Stand-in Groom (14 page)

Johnny had called her late the next morning, and she’d felt tongue-tied, almost shy. But he said nothing about the night before as if he’d known she’d be too embarrassed to speak of it. He’d simply been himself—friendly, funny, and impossibly attractive.

They had only one more short day on the island—their flight was scheduled to leave just before sunset. He’d asked her to spend the afternoon with him, and she’d hesitated until he suggested they go into town and explore the port of Charlotte
Amalie. He told her he thought it would be smart if they were careful only to go where they were sure there would be crowds.

In other words, no deserted beaches, no out-of-the-way scenic lookouts, and definitely no meeting
anywhere
remotely near their hotel rooms.

Chelsea had put away her laptop and briefcase and had gone with him, and it had been very strange indeed. She’d met him in the lobby—his idea—and when she stepped out of the elevator and met his eyes from all the way across the room, her heart had very nearly stopped beating.

She could see his desire, his wanting, his
need
for her in his dark brown eyes. She felt nearly scalded just from looking at him, and she wondered if everything she wanted, everything she felt, was as transparent.

They’d taken a shuttle into town and wandered through narrow streets and alleyways filled with brightly colored shops and markets. St. Thomas was a duty-free port, famous for its bargains and exotic merchandise, but Chelsea couldn’t remember much of what she saw. She’d been aware only of Johnny, of him watching her, wanting her, always careful never to get too close.

He’d made a point not to touch her, not even to brush his hand against hers. He didn’t speak of it, but she knew he was as aware as she was that even holding hands would have been too much. Their desire was far too volatile.

Later, on the plane back to Boston, Chelsea had pretended to read, aware of Johnny watching her for the entire flight. Even his five-thousand-watt smile wasn’t enough to mask the heat in his eyes.

In Boston, they’d taken separate taxis to their separate homes. But Johnny had called her later, to make sure she’d gotten home safely, and to say good night. Again, they’d stayed up for several hours, talking—about books, movies, music. Talking about everything and anything that popped into their heads. Their tastes didn’t always agree and they’d argued good-naturedly more than once.

It was odd, when they’d spent the day together, Chelsea had to search for things to say. But on the phone she felt safe. Relaxed. Well, almost relaxed. There was always an undercurrent of danger as she constantly wondered if and when they were going to talk about what they’d done the night before.

Johnny had told her things about himself that she hadn’t known. He played jazz clarinet, and on
his nights off, he often sat in with the house band at a club near his apartment downtown. He also had a black belt in karate. She’d seen evidence of that the first day they’d met, when he’d made short work of the gang of kids who’d snatched her purse.

Chelsea, in turn, had found herself telling him things she’d never told anyone—about how much it hurt to be labeled the family’s black sheep, about how, no matter what she did, she couldn’t seem to win her father’s respect. About how she wasn’t even sure she
wanted
the respect of a man like her father—with his preference for money and business above all else, with his prejudices and narrow-minded way of thinking.

Johnny had listened, letting her talk, as if he were somehow aware that this was not something she shared with just anyone.

They’d said good night at close to four in the morning, without having mentioned their encounter from the night before even once. Which was a good thing, because Chelsea wasn’t quite sure what to say.

Except to break down and confess to him that she wanted him so badly that she couldn’t eat or sleep or even think straight.

Chelsea tried to count the number of days before she could start the legal proceedings necessary for the annulment. She didn’t know precisely how long the process took. She promised herself to make a point of talking to Tim von Reuter about it this morning. She’d also ask him about the logistics of a divorce. It was her understanding that a divorce—even an amicable one—was both time-consuming and costly.

She turned down Newbury Street and pulled into the entrance of the parking lot on the corner of Clarendon. She took the receipt the attendant handed her, and leaving her keys in the ignition, she grabbed her briefcase and her jacket and got out of the car.

And ran directly into Johnny.

“Whoa!” he said, then, “Hey, hi!” in recognition. He’d put his arms around her to steady her, but he didn’t take them away.

She’d forgotten how tall he was, how broad his shoulders were, how hard his muscles were. Her breasts were pressed tightly against his chest, her hips locked against his. And still he didn’t let her go.

“Good morning,” she whispered, aware that
she was gazing up at him like a complete fool. She would have been absolutely unable to move even if he had released her.

He was wearing a gray suit today, in honor of the meeting at the lawyer’s, no doubt. His shirt was a lighter shade of gray, his tie slightly darker. It was a style of fashion that she hadn’t particularly liked before, but on Johnny, it looked wonderful.

He was gazing back at her with that now-familiar molten heat in his eyes getting stronger by the second. She could feel his arousal, instant and unmistakable against the softness of her stomach, and she felt her insides flip-flop as if she were experiencing zero gravity.

“Oh, damn,” Johnny whispered, his gaze locked onto her mouth as if he were hypnotized. And then he kissed her.

It was a kiss of pure desire, of near-delirious need. Chelsea dropped her briefcase as she kissed him back with the same fierce hunger. They were standing on the sidewalk, with pedestrians heading for work streaming past them, and they were kissing passionately, as if no one and nothing else existed in the world.

She felt his hands sweep down her back to cup
her rear end, pulling her even more possessively against him, even as his tongue claimed her mouth.

Chelsea experienced instant nuclear meltdown. Her bones turned to jelly and her blood turned to fire.

And she knew in that moment that if there were ever a man she’d want to be possessed by in every awful, nonfeminist, unliberated sense of the word, it was this man. She was ready to do anything to keep this kiss from ending. She was ready to give up her plans for a simple annulment. She was ready to sign on to be his slave or to sell her soul simply to keep him near her.

He made a tortured sound deep in the back of his throat that made her wonder if maybe he wasn’t ready to do the same.

It was insane. She’d sworn to herself she’d never let a man control her in any way, shape, or form. Yet here she was, ready to ruin all of her careful plans. Here she was, kissing this man as if there were no tomorrow, right on the sidewalk on Newbury Street.

He pulled back as if it had taken everything he had and then some to stop kissing her. “Chelsea …”
He was breathing hard, his eyes faintly wild as he held her stiffly at arm’s length.

“John, will you get a cup of coffee and a bagel with me after we meet with Tim?” she asked him.

It was not the question he’d expected, and she could see from his expression that it threw him slightly, coming off of that kiss. But she hadn’t known what else to say. She couldn’t ask him simply to rush home with her to consummate their marriage immediately after the meeting with the lawyer, could she? If they were going to take actions that would require a more complicated and involved legal proceeding to end their mock marriage, they’d need to talk about it first, wouldn’t they?

And maybe, between now and then, this insanity that possessed her would subside and she’d awaken to find herself back in control of her life, instead of being tossed about like a mindless piece of cork in a stormy sea of sexual desires and fantasies.

“Um, yeah,” he said. “Coffee.” He let go of her arms, raking his hair back with a hand that was shaking slightly before turning to pick her briefcase up from the sidewalk. “Bagel. Sure. We better … We better get to that meeting, though … now … don’t you think?”

Chelsea looked at her watch. They had a little time, but it definitely wasn’t enough for them to dash down to Arlington Street and get a room at the fancy Ritz-Carlton Hotel. And that was a
good
thing, she tried to convince herself. “We’re a few minutes early. We don’t have to rush.”

He carried her briefcase as they started down Newbury Street. He was doing his best to pretend that kiss hadn’t totally turned him upside down, but Chelsea knew better. It had turned
her
upside down, so much so that she couldn’t think about much else besides kissing him again.

And why shouldn’t she kiss him again? After all, they had
some
time, but not enough to do anything too outrageous. …

She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, and she could feel the sudden tension in his muscles. He looked at her and shook his head.

“Chelsea, if you want me to try to keep my hands off of you, that’s not the way to—”

“We have eleven minutes before we’re scheduled to meet with Tim,” she told him. “We could either spend it in the waiting room with Mrs. Mert, or we could … do something else with our time. And our hands.”

Johnny turned and met her eyes and she could see his surprise as he hesitated.

“Now it’s ten minutes and fifteen seconds,” she told him, glancing again at her watch. “Are you going to kiss me again, or what?”

He laughed aloud, but he didn’t pull her into his arms. Instead, he took a quick look around at the stores and buildings that lined the street. Then he moved swiftly, taking her by the hand and pulling her with him into the entrance of one of the brownstone buildings. The door was locked, but it was recessed from the sidewalk, offering some privacy from the people passing by. He pulled her with him into the corner, near a row of apartment mailboxes, dropped her briefcase on the tile floor, and smiled into her eyes.

“Okay, now ask me that again.”

She was lost in his eyes, her fingers sunk into the darkness of the hair that curled around his neck. “Will you kiss me?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“Absolutely,” he said. Then slowly, so slowly, he leaned forward, searching her eyes, his smile fading as he got closer.

Each heartbeat seemed an eternity, but finally his lips brushed hers impossibly gently.

He closed his eyes then, his lashes long and dark against his cheeks as he kissed her again.

Chelsea closed her eyes, too, and allowed herself to luxuriate in the sheer sweetness of Johnny’s lips.

He pulled her to him, her body fitting against his as if they had both been made with each other in mind. His hands swept down her back as he kissed her harder, deeper, the sweetness now laced with searing flame.

He lifted his head then, showering kisses on her cheeks, her nose, her eyes, her neck, in between the words he spoke. “I guess you figured ten minutes wasn’t enough time to get a room at the Ritz.”

Chelsea had to laugh. That was exactly what she had been thinking.

“You told me last night that Tim has to leave for court by nine forty-five,” Johnny murmured. “You said we can’t be late for this meeting. That’s why I got down here so early.”

“I’m so glad you were early.”

He pulled back to look into her eyes, and he didn’t try to hide the flurry of emotions that crossed his face. “You really are, aren’t you?”

This time she kissed him, her arms sliding up underneath his suit jacket, the crisp cotton of his
shirt a poor substitute for the sensation she truly wanted—the feel of his skin beneath her hands. Still, she loved touching the powerful muscles of his back and she kissed him harder, wishing he could climb in side her mind and experience the pleasure he gave her with just a kiss.

She explored lower and she felt the leather of his belt and then the perfect curve of his derriere beneath the light wool of his pants. She knew this was neither the time nor the place for what she wanted, but she pulled him even closer to her anyway.

He seemed to explode at her touch, and he pressed her against the mailboxes, the solidness of his thigh firmly between her legs. He took control of the kiss, his tongue claiming her mouth as his. His hand swept between them, along the soft silk of her shirt, across her breasts, caressing her, possessing her. His touch was as proprietary as his kisses. He didn’t doubt the fact that she belonged to him—every last inch of her.

She did belong to him.

The thought alarmed her, and Chelsea pulled back, suddenly frightened at the intensity of the way this man made her feel.

Johnny felt her hesitation and made himself back away from her. Leaning on the other side of the entryway with his back to her, bracing himself with both hands against the wall, he tried to steady his ragged breathing.

“I can’t go for coffee with you after this meeting,” he told her. “Because I want a whole hell of a lot more than a bagel.”

Chelsea rested her forehead against the cold metal of the mailboxes. “I do too,” she whispered, forcing herself to acknowledge the truth. “I want more too.”

He turned and looked at her. “Your problem is that there’s a difference between what you think you want … and what you want.” He laughed painfully, running his hands down his face. “Or maybe that’s
my
problem, huh?”

“I do know what I want,” she said quietly.

He pushed himself forward, off the wall. “I know. You want the money from your grandfather’s trust. It’s time—let’s go get it.”

Johnny straightened his clothes, then grabbed her briefcase.

Chelsea gazed at him, unable to speak. He was wrong. She knew what she wanted. She wanted
Johnny. She wanted him to go home with her after the meeting. She wanted him to be her lover. She wanted him to belong to her as surely as she was his. But she couldn’t say the words aloud.

Instead she fixed her hair and followed Johnny back into the harsh glare of the morning sunlight.