rachel busied herself at the sink. She filled the teakettle with water, then placed it on the front burner. With a flick of her wrist, the flame erupted underneath.

“I’m hurt. Didn’t I tell you all about Jake when I met him? Didn’t I fill you in on every dirty detail of every date? Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing someone?” Trudy asked, a puzzled, pained expression on her face.

“Because I’m not.”

“Then who...”

Rachel shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“That’s impossible.”

“No, it’s true. I have no idea who the father is.”

Trudy walked over to Rachel. She gripped Rachel’s shoulders in her hands and turned her around so that they faced each other.

“Look at me.” Rachel complied, and Trudy’s voice softened when she noticed the tears threatening. “Honey, I know you’re a country girl and all that, but even you know that this isn’t something you pick up from a toilet seat at a department store.”

Rachel attempted a smile. “I know...”

“Then who—”

The teakettle began to whistle and Rachel lifted it off the burner and extinguished the flame. She held the steaming pot aloft as she looked up at Trudy. “It must have been the dream.”

“Dream?”

“You remember, the one I told you about. The one I had when I was sick with the flu.”

“The White Dream?”

Rachel gave her a wry grin. “Yes. The White Dream.”

Trudy dropped into the chair. “Okay. Let’s figure this out.”

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Rachel asked.

“Yeah. Lemon and a half—”

“I know. A half packet of sweetener.”

Rachel set the small, two-seater table with napkins and spoons and prepared the mugs of tea. She looked up at Trudy, feeling herself steady a bit now that her friend was here, now that she had someone to share this with.

Once they were seated opposite each other and the first sip had been taken, Trudy leaned forward and patted her hand. “Now, tell me from the beginning.”

“I don’t remember the beginning. Just the end.”

“Then tell me the end.”

Rachel took a second small sip of the hot liquid. “It must have happened the night I got sick. Remember that?”

“Yeah,” Trudy said. “You came with me to the launch party for the new perfume. You had a bad cold.”

“And I was on antibiotics. I shouldn’t have gone out, but you insisted.”

“So it’s my fault.”

Rachel shook her head. “No, of course not. I just remember you insisting that I go. You wanted me to get out, meet people, maybe make a contact for a job.”

“Right. We stayed at the party until late. We were almost the last to leave. I remember it was so crowded at the armory I couldn’t find you. I walked the hall a hundred times, but you were nowhere to be found. It was like you disappeared.”

“I don’t remember any of that.”

“I found you out front, sitting on a stoop, with your head against the railing. You’d fallen asleep. When I woke you up, you were white as a ghost and felt sick to your stomach. We left right then. I hailed a cab and brought you up here and put you to bed. Do you remember any of this?”

“No. I just remember going with you to the party. I remember walking into the hall, having something to drink...some kind of punch—”

“The punch was spiked.”

Rachel stared into space. “I don’t know about that, either. The rest of the night is a blank.”

Trudy took her hand. Rachel noticed the concern in her face.

“Tell me about the dream,” Trudy said.

“It’s hard. It’s so jumbled.”

“Try.”

She took a breath and let it out slowly. “There was a man, and we...we were...”

“Having sex.”

“Yes.” Rachel blushed.

“In the white room?”

“Yes.”

“And when did you first have this dream?” Trudy asked.

“The first time was when I had the flu. I was sick for two weeks, and I just kept having the dream over and over again. Then it stopped.”

“And that was how long ago?”

“Six weeks.”

“How late are you?” Trudy asked.

“Six weeks.”

“Mystery solved.”

“Oh, Trudy. It can’t be true!”

“Honey, you disappeared for at least an hour that I know of, probably more. You must have left with someone. Now all we have to do is figure out who.” She tapped her finger to her lips. “Describe him to me. Maybe I can help.”

“He was dressed in white.”

“Great help,” Trudy said. “It was mid-June. All the men there were dressed in white.”

“He was tall. Blond.” She paused. “And he had green eyes.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Rachel shut her eyes, allowing the dream to swirl around inside her head, pulling it back from her memory. She felt a shiver inside. “He smoked. And had a great smile. His eyes crinkled—” she opened her eyes and pointed to the corners “—right here. He had a low voice, kind of Rod Stewart-ish.” She looked at Trudy. “Well? Anything?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. What else?”

“His mouth. He had the greatest mouth.”

“In what way?” Trudy asked.

Rachel looked away. “I don’t know how to describe it.” She stared at her friend and felt the heat of embarrassment rise to her face.

Trudy ignored it. “This is no time to be shy, Rachel. Try.”

“Hot.”

“Hot?”

“Yes, his mouth was...hot.”

Trudy tilted her head and pursed her lips. “You seem to be remembering more than you thought.”

Rachel studied her hands. “I guess I am.”

“Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of.” She bit her lip. “Wait, there is one more thing. He had a slight accent. Very slight. I couldn’t tell exactly what. English. Maybe French—”

“French Canadian.”

“What? You know who he is?” Rachel asked, excited.

“I’m not sure. But he sounds like someone I may know.”

“Who? For heaven’s sake, Trudy, tell me, who?”

“My boss.”

“Not Reid James!”

“Yes, Reid James. The nineties answer to Robert Redford.”

Rachel put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God. I thought it was a dream.”

Trudy looked down in the vicinity of Rachel’s stomach. “Apparently not.”

* * *

Reid wanted the meeting to be over. Now. He was beyond bored, teetering awfully close to comatose. Why did these people go on so? Why didn’t they just say what they had to say and leave?

He put a hand up to his chin and nodded in their direction, pretending to be listening, hoping that his response was appropriate. Of course, it wasn’t just these people who bored the hell out of him. It was everyone and everything in his life.

At thirty-five he’d seen it all and done it all...and then some. He had put together a multimillion dollar conglomerate of varied and sundry corporations in a ten-year frenzy of activity that earned him equal amounts of praise and criticism.

But now he was tired. And he was done. Let someone else—or a dozen someone elses—run the businesses. He wanted out. He’d been thinking about it for a long time now, ever since his mother had died three years ago. He’d proven all he’d had to prove to her, and to his father, too, who’d finally acknowledged his existence only after he’d made his first million.

But getting out, letting go, was easier said than done. The time never seemed right. There was always another meeting to attend, another crisis to face, another “fire” to put out.

Not anymore. His interest was nil. He was done, through. Finis.

He needed only one thing to let go completely—and that, he feared, was not so easy to find.

He needed another reason to go on living.

“Excuse me,” Reid said as he stood. His words stopped the speaker in midsentence, and out of deference to him, the room was silent. “I have to leave,” he said, and did.

He felt their eyes on his back as he made his way to the door, but of course, no one said a word. No one ever did anymore.

No one questioned him. No one challenged him.

He was omnipotent.

He strolled back to his office, in no real hurry to get there, stopping along the way to talk to employees who greeted him. He knew their names, each and every one of them from the mail boy on up. A name was something that was important to him. He’d had to fight for what should have been his from birth, and when he finally had the right to use it, he gave it up, opting instead for a play on the name he’d been given by the nuns in the orphanage.

His back straightened as he walked, recalling all too well the perfect posture drilled into him by the saintly but tough-as-nails Ursuline Sisters.

Charlotte Mercier, his executive assistant, sat at her desk in his inner sanctum. She effectively ran the office now, answering his mail, signing his name to letters. He trusted her implicitly and would have no qualms about handing the reins over to her if he ever left. Whenever he mentioned the possibility, she pretended to be shocked by the thought of it, but he had no doubt that she could handle the responsibility.

She glanced up at his approach and handed him a stack of pink slips with phone calls to be returned. He leafed through them, quickly dropping the majority back on her desk for her to handle or dispose of. This exercise was just a formality. He returned very few calls anymore. Charlotte expertly picked through them, putting aside those she would return, and trashing those she would not.

One did catch his eye. “When did Mazelli call?” he asked.

“About a half hour ago.”

He nodded. Eddy Mazelli was someone who did interest him. Eddy was a private investigator who’d been recommended to him as the best in the business. Problem was that in the six weeks since he’d signed on, the man had come up empty.

Not that he’d had much to go on.

Frustration gnawed at Reid like a cancer. He hated not being in control, but this was one situation where that had never been the case. Not from the first.

He wished he could get that night out of his head, but he couldn’t. Maybe it was because it had been such a long time since he’d been with anyone like her. Scratch that. He’d never been with or even known anyone like her. The time they’d spent together had been surreal. She’d been so relaxed, uninhibited, funny, soft, feminine, lovely, hot, sexy, and...something else...loving. Things he’d never had nor expected from a woman.

It had scared the holy hell out of him.

They’d made love, and it wasn’t so much that they’d done anything different or out of the ordinary. No, it wasn’t the way they’d made love, but what had happened between them as they’d made love.

Reid had lost himself in her. He’d heard about such things happening, of course, but it had never happened to him, not in all the years with any of the women he’d bedded. Never.

So the fear came first, but it was quickly followed by exhilaration, and later, much later, by this frustration that had gripped him since and not let go.

She’d disappeared. He’d left her for only a few moments to get a drink, and when he’d returned she was gone. Poof! Up in smoke. As if she’d been a dream.

But she was no dream. Her scent had clung to his pillow for days afterward and, silly man that he was, he’d fought with his housekeeper not to change the sheets, acquiescing only when the woman threatened to quit.

No. It had been all too real, and it—she—had consumed his thoughts, his nights, his days ever since.

“Get Mazelli on the phone for me,” he said to Charlotte, and walked toward his office.

“Trudy Levin is in there waiting for you,” Charlotte said as she lifted the receiver.

“What does she want?” Reid asked, hand on the doorknob.

Charlotte shrugged. “She wouldn’t say. Only that she had to see you. Important.”

He nodded. “Okay. I’ll see her. Get Mazelli.” He opened the door.

“Oh, and she has a woman with her.”

Charlotte’s voice followed Reid as he entered his office. The room was large, taking up the better quadrant of the top floor of the office building that he owned. It was bright, with all the draperies pulled back to allow the maximum amount of sunlight inside. He’d picked the room purposely for that, one of his greatest weaknesses being the sun on his face.

Trudy stood and turned to him as he entered. She smiled. “Hi, Reid.”

He smiled, too. He liked her. She was one of his best employees. Smart. Loyal. Ambitious. All the things he liked to think he was.

He took a step closer to his desk. “Trudy. What can I do for you?”

And then his eye caught sight of a dark-haired woman standing by the corner window. Her hand was entwined with the material of the drapery as she admired the view. At that moment she turned and looked at him over her shoulder. Reid squinted against the light that framed her face like a halo.

Recognition came like a fist to his solar plexus.

“Rachel.” It was a harsh whisper.

Trudy sighed, just loud enough to divert his attention for an instant. “I see,” she said, “there’s no need for an introduction.”

Two

“You know my name?”

Reid took a step closer. “Only that it’s Rachel. Nothing more.”

She looked the same to him, the only difference being her mood. The first time she’d been smiling, carefree, loose. Now she was nervous, uptight, strung out. But the eyes were the same, a soft gray rimmed in a black so dark it matched the color of her hair.

The buzzer sounded and Charlotte’s voice filtered through the intercom. “Mazelli on line one.”

As if to insure that she wouldn’t disappear again, Reid kept his eyes riveted on Rachel as he walked to his desk and lifted the receiver.

He pointed to her. “Don’t move,” he said, then pressed the button for line one. “Yes.” He tapped his fingers on the leather blotter on his desk and listened for a short time. “Fine. Send me a bill.” He looked up at Rachel, and their eyes locked. “Yes. That’s right. I no longer need your services.”

Reid cradled the receiver. He remained stone-still, staring at Rachel as if she were a phantom. Rachel stared back. Trudy coughed. “Maybe I should introduce you,” she said. “Rachel Morgan, Reid James.”

“Hello,” Rachel said softly.