Catch of the Day Page 10

  What the hell did you just say, Fraser? Are you an idiot?

  Her eyes narrowed. “You really think you can do it?”

  Her long hair hung about her heart-shaped face, tangled from a night of repeated lovemaking. Her nipples peeked out from between the strands, just begging to be licked and sucked. Her lips were swollen from kissing, and her cheeks were still rosy from her last orgasm, when she’d ridden him to within an inch of his life. Her green eyes shone with a mix of intelligence and feminine allure. And he was agreeing not to fuck her?

  “Of course I can do it. I’m not some eighteen-year-old college student.”

  She sat up on her heels. “Then how about we make a bet?”

  He leaned back on his elbows, suddenly feeling competitive. “You name it.”

  “Okay. We agree not to have sex again until our wedding night, and whoever gives in and asks for it first loses.”

  That sounded easy enough—two weeks, no sex. “Fine. It’s a deal.”

  “But there has to be some penalty.” She hopped out of bed, walked the length of the room, forcing him to stare first at the bare curves of her scrumptious ass, and then at the auburn curls of her muff. “If you lose, you and your groomsmen have to wear the mauve cummerbunds I wanted.”

  He gave a snort, lifted his gaze to her face. “In that case, there is no way I’m going to lose. I’m not wearing pink.”

  “Mauve.”

  “Whatever.”

  She crawled back into bed, smiling. “We’ll see.”

  “And what about you, Miss Lissy? What price will you pay if you come begging for it?” And then he had it. “I know. You’ll have to promise to love, honor and obey me.”

  Her mouth fell open in outrage. “No way! Absolutely not!”

  He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Okay, then. How about this? If you lose, you have to wear the slutty gown.”

  “The Oleg Cassini?”

  He had no idea what the designer’s name was, but he’d loved the way she’d looked in that dress—ultrafeminine and sexy as hell—and had been disappointed when she’d decided to go with something else. “The one that’s skintight and has the crystals on the straps.”

  She gaped at him. “The Badgley Mischka! I’m fashion editor of the paper, Will. I can’t walk down the aisle half-naked!”

  “Then I guess the bet is off.” A part of him—the part located about six inches below his navel—heaved a sigh of relief. He reached over and turned off the bedside lamp.

  Then out of the darkness, she spoke. “You’re on.”

  Lissy’s first inkling that their bet might not be as easy to honor as she’d imagined came the next morning when she awoke to find herself rubbing her bare derriere against something delicious and hard. Still half-asleep, she was already wet and more than a little turned on.

  With a surprised gasp, she scooted away from him only to discover he was asleep—and sporting a glorious, thick, full erection.

  She rose, pulled on her white silk bathrobe and headed off to the shower, drowsily pondering the strangeness of penile hydraulics and wondering how she was going to make it two weeks when her body seemed inclined to betray her even while she slept. Clearly, she had to do something to protect herself.

  She brought it up as she sliced a grapefruit in half for their breakfast. “I’m moving into the guest room until after the wedding.”

  Will, who had just shuffled out of the bedroom wearing nothing but boxers and a serious case of bedhead, looked at her as if she’d just suggested a vacation on Mars. He poured himself a cup of coffee, leaned back against the counter and sipped with the reverence of a man at prayer.

  Some people needed their coffee in the morning. Will was one of those people.

  After five minutes had passed and he’d moved on to his second cup, he spoke. “Okay. But isn’t that taking things a bit too far?”

  Not willing to admit that she’d nearly lost the bet before she’d even opened her eyes this morning, she shrugged. “It just seems that if we’re not having sex, we shouldn’t be sleeping together either. It’s more romantic that way, don’t you think?”

  She plopped the grapefruit halves on lunch plates, plucked two slices of fresh, hot toast out of the toaster, and carried the plates over to the kitchen table.

  “Okay,” he said, echoing himself and looking completely confused. “I’ll move the boxes out for you, make some room.”

  Then he set his coffee down on the table and went off to fetch the morning papers. He returned with an armful, and the two of them quickly sorted through the plastic bags and newsprint. He got all the sports sections. She got all the fashion, arts and lifestyle sections. Whoever finished fastest got first dibs on the news sections.

  Neither of them spoke as they nibbled their breakfasts and perused the pages. Reading newspapers was serious work, offering the conscientious editor a chance to spot every typo he or she had missed the day before, as well as the opportunity to compare the contents of one’s own paper to that of the competition. As Tom Trent, the paper’s rather caustic editor in chief was fond of saying, being a journalist meant starting every day with your bare ass hanging out the window, waiting for passersby to come along and smack it.

  In the world of newspapers, mistakes were very public.

  A half hour later their gazes met over the serrated edges of newsprint.

  “Anything?” He reached for his coffee.

  “I think the Post completely overplayed that feature on customized drapes. I mean, how exciting are drapes?”

  He rubbed his foot against hers beneath the table and grinned. “Pretty damned exciting—if you’re a window.”

  The contact was reassuring, comforting—arousing. “Do you know that a hundred or even fifty years ago you’d have ruined me?”

  His grin grew wider. “Not me, sugar. You were ruined when I met you.”

  “No, I mean by moving in with me. You’d have ruined my reputation for all time.”

  He got a disgusted look on his face. “What did people do before television—sit around discussing their neighbors’ sex lives? ‘Verily, Myrtle, methinks he hath boffed her silly.’ If you ask me, whatever we’ve lost in romance, we’ve more than made up for in the people-minding-their-own-business department.”

  She glanced at the microwave clock, stood and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek. “I’ve got to get dressed. I’m meeting my bridesmaids for our final fittings this morning, and then we’re going to lunch.”

  He grabbed her around the waist, pulled her into his lap and planted a kiss on her mouth. “Don’t forget to put the slutty dress on hold. You might need it.”

  At first, the fittings had seemed to drag on forever. The seamstress kept talking on her cell phone, which made her lose her concentration to the point where Lissy had become truly irritated. But then she’d slipped into her gown and looked in the mirror.

  She’d looked like . . . a bride.

  She’d found herself staring, transfixed, at her own reflection, tears streaming down her cheeks, her heartbeat fluttering.

  “I’m getting married,” she’d said, as the seamstress had handed her tissues.

  The gown she’d chosen was an empire-waist Vera Wang sheath of white silk with delicate cap sleeves. At five-foot-four she couldn’t pull off the poufy princess look, and she’d loved the way the empire waistline emphasized her breasts.

  Holly, her maid of honor, and Tessa, Sophie and Kara, her bridesmaids, were wearing mauve empire-waist gowns with white silk sashes. The look worked as well for Holly, who was model-thin and would look stylish in burlap, as it did for Kara, who’d had a baby not quite a year ago and was still nursing.

  They’d ordered salads and waters all around—not the most exciting lunch, but appropriate when only two weeks away from a day they all wanted to look sleek and slender.

  At first they’d talked about the newspaper—a hard thing not to do when they were all journalists. Holly worked as an entertainment writer, while Tessa and Sop
hie were part of the paper’s elite Investigative Team, or I-Team. Kara had been part of the I-Team but had quit to work freelance when she’d gotten married. Members of the I-Team did hard-core journalism, the stuff that made headlines, stuff Lissy had no desire to do.

  It wasn’t until they were almost through their meal that Lissy told them about the bet.

  “I think it’s really romantic,” said Tessa in her soft Georgia accent, pushing her empty plate aside. With her long blond curls and big blue eyes, she looked like Goldilocks, but Lissy pitied anyone who misjudged Tessa. “But then I’ve always told you Will is a real gentleman. He’d do anything for you.”

  “Except wear mauve cummerbunds.” Kara, who was married to a state senator, dabbed her lips with her napkin and smiled. Her long dark hair hung in a braid over her shoulder. “I don’t think Reece would have done that either.”

  “If you stick to it, you’ll have the most amazing wedding night. You’ll both be ready to rip each other’s clothes off.” Holly squeezed lemon into her fizzy water. With short platinum blond hair and huge brown eyes, she reminded Lissy of an elf. “But if you lose—and with a stud like Will, losing would feel like winning—you’ll look gorgeous in the Badgley Mischka.”

  The others nodded in agreement.

  “You do look lovely in that gown,” Tessa said. “The way I see it, if you’ve got it—”

  “—flaunt it,” they all said in unison before erupting in laughter.

  Holly shrugged her slender shoulder. “I just don’t know how you’re going to make it for two weeks living with Will without mauling him.”

  Sophie leaned in, a smile on her freckled face, her sleek strawberry-blond hair sliding over her shoulder. “Batteries.”

  Lissy felt her cheeks turn pink. But why should she be embarrassed? They were all women. They’d surely all had a battery-operated boyfriend at one point or another. “I retired that particular device after my first date with Will. Besides, two weeks - isn’t all that long.”

  Will’s best man stared at him as if he were insane.

  “That has got to be the most lame-ass thing I’ve ever heard.”

  A former CU linebacker, Devon King bore a strong resemblance to Montel Williams—but with hair. He’d been one of Will’s closest friends through college and had stood by Will when his life had come crashing down around him. Of all his teammates, Devon had been the only one to attend Will’s mother’s funeral. Unable to bank on a pro career, Devon had gone to law school after graduation and was now a defense attorney. The two of them coached kids’ football on the weekends during the summer. This year, they had a team of eight-year-olds sporting little Steelers uniforms.

  “Lissy thinks it’s romantic.” Will grabbed a duffel bag crammed with gear out of the back of his pickup and swung it over his shoulder.

  But Devon was still staring at him, openmouthed and unmoving.

  “Oh, come on, man! What was I supposed to say? ‘No, Lissy, darling, you’ve got me by the gonads, and I can’t last two days, let alone two weeks’?”

  “That would have been better than ‘yes.’” Devon gave a disgusted snort. “Let me get this straight. You agreed not to have sex with your extremely fine fiancée because she thinks not having sex is somehow romantic?”

  “It’s more than that. I think it has to do with something her mother said to her. Lissy asked me if it was possible for a couple to get married because they mistook great sex for love.”

  “Like that’s a bad thing.” Devon grinned. “So you went along with it to prove there’s more to your relationship than sex?”

  Will knew he had to tell Devon the whole truth. “That’s part of it. Also, she bet me.”

  Devon shook his head. “You never could turn down a dare. What happens if you lose?”

  This was the hard part. Will tried to say it casually, as if it didn’t matter. “We have to wear those pink cummerbunds.”

  “Hell!” Devon jerked as if he’d been struck. “Man, I will personally come to your place at two A.M. to dump ice on your crotch. I am not walking down the aisle wearing pink!”

  The horror on his friend’s face made Will laugh. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of caving. It’s only two weeks. Let’s get set up. I see a few mini Steelers waiting for us.”

  Still frowning, Devon grabbed a bag of balls and they started - toward the field.

  Will got home, sweaty and thirsty, to find Lissy on the phone with their wedding planner, working out minuscule details of the rehearsal dinner, the ceremony and the reception. Rose petals instead of rice. Silk organza ribbons on the banisters, white not mauve, which would just be too much. Fourteen people requesting vegetarian entrees at the reception. Add a fourth layer to the chocolate truffle cake.

  Thank God he was the groom and didn’t have to deal with that stuff. It would have made his brain bleed.

  He tossed his sweaty clothes into the laundry and stepped into the shower. By the time Lissy was off the phone he was covered with soap.

  She stuck her head in through the bathroom door. “Do you realize this is our last two days of peace and quiet before the wedding? This week is crazy-busy for both of us at the paper. Next weekend is the bridal shower and the bachelor and bachelorette parties. Then the week after we have wedding stuff almost every day.”

  They did? All he could remember was the rehearsal and the wedding itself. He made a mental note to check his planner against hers. But what he said was, “Mm-hmm.”

  He turned his back to the spray and let the water spill over his shoulders to rinse the soap away. He saw her look at his bare chest, then his abdomen, then lower still, and watched her pupils dilate. Her reaction sent a rush of blood to his groin, and he felt himself start to swell. He turned away, trying to hide his growing erection, and rubbed slick soap over his ass.

  When she spoke, her voice was unnaturally light and casual. “Well, what would you like to do tonight?”

  He’d like to have a repeat of last night. He’d like to bury his cock deep inside her and fuck her in a half-dozen positions, a half-dozen different places. But he couldn’t say that—not without seriously pissing off Devon and the rest of his groomsmen. “What did people do a hundred years ago?”

  They had an early dinner, then caught a new French art film that Holly had recommended at Chez Artiste, leaving the theater two hours later confused.

  “Did that make any sense to you?” Lissy tried to piece the images and subtitles together.

  Will unlocked the passenger door of his pickup and opened it for her. “I liked the part where she ate her lipstick. And all the bare breasts—I liked those, too.”

  Lissy waited until he’d climbed into the driver’s seat to continue the conversation. “What is it with French art films anyway? They portray women as if we’re all just dying to get into bed with one another.”

  Will turned to her, his disappointed frown visible even in the dim yellow light of the street lamp. “You mean you aren’t?”

  “Of course not!” She answered before she realized he was joking.

  “Damn, Lissy! Way to ruin my fantasies. And I suppose next you’re going to tell me there’s no Santa Claus.”

  His sulky tone made her laugh. “Just drive.”

  The night was warm, one of those not-too-hot, not-too-cool early June nights when the Colorado sky was so clear the snow-capped peaks of the Rockies were visible even in the starlight. They went to their favorite coffee shop, where they tried to decipher the film’s deeper meaning over frothy cappuccinos, and then took a stroll on the 16th Street Mall, its rows of trees lit up by tiny white lights. They passed street vendors, a few Bob Dylan wannabes, an amazing sax player, a guy making funny animals out of balloons, and a fit-looking woman with dreadlocks performing on a unicycle.

  Lissy didn’t know if it was just her imagination, but the Mall seemed to be crawling with lovers. A young couple dressed in black, their faces full of metal piercings, their eyes locked on each other. An old man and woman walking
hand in hand, their skinny, pale legs sticking out of matching Bermuda shorts. A couple in their early thirties walking slowly along the red bricks, the woman’s belly big and round with their baby.

  It had been a pregnancy scare that had gotten the whole marriage ball rolling. Lissy had missed a few pills, and then she’d been late. Only when the test had come up negative had they realized they were more disappointed she wasn’t pregnant than they had been afraid that she was. Will had proposed a month later.

  Lissy watched the woman’s round tummy as she passed, felt the warmth of Will’s big hand surrounding hers and tried to inhale the sweetness of the moment. “I felt like a bride today.”

  Will looked down at her, saw the dreamy look on her face. He - could only imagine what she was talking about. No little boy sat around at the age of six planning what kind of tux he’d wear on his wedding day. Guys just didn’t dream about being grooms the way women dreamed about being brides. But guys did dream of being husbands and fathers. Perhaps what she’d felt was similar to the feeling he got when he saw her asleep at night, safe and sound—a warmth beyond contentment that told him all was right with the world.

  He gave her hand a squeeze. “Have I ever told you I love you, Lissy Charteris?”

  She smiled up at him. “Once or twice.”

  He spotted a vendor selling flowers off to his right. He stepped away from her, pulled out his wallet and handed the man a twenty in exchange for a dozen pink roses. Then he turned to her, held out the roses and spoke in his loudest, most dramatic voice. “I love you, Lissy!”

  People around them stopped, watched, laughed.

  “You’re a lunatic, Will Fraser!” Lissy’s sweet face lit up with a smile, and she ducked her head the cute way she did any time she felt embarrassed, long hair spilling over her cheek. Then she looked into his eyes. “But a very handsome lunatic. I love you, too.”

  They said good night outside the guest room, with slow lingering kisses that made Will’s blood burn—and turned his cock to concrete.