Gorgeous Grooms: Her Stand-In Groom / Her Wish-List Bridegroom / Ordinary Girl, Society Groom

“People make assumptions. You made them yourself.”

“And you let them. Why?”

She shrugged.

“Last year, Project Christmas was falling short of its goal for the first time in fifteen years. It hadn’t done that poorly since the last recession. I poured on the charm, made a few phone calls to some people who can be incredibly generous when they want to be or when they’re talked into it. I’m good at talking people into doing things.”

“Some might call that manipulation.”

She nodded in agreement. “Maybe I do manipulate people, but not for my own gain. Surely that distinction counts for something?”

“What drives you?”

“I like to make a difference.” It was her standard answer, but he didn’t look convinced.

“It’s more than that. You could make a difference by heading a beautification committee or simply writing a check.”

His assessment was uncomfortably close to her parents’ way of being community-minded. She thought of that lonely, frightened little girl who had reached out for help and received only money in the form of a scholarship in return.

“It’s not enough.”

Again he asked, “What drives you, Catherine?”

She’d never spoken to anyone about “the incident,” as her parents referred to it. At first she had been too shocked and sad. Then had come the guilt, and so she had remained silent. But for some reason it seemed safe, easy to talk about the unspeakable with Stephen.

Her voice low, halting at first, she began. “I had a friend once, a little girl named Jenny. She came from the Projects, but attended my private school thanks to a scholarship my parents had set up. She was bright, vibrant, thankful for every crumb she received when everyone else I knew just expected everything they got and even then complained.”

“What happened to her?”

“I knew she had a hard home life, even though I’d never been allowed to her home. My parents forbade it. But we hung out at school and I saw the bruises. No twelve-year-old is as clumsy as Jenny claimed to be.”

“What did you do about it?”

“I told my parents I thought something was wrong. Jenny seemed to become more and more withdrawn at school. Her grades started to suffer.”

“What did they say?”

“They told me it wasn’t my concern. A couple of weeks later Jenny was dead. She’d been beaten to death by her mother’s boyfriend.” Once again, Catherine felt the stab of pain and accompanying guilt. “So, you see, writing a check isn’t enough, Stephen.”

“You can’t blame yourself. You were a child. What could you have done?”

“More,” she said simply.

He frowned. “How can you stand it?”

“What?”

“Having people think you’re this cool, shallow woman when you are anything but?”

“I don’t care what other people think of me. I know who I am.”

He came forward and knelt in front of the bench on which she sat. Taking her face between his hands, he said, “I know who you are, too, Catherine.”

“You do?”

“Yes, you’re my wife.”

This kiss was gentle, but persuasive. She had no choice but to give in to its seductive charm. And it really was no hardship to admit defeat. She took what he offered and then surprised them both by demanding more. Urgent now, the kiss had desire pounding through her veins. Every time she told herself the excitement of his touch would dim, he surprised new emotions from her, uncovering a reservoir of need she hadn’t known existed. Was it just about physical attraction? She knew it wasn’t for her, and surely Stephen had just as good as admitted that his feelings ran much deeper than what basic hormonal urges would manufacture?

A gamble. That was what this had been since the beginning. Even before their wedding in Las Vegas she’d taken a chance, bet on fate. Well, roll the dice.

“Make love to me, Stephen.”

He stopped his exploration of her neck. Dark eyes regarded her intently.

“That night in the car you said—”

She placed her hand over his mouth. “What I said that night isn’t important. Today is a new day, and I want my husband to make love to me.”

He stood and reached for her hand, pulling her to her feet with a gentle tug. He whispered something in Spanish, beautiful, incomprehensible words that caused her breath to hitch, her heart to ache. I will remember this moment always, Catherine thought. The moment when she first tumbled headlong into love.

He led her below deck, to the larger of the two staterooms, which was still small enough to be considered cozy. He didn’t say a word as he began to undress her.

“You have nice hands.”

She kissed the palm of one and then the other.

And Stephen was undone. Even if he could have ignored the passion stirring in her gaze, there was no mistaking the raw desire that had turned her demure voice into the smoky whisper of a siren.

“Catherine.” He closed his eyes and said her name as reverently as he would a prayer.

Seemingly of their own volition, the hands she claimed to admire traveled down her torso and then back up, pulling the bulky sweater she wore with them. He pulled it over her head and then sucked in a breath at the pale perfection of her skin, which was in striking contrast to the lacy navy bra. Then, heaven help him, Stephen couldn’t stop his fingers from inching aside the lace. He heard her echo the groan that tore from his own chest before she leaned forward and fused her mouth to his. This kiss, like the one they had shared in the car that night, was wild with need. His body responded instantly.

Stephen prided himself on his finesse as a lover, but just now he felt as desperate and out-of-control as a teenager. He didn’t tease and tempt her with lingering caresses and sensuous nibbles. He wanted, so he took. His mouth plundered and devoured while his eager fingers grasped and clutched and tugged away the last barriers of her clothing.

Below him on the bed, Catherine gave a sexy little moan, her own hands making fast work of ridding him of the clothing he wore.

When he was naked, and straining over her, she ran her delicate hands up his chest and then fisted them in his hair, pulling him down for another hot kiss.

“Now.” She breathed the word into his mouth. “Please, now.”

“Say my name,” he commanded, using every ounce of self-control to pull back just far enough so he could look at her. “I want to hear you say my name.”

He watched her lips curve into a smile that was sensual and oddly shy. “Stephen,” she whispered.

That was all it took. One word. His name. He brought their bodies together quickly, the need so fierce it astounded him. This kind of passion, this kind of emotional connection represented uncharted territory. Below him, Catherine responded, rhythm matching rhythm, need matching need, heat matching heat until they were both flung over the edge of sanity on a shattering climax. On the freefall back to earth he heard her call out his name again.

Then, using the language only those most dear spoke to him in, she whispered, ‘ ‘Mi amor.”

Afterward, he rolled to his side and gathered her to his chest, where she settled one hand over his still hammering heart. It felt for all the world as if she belonged there in the loose circle of his arms, her body limp from release, her head tucked trustingly beneath his chin. And the raging need he’d felt a moment earlier gentled into something far more disturbing.

The gulls woke him. Their irritating squawks blasted rudely through his dreams and had Stephen rolling onto his side, arm outstretched and seeking the warm, curved comfort of a woman’s body. It came into contact with cool cotton and nothing more. He sat up and blinked in sleepy confusion at the rumpled sheets.

“Catherine?”

He found her puttering in the little kitchen, humming in that endearing off-key way of hers. She wore only his shirt, and he thought she looked sexier than a lingerie model. She had placed the sandwiches they’d bought at the deli on plates and was doling out pasta salad when he came up behind her and scooped her hair aside so he could kiss the back of her neck.

“Hmm. I like that.”

“I’ve noticed,” he replied, still amazed by what a responsive woman lurked beneath her quiet composure.

She turned, looped her arms around his neck and kissed him with a greedy passion that one would not suspect from such an otherwise generous woman.

“I seem to have worked up an appetite.”

“Me, too,” he agreed, as he began to unbutton his big shirt to reveal the feminine perfection beneath it.

It was another hour before they sat down in the cozy kitchen to eat their lunch.

The day was ending, Catherine knew. The magical, wonderful hours were drawing to a close. She wanted them to last, worried that once she and Stephen returned to dry land whatever spell the beautiful waters of Lake Michigan had cast would be broken, and if that happened she knew her heart would shatter as well.

The wind had picked up, making quick work of their sail back to the yacht club. Once there, she helped him unload their gear from the day. Then she waited in the car while he made arrangements for the boat to be stored for the winter.

“Are you tired?” he asked as they drove home.

“Exhausted,” she said with an exaggerated yawn. “Can’t imagine why.”

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

She straightened in her seat. “Now?”

“It’s on the way home.”

“Who?”

“My grandmother.”

Catherine wanted to meet his family. She knew what his grandmother meant to him. The woman had been like a surrogate mother, giving him the love and encouragement the Danburys had withheld, filling in the blanks of his rich heritage. Oh, yes, she wanted to meet her. But right now?

“Oh, Stephen. My hair is a mess and I…” she flipped down the visor to check her reflection in the mirror. Tilting her head to one side, she blanched. “Oh, my God! Is that a whisker burn?”

He chuckled. “My grandmother is near-sighted. Don’t worry.”

“Oh, but look how I’m dressed.” Her clothes were rumpled from an afternoon spent on the floor of the stateroom.

“My grandmother won’t be offended. There’s no need to dress for dinner at her house. It’s a casual affair, believe me.”

“Dinner? She’s having us for dinner and you never said a word about the invitation before now?”

“It’s a standing invitation. She makes enough for an army every Sunday. Whoever stops by is welcome.”

“Who else stops by?”

“My aunts, cousins, their families.” He shrugged.

“They’ll all be there?”

“Some of them, sure.”

“You said before that they knew about our arrangement. I’ll feel…awkward in their presence.”

“They know about our arrangement,” he acknowledged. “They also know I would never bring someone I didn’t care about to dinner.” He took her hand, kissed the back of it. “I want you to meet my family, Catherine. Will you do me the honor?”

When he put it like that, she couldn’t refuse. “It’s me who is honored, Stephen.”

His grandmother’s house was not especially large, nor was it in an exclusive neighborhood. But there was no denying its charm. With its stone façade, it reminded her of a fairy-tale cottage. Chrysanthemums bloomed like pots of gold in the flower beds, where other perennials had already enjoyed their glory and had now been cut back in preparation for winter.

The instant they stepped across the threshold they were surrounded by boisterous, enthusiastic relatives of varying ages and sizes, all chattering excitedly. Some spoke in English, some in Spanish. All with the kind of welcoming fondness that Catherine had thought only Hollywood could manufacture. She was kissed and hugged by people she had never met before and whose names had already become confused.

“Welcome, welcome,” a plump older woman said, wiping her hands on an apron as she crossed the room to where they stood just inside the door. It was as far as they had gotten before being surrounded by family members.

“Abuelita,” Stephen said with a grin. “I’d like you to meet Catherine. Catherine, this is my grandmother, Consuela Fuentes.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Señora Fuentes,” Catherine said. She had barely gotten the words out when she was wrapped in a pair of surprisingly strong arms and soundly kissed on both cheeks.

“You will call me Abuelita, yes?”

“Abuelita.” She tried out the word, liking the way it sounded. Stephen’s family nodded their approval.

Throughout their visit it became clear to Catherine that while Stephen had grown up in privilege, surrounded by servants and wealthy grandparents who had been miserly with their affection, here he had known generous helpings of love. There was no sign of the aloof, intense man in Consuela Fuentes’s homey living room. He wrestled on the floor with his cousins’ children, joked with his uncles, complimented his aunts.

Dinner was a casual affair, the food not as spicy as Catherine had thought it would be, but filling and delicious and made in massive quantities. People laughed and talked, sometimes over one another, passing serving bowls or even hopping up to walk down to the far end of the table for what they wanted. It was informal, bordering on chaotic. It was fantastic.

From all of the chatter Catherine deduced that the evenings when Stephen had slipped away, not to return till late, had been spent here.

Afterward, when the last bit of dessert had been eaten, Catherine helped Stephen’s three aunts and grandmother clear the table. They wouldn’t let her help wash the dishes, but she sat on a stool at the counter in the kitchen and listened to them chatter happily about babies and bargains, the lyrical cadence of their voices making even the mundane seem magical. And she knew if not for her presence much of the conversation would have been conducted in Spanish and more than likely would have centered on her.

“Christina and Miguel are expecting again. They are hoping for a boy this time.” For Catherine’s benefit Rosaria added, “They already have four daughters.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.