Always A Bridesmaid
Kristin Hardy
Shy and inexperienced, Jillian Logan had walled herself off from everything - especially men.But when she was paired with usher Gil Reynolds at a wedding, there was no mistaking the unexpected sparks that melted even Jillian's protective reserve. Brash and handsome, Gil was used to getting whatever he wanted. And the stunning social worker represented a challenge that he couldn't resist.But Jillian was shocked to learn Gil's secret: He was involved in a scandal that had torn her beloved family apart. Gil wanted to make amends, but could Jillian truly forgive and forget - and admit that she was falling in love?
Always a Bridesmaid
Kristin Hardy
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks go to
Jessica Felts of On Demand Limousine
Ed Scheiner of the Las Vegas Wedding Chapel
and especially to Barbara Drotos, LICSW
for helping bring this story to life
To Karen,
fifteen two, fifteen four
And to Stephen,
for always paying his departure fees promptly
Special thanks and acknowledgment are given
to Kristin Hardy for her contribution to the
LOGAN’S LEGACY REVISITED miniseries.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter One
“I’ve always loved babies.” Shelly Dolan’s voice shook. Next to her on the overstuffed sage-green sofa, her husband, Doug, reached out to put his arm around her shoulders. “I loved playing with them, holding them, making them laugh. They were just a delight. But now, every time I see a stroller, every time I see a pregnant woman, it feels like something’s breaking inside of me.” Her breath began to hitch “All I can do is cry. And Doug—”
Jillian Logan, social worker at the Children’s Connection fertility and adoption clinic, stirred in her deep, soft chair. “What about Doug?” she asked.
“His shop is right down the street from a preschool. And his car’s been on the fritz this week so I’ve been having to take him to work. And to drive by every day and see—And see—And see—” Her voice caught and she buried her face in Doug’s shoulder for a moment.
It squeezed Jillian’s heart. “It must be hard,” she said softly.
“I never guessed,” Shelly whispered. “And Doug’s always so strong, I worry that he’s holding it all in.”
“What’s it like for you, going through this?” Jillian asked Doug.
Next to his neat, dark wife, he looked burly and ill at ease. He’d come straight from work and still wore his stained welder’s clothing. And he was there, clearly, only because of Shelly.
“Hell, Doc, how do you think your husband—” he glanced at her ringless fingers “—or boyfriend or whoever would feel? How would you feel?” he challenged.
“We’re not here to talk about me, Doug.” Jillian’s voice was gentle.
Over the seven months since the Dolans had been coming to the Children’s Connection in hopes of having a child, Jillian had watched their expressions morph from irrepressible hope to disappointment to a kind of grim determination. Now a faint air of strain hung about them. But they were still together, still getting one another through.
“You want to know how I feel?” Doug asked now. “Worried. About Shelly, I mean. I don’t think we need to waste our time here talking about me.”
“You’re going through it, too. You’re both involved.”
His jaw tightened. “I’m okay.”
“You spent the entire week going on about Roy’s son,” Shelly reminded him.
“What about Roy’s son?” Jillian asked.
Doug made a noise of frustration. “My boss’s kid. The little punk knocked up his girlfriend. Sixteen. Too stupid to wear a condom, the idiot.”
“Why does it make you so angry?”
“They’re too young to have a kid. Hell, they’re kids themselves. Either they keep it and really mess up their lives or she gives it up, or she gets rid of it. Idiot. All because he couldn’t keep it in his pants. And it’s such a freaking crock,” he said with sudden savagery.
“What is?”
“He’s sixteen and he can get his girlfriend pregnant. I’m thirty-five and we want a kid so much and I damned well can’t give my wife a baby.” Doug leaned forward and put his head in his hands.
Jillian waited in the humming silence. This was the moment she’d been working toward for months, a chance to finally get Doug to open up. And yes, the session was supposed to be ending but there was no way she was going to punch the clock on this one. “It’s okay to feel angry or guilty or out of control, Doug. The feelings are real. You’re allowed.”
He was silent for another moment, then he let out a breath. “I’m fine,” he said quietly, straightening. “We’ll get through it.” He glanced at his watch. “Anyway, our time’s up, isn’t it, Doc?”
“I don’t know, is it?”
He nodded slowly, his eyes on her. “Yeah. I think so.”
Reluctantly, Jillian rose to move to her desk. “Think about what we’ve talked about here today. You’re getting close to something, Doug, and I don’t think we should just let it go. Let’s talk about it more next week.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever.” He shepherded Shelly hastily out of the office.
And Jillian watched them go out together.
Together. That was the key. However difficult the emotional challenges, the two of them were still a team. They walked down the hall, Doug’s arm around Shelly’s shoulders. How would it feel to have that comfort? Jillian wondered, that sense that whatever you faced, you did it as a part of a whole?
How do you think your husband or boyfriend or whoever would feel?
She wouldn’t know, because Jillian didn’t have one. She never had.
She thought of her missing stepbrother Robbie, manager of the day care center at the Children’s Connection, part of her adoptive family. The stepbrother she hadn’t seen in over a month, ever since he’d walked out on his wife, the clinic, his family, driven away by the scandalous past he couldn’t escape. Why hadn’t Robbie been able to trust that they would be there for him?
Maybe because, like Jillian, he bore scars from the childhood years spent outside the Logan nest. Childhood trauma could haunt you, Jillian knew. Like the dark times she and her twin brother, David, had suffered before Terrence and Leslie Logan had adopted them at age six.
There was a tap at the door and Jillian glanced up to see Lois Carella, the senior social worker at the clinic, peering in. “Do you have a minute to talk about the Podracki birth-parent letter?”
Jillian checked her watch. “I’m sorry, it’ll have to wait until Monday. I’m supposed to be at a wedding rehearsal in a half hour.”
“Another one? You’re in more weddings than anyone I know.”
Didn’t she know it. It was the curse of the therapist. No one knew how to give better friendship. Jillian was unparalleled at being a friend.
It was just the part about accepting friendship in return that she wasn’t so good at.
“Who is it this time?” Lois asked.
“Lisa Sanders. She’s marrying some tycoon from Texas.”
Lois laughed. “The Texas tycoon. Sounds like the title of a romance novel.”
“A bit, I suppose. Except for the part where the Gazette dragged Lisa’s name in the mud.” The Portland Gazette, the same newspaper that had dredged up Robbie’s own history with a babynapping ring, the newspaper that had driven him away.
“I seem to remember they corrected things, though, didn’t they?”
“I suppose.” A spurious lawsuit from the father of the child Lisa had borne and adopted out as an unwed, homeless teen had turned into a biased, inflammatory front-page story. Eventually, the Gazette had gotten to the truth of the matter and cleared Lisa’s name. Eventually. “Too bad they didn’t do the same with Robbie.”
“Don’t blame the Gazette. It’s the tabloids and the television shows that have been hounding him.”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s gone.” And once again, Jillian’s family was torn apart. Once again, her adoptive parents were racked over Robbie, their son kidnapped as a child, rediscovered as an adult struggling to find the right path. Jillian was a licensed clinical social worker, for God’s sake, she had years of counseling experience. And yet she hadn’t been able to help him. She couldn’t heal where it counted.
“Don’t do that to yourself,” Lois said quietly.
Jillian straightened her shoulders. “Do what?”
“You demand too much of yourself, Jillian. You always have.” Lois’s eyes softened. “He’s going to be okay, you’ll see. It’ll work out.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Of course I am,” Lois said briskly. “I always am. Now get off to your wedding. And Jillian?”
“What?”
“Don’t forget to catch the bouquet. I think it’s your turn now.”
The stained glass windows threw patches of glowing red and blue and green light over the polished wood of the pews. The very air of the church held a quiet serenity, an indefinable hush. Jillian should have felt uplifted. She should have felt joy for Lisa and Alan.
Instead, all she felt was lonely.
Which was ridiculous. Ninety-nine percent of the time—okay, at least fifty or sixty percent, she admitted—she was fine being alone. She preferred it, actually. She’d looked, but she’d never found her match. She’d grown happiest once she’d given up trying. She was one of those people who was best on her own, it was that simple. She’d had thirty-three years to get used to the idea.
So why was the thought of being single and watching one more happy couple pledge their lives to one another breaking her heart?
Not that she wasn’t happy for her friends. She was, she could say without doubt. But there was something now that struck her to her very core, something about knowing she’d never be the one walking down the aisle toward a groom who stood bright-eyed in expectation, that at the reception to come she’d have no date, no boyfriend, no husband, no one who cared for her above all. No matter. She’d smile and hold her head high. And she’d joke and dance the choreographed dances, walk with her fingertips on the arm of her usher, touching a man, something she did so seldom—aside from her brothers—that it belonged in the headlines.
And go home feeling more desperately lonely than at any other time in her life. Maybe it was Robbie being gone. Maybe it was the turmoil her family was in. Maybe it was just her.
With a sigh, Jillian glanced over to where Lisa Sanders, the bride-to-be, paced nervously.
“I wish he would just get here,” Lisa said, raking her fingers through her blond hair. “We only have the church for another ten minutes. Alan,” she appealed to her fiancé, “can’t you please call him?”
“Who?” Jillian asked.
“We’re missing an usher. Alan’s friend, Gil.”
Tall and sandy and Texan, Alan exuded calm control. “I talked with him this afternoon and he said he was going to be here.”
“Maybe something’s come up. Anyway, our dinner reservation is half an hour after we get done here, so we’ve got to stay on schedule.”
“Hey,” Jillian said softly as Lisa’s pacing route brought her near, “it’s going to be okay.” Normally, Lisa was organized to within an inch of her life. Normally, she was as cool as could be. There was something about weddings, though, that broke the nerves of the calmest person. And Lisa was only twenty-one, Jillian reminded herself.
“I know, I know, I’m worrying about nothing,” Lisa said too quickly. “It’s just all the details that are driving me crazy. I mean, I know five o’clock was a bad time for the rehearsal but it was the only one they had. We put this together so quickly. And we’ve got to get all the centerpieces over to the reception hall and I need to tie up the favors and I still have to do the holder for the place cards. And I hung my dress from my ceiling light fixture so it wouldn’t wrinkle and I just know it’s fallen down by now and it’s in a pile all over the floor and—”
“And all that matters is the ‘I do’ part,” Alan drawled, coming up from behind to slide an arm around her waist. “Forget about the centerpieces. Forget about the place cards. Hell, we can skip it all, if you want. My corporate jet could have us in Vegas in three hours. Get married tonight and come back tomorrow for the party.”
Lisa laughed and turned to kiss him. “You have no idea how tempting that sounds. But everyone’s here and the arrangements are already made. We’ll get through it. You’re sweet, though.” She kissed him again.
“And you’re beautiful,” he replied. “We make a good pair.”
Together, Jillian thought, just like Doug and Shelly. “Can’t we rehearse without Alan’s friend?” she suggested to Lisa as Alan walked away, flipping open his cell phone. “Let’s run through it with the people who are here. The Invisible Man can figure things out tomorrow.”
“I suppose. It’s just that he’s supposed to be first usher, right next to Neal.” Neal Barrett, Alan’s brother and best man.
“I’d say the Invisible Man just got demoted for tardiness,” Jillian told her. “You show up more than twenty—” she consulted her watch “—twenty-five minutes late, you take your chances.”
“I agree,” said Carrie Summers, walking up from behind. Carrie had that brisk, take-charge air that mothers seemed to acquire. Of course, it made sense. Carrie was practically like a second mother to Lisa, ever since they’d met when Carrie and her husband, Brian, were adopting Lisa’s son, Timothy. Somehow birth mother and adoptive parents had become friends, then family. And Lisa, who’d lost both parents to an auto accident when she’d been young, had a home again.
“Let’s reshuffle things,” Carrie said now. “Besides,” she added sotto voce, “if we leave everyone in the order you’ve got them, we’ll have Jillian towering over her escort.” She nodded at the short, stocky guy standing across the way. “A switch would be better, assuming Alan’s friend is tall.”
Tall enough for a five-nine woman wearing heels, to be exact. Yet another reason Jillian had never quite fit in. “Well, if he’s not here, I can’t very well be taller than him, now can I?” she asked.
“Oh, Gil’s taller than you,” Lisa said distractedly, watching her fiancé. “I think he’s even taller than Alan.”
“Then it’s settled.” Carrie briskly shooed the ushers toward the altar. “We’ll match him up with Jillian.”
“It’s a straight shot down the aisle,” Jillian said drily. “I’m pretty sure I can find my way on my own if I have to. And if not, I’ll just hitch a ride with Christina’s usher.”
“I’ll arm wrestle you for him,” Christina, Alan’s college-aged daughter offered, laughter in her blue eyes.
The usher in question, standing nearby, frowned. “If I was a chick, you’d be screaming sexism,” he complained.
“But you’re not a chick, so you should be flattered,” Christina said, giving him a saucy look from under her lashes.
“You take him, Christina,” Jillian said, getting into position at the end of the line of bridesmaids. “I’ll make it on my own.”
Just as she always had.
Gil Reynolds typed furiously, his fingers clattering swift and sure on the keyboard, and then leaned back to read what he’d written.
Snow & Taylor Construction, contractors for the billion-dollar downtown Portland streetcar line slated to begin construction this fall, may have won the project without a proper bid process, according to recent documents unearthed by the Gazette.
His favorite kind of story, blowing the lid off corruption in city government. He had his facts up front, a couple of source quotes. Just the way he liked it. Of course, it was still missing that certain something.
A comment from the guest of honor.
With a smile, Gil pushed his dark hair back off his forehead and reached out to dial the phone.
“Yeah?” a man’s voice answered brusquely.
“Nash? Gil Reynolds from the Gazette. We’re running a story on possible fraud in the contracting of the streetcar project. According to the transcripts I saw, Snow & Taylor managed to get the project without competitive bidding.”
Charlie Nash, city councillor. Better than a few, worse than most. There was a pause while Nash took it in. “Reynolds? What the hell are you doing calling me? I thought you were an editor now. You get busted back down?”
“Filling in for one of my reporters who’s on compassionate leave.”
“You don’t have a compassionate bone in your body,” the city councillor growled.
Gil’s teeth gleamed. “Now, come on, Charlie, aren’t we friends? I figured this story was a good chance for us to catch up. Snow & Taylor dumped a lot of money into your campaign, didn’t they?”
“You’re a menace.”
Gil leaned back in his chair. “Maybe you should get that put on a plaque. I could hang it on the wall next to my Pulitzer.”
“You run that story, I’ll sue.”
“I’m just running the facts. What makes you think there’ll be anything to sue about? That sounds like a guilty conscience talking. Come on, you’ll feel better if you confess to Uncle Gil.”
“In a pig’s eye. Why don’t you go after O’Donnell?”
“O’Donnell wasn’t heading the appropriations committee when the contract got let. You were, and your buddies got the job without even trying. Seems to me like the public ought to know. I wanted to be fair and give you a chance to air your side, though. You could set the record straight. Or should I just call for an audit? You got some state and federal bucks for the project, didn’t you?”
“You piranha.”
Gil grinned. “Can I quote you on that, Nash?”
“You can quote me on this.” When the line clicked, Gil chuckled. Merrily, he tapped away, listening to the hubbub of the newsroom outside his office door. In these, the waning hours before deadline, the room was gripped with a feverish purpose, everyone working as quickly as they could to get the paper together and out the door. Not the least of which was him, given that he’d been trying to fill in for two people ever since Mark’s father had had his fatal heart attack.
“I need that streetcar story.” Ron Bates, his copy editor, stood at the door impatiently. “And the Willamette pollution story and the Logan piece.”
“The streetcar story should be in your in-box.”
“What about the other two?”
“Soon,” Gil promised.
“How soon?”
“Gee, let me get my magic wand out and see. Look, I’m going to need at least fifteen minutes to go through them.”
Ron glowered. “You make me miss deadline and the press manager will be coming after me. Which means I’ll be coming after you.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you’re beautiful when you’re angry, Ron?”
“Kiss my ass,” his copy editor said, and turned away.
Grinning, Gil picked up the ringing phone. “Reynolds.”
“Gil, this is Alan. Alan Barrett? You know, your college buddy who’s getting married tomorrow? The guy whose rehearsal started half an hour ago? That guy?”
Gil snapped his head around to stare at the clock, which had somehow vaulted forward an hour and a half since he’d last checked it. He uttered a heartfelt curse.
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“Hell, Alan, I’m sorry. One of my reporters just lost his dad and I’m filling in while he’s gone. I lost track of time. Deadlines are biting my ass today.” Gil sent off the first of the articles.
“Yeah, well, I’ve got a deadline here, too. And a fiancée who’s working on an ulcer. You thinking about gracing us with your presence any time this year?”
“I’ll be there in—” he calculated quickly “—twenty minutes. Twenty five.”
Now it was Alan’s turn to curse. “Forget about the church. We’d be leaving by the time you got here.”
“I’m really sorry, Alan.”
“I know. Look, come to the dinner, at least, so you get a chance to meet everyone. It’s at the Odeon. You know, the new McMillan’s place?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Chapter Two
One thing Jillian could say for Alan, he knew how to throw a rehearsal dinner. Forget about a discreet restaurant back room. Instead, he’d taken the upper balcony of the Odeon Tango Theater, the newest in the McMillan brothers’ chain of brewpub hotels. The old Thirties movie palace had been completely renovated, from the trompe l’oeil and molded-plaster ceiling to the gold-leafed moldings to the deep burgundy curtains that covered the stage.
The tables on the balcony were arranged to accommodate the wedding party and the various out-of-town relatives and friends of Alan’s who’d been invited. At the gleaming walnut bar against the wall, the bartender pulled pints of the McMillan’s award-winning beers. On the tables, bottles of champagne chilled in ice buckets, readily at hand for the rash of toasts that were already taking place.
That was fine with Jillian. In her current mood, it was easy to substitute sipping champagne for conversation. Not that it was necessarily a smart move, especially since drinking wasn’t normally her thing. Champagne, even with its effervescent bubbles, wouldn’t banish the loneliness. Champagne wouldn’t banish the memory of the pang she’d felt when she’d walked back up the aisle all alone, toward the laughing crowd of paired-up bridesmaids and ushers. Sure, it was just the wedding rehearsal, but in a way it was a reflection of her life. She wasn’t a part of the laughing crowd, she wasn’t a part of a pair.
She never had been.
When, she wondered with a thread of desperation, would it change?
When you make it change.
She knew the textbook explanation for why she kept people at arm’s length—raised in squalor, abandoned at four with her twin brother, David, by their mother, neglected by their stroke-ridden grandmother, raised to feel unimportant, unloved, unwanted.
Unworthy.
She knew it was irrational. And as a therapist, she knew how difficult it was to root out feelings grown from the seeds of childhood trauma, however irrational the adult knew them to be.
As a therapist, she also knew that sometimes you had to go out of your comfort zone first to make yourself change. That had been Lois’s point; Lois, who had known Jillian since the Logans had adopted her. At a certain point you needed to move on with your life. Drinking champagne wouldn’t change the fact that she was alone. Doing something different would. If being alone hurt, then she needed to open the gates that she kept locked shut against the world.
I’m afraid.
It was ridiculous, of course, she thought, watching Carrie Summers laugh with her husband, Brian, watching Lisa and Alan as they leaned in for a kiss. What was there to fear? They were glowing with happiness, with the sheer wonder of being parts of a whole.
And suddenly, desperately, Jillian wanted to know what that feeling was like.
An intelligent woman would do something about it. That was what the therapist side of her would suggest if she were in a session with herself. Make a plan and execute it. Go on a blind date. Ask someone she knew to fix her up. Hell, say hello to a guy once in a while.
Of course, if she were in a session with herself, it might be time to consider medication for multiple personality disorder, she thought. And she surprised herself with a hiccup.
A couple of places down from Jillian’s spot at the end of the table, Lisa turned, eyes wide. “Was that a hiccup I just heard?”
“It’s nothing,” Jillian told her, surprised that she had to work just a bit to make the words come out clearly.
Down on the stage, the curtains parted to reveal a stunningly beautiful brunette partnered with a man dressed in a black shirt and trousers. They stood, pressed against one another and, slowly, they began to dance.
She never touched anyone, Jillian thought. Oh, she hugged her mother and her sister, Bridget, now and again, or maybe a girlfriend. That was about it. Her world was so small: don’t touch, don’t look too hard at anyone, don’t make eye contact for too long in case it’s too much. Because without the freedom of having that one person into whose eyes she could gaze, that one person she could hold on to without worrying, all contact with other people seemed perilously complex. How much was too much? How much would inadvertently cross the line because she no longer knew where that line was?
When she was at work, in sessions, she felt confident. Anywhere else, forget it.
The dancers whirled in the tango, twining around one another in the choreographed seduction of the dance. Even up in the balcony, Jillian could feel the heat, the sexuality. What must it be like to want and be wanted? She was thirty-three and she’d never been intimate with a man. Kisses, yes. She’d even felt a man’s hands touch her body, if you could call the clumsy college boy she’d fooled around with one night a man. She’d read about sex, she’d even counseled patients, but she knew nothing about it from personal experience.
She knew nothing about relationships, at all.
It wasn’t right, Jillian thought suddenly, watching the dancers. It wasn’t right that she didn’t know, it wasn’t right that she hadn’t even tried to change things. She was a social worker, a skilled therapist. She should do better.
Why not? she thought, feeling suddenly bold, and tossed off the rest of her champagne. Why not try going after what she wanted?
It’s your turn now.
“Hot, huh?”
Jillian turned to see Lisa’s maid of honor, Ariel, looking as mischievous as Peter Pan with her spiky brunette pixie cut and her sparkling eyes.
“They’re pretty amazing,” Jillian said. The flow of dancers’ bodies, their silky-looking touches gave her a little flicker of excitement just watching. “I’d love to learn.”
“Oh, me, too. I think they give lessons after the show. We ought to come sometime when we can try it out.”
“What if I don’t have a partner?”
Ariel laughed. “Like that’s a problem? Just smile at a guy and grab him by the arm.”
Jillian looked at Ariel in admiration. Was it really that simple for her? It seemed extraordinary. There was no way Jillian could ever work up that much nerve, not immediately. Smiling, maybe. She could start with smiling. Whereupon she’d probably be standing around forever. “They should set it up like one of those dime-a-dance places from World War II. That way you wouldn’t have to worry.”
“Dime a dance? Try a five spot, at least.” Ariel’s eyes brightened. “Ooh, just imagine if it was like one of those vending machines where you use the lever thing to pick out exactly who you want. Just put your money in the slot and—”
“Darn it!” Jillian slapped her forehead.
“What?”
“I totally forgot. I’ve got to go feed my meter. I didn’t have any change when I parked,” she explained, digging in her purse for a dollar. “I meant to go right back out.”
“Drinking champagne will do that to you. Anyway, why are you worried? This late, no one cares.”
“It’s only six-thirty.” Jillian rose. “And trust me, if anyone’s going to get a parking ticket at six fifty-nine, it’ll be me.”
Downstairs, she walked out the front door and through the old-fashioned half-moon movie-house entryway with its central ticket booth. On the street, the late afternoon was bleeding into June dusk as the sun dipped toward the horizon. The clouds of the morning had burned away. The air felt soft and welcoming.
She’d taken off her jacket inside and the breeze fluttered through the claret silk tank she wore beneath. It felt good to move. It would have felt good to dance, if she’d only known how. She felt a sudden, restless urge for something new.
Her meter, she could see from a few cars away, was firmly over into redline territory. But she was less interested in that than the guy a bit beyond, walking down the sidewalk toward her. Tall, dark, moving with an easy assurance, he wore a jacket and tie and sunglasses. The breeze blew his dark hair onto his forehead; he raised an impatient hand to rake it back.
This was it, Jillian thought. She wanted to make a change? Now was her chance. Just a small change. All she had to do was glance at him and smile. Simple enough. Something millions of women did every day. Once she got used to that behavior, she’d move on. For now, just a smile. That wasn’t much, was it?
So why was her heart hammering?
Jillian stood at her meter, fumbling with her coins. He was closer now. Almost time. It wasn’t as if it was a military operation, she thought impatiently. She just needed to look at him and do it, as if it was natural. Natural.
Hah.
She glanced up, preparing to smile. And froze.
Handsome was the wrong word. Handsome was too tepid, a description for men with perfect Ken-doll looks. His was a face that was more about purpose and intent, pure force of personality. Strong bones, straight nose, a chin that looked as though it knew how to take a punch. His eyes were hidden by his sunglasses. His mouth was straight and wide and far too intriguing.
And then he smiled and the coins slipped through her suddenly nerveless fingers.
With a noise of frustration, Jillian bent to grab for them, trying fruitlessly to capture the rolling disks before they went over the curb and through the grate beyond.
“Need some help?”
Adrenaline vaulted through her system. He’d stopped. The guy had stopped and now he was bent down by her meter, trying to retrieve the coins. “I think they’re all on their way to the Columbia River by now,” she said.
“Slippery devils,” he said, pushing up his glasses and grinning.
She could hear her pulse thudding in her ears. His eyes were black, she saw, his dark brows quirked now with just a hint of humor.
He handed her a quarter. “There’s one, anyway.”
Her hand was shaking as she took the coin from him. Okay, this was more than she’d planned. It was supposed to be a smile and glance, not a whole discussion. She wasn’t sure she was up for a full discussion, especially after all the champagne.
She rose.
“What about your other quarter?” He nodded at the meter as he stood. “One won’t take you through the witching hour.”
“I guess I’ll just have to take my chances.”
“Feeling lucky, huh?” He grinned, and she felt something in her stomach flip. Lethal smile, absolutely lethal. And without warning she found herself staring at his upper lip and wondering just what it would be like to kiss him.
Lucky? “I guess I am,” she said. It was the champagne, she told herself. Starting up her own personal perestroika campaign was one thing, picking up men on the street was another.
But he was already rummaging in his pocket to pull out a handful of coins.
“You can’t pay my meter,” she objected.
“Sure I can,” he said as he picked through the change for a quarter and put it in. “It’s good karma. After a day like I’ve had, I could use it.”
“Uh-oh,” she said. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“Uh-oh, is right. If you see a lynch mob coming out of the Odeon, they’ll be looking for me.”
“Is that where you’re going?” she asked, falling in step beside him as they walked the dozen yards to where the light from the theater’s marquee spilled over the sidewalk.
“Yep. How about you?”
She nodded.
“I’d offer to buy you a drink but I’m here for a party. Actually, I’m late for a party,” he corrected. “Really late.”
“That’s okay, I’m here with—” She broke off and gave him a suspicious stare. “What kind of a party?”
“Me?” He held the door for her. “A rehearsal dinner, for a wedding. Why?”
She walked through, the little buzz of excitement fading. “Your name wouldn’t happen to be Gil, would it?”
“Guilty as charged. And you are?”
“Jillian Logan, the bridesmaid you left at the altar. Nice of you to finally join us.”
Gil’s lips twitched as he followed her into the lobby. “Left you at the altar, huh? Did I have a brain fade? Were we getting married?”
“I’m not likely to marry the kind of guy who’d show up—” she checked her watch “—over an hour late to his best friend’s wedding rehearsal.”
“I guess it’s a good thing I never proposed, then. It was touch-and-go out there.”
She gave him a look from under her brows. “You know, you had the bride wearing a groove in the carpet pacing over you? Lisa’s got enough going on right now without one more thing to stress about.”
His amusement dipped a bit. “I know, trust me.”
She folded her arms, a bit like a teacher scolding a wayward student. “Not to mention the fact that we were all standing around waiting.”
“Not to mention,” he agreed. And she was ticked. Protective of Lisa and just a little ticked about waiting around. Or maybe the altar thing. He wasn’t sure just why he found that appealing. Maybe it was because he found her appealing. Her mouth for a start, full and tempting, the lower lip just a bit sulky now. It had been the first thing he’d noticed when he first saw her. When she’d smiled at him by the meter, he’d felt the hit down deep.
And those eyes of hers, the color of good whiskey. They looked enormous and he didn’t think it was just tricky makeup. They were turbulent now with challenge, enough to promise she’d give him a run for his money. And she had that thick, dark hair with the red undertones of good mahogany. The kind of hair a man could bury his hands in.
Her chin came up a bit as she noticed him staring. He didn’t bother to fight the smile. She was tall for a woman, slender enough that at a glance a person would judge her fragile. It was an impression he was betting drove her nuts. She didn’t look like the type who wanted to be taken care of. She looked like the type who liked being in control.
Funny, so was he.
“I guess I started off on the wrong foot with you here. Except for the quarter at the meter,” he added. “I should get some points for that.”
“It’s going to take more than a quarter to make up for missing the wedding rehearsal,” she told him.
“And leaving you at the altar. I could escort you up the stairs,” he offered as they skirted the velvet rope that blocked off the balcony. “That’s a start.”
She glanced at his arm. “I can make it up the stairs on my own.”
“I bet you can,” he said, resisting the urge to linger a bit behind her and admire the view. “It would be more fun with me, though.”
She rolled her eyes. “Are you always like this?”
“You’re going to break down and laugh sooner or later. You may as well give in to the inevitable.”
She turned to him at the top of the stairs. “And that is?”
He gazed down into those whiskey-gold eyes. “I’ll let you know.”
And suddenly, as she stared back at him, the joking slipped away and something else flashed in its place, a hard, deep pulse of wanting that momentarily banished everything else. Something hummed between them, like a subsonic vibration that he could neither hear nor see, but only feel.
And the flicker in her eyes told him she felt it, too.
“About time you showed,” a voice drawled from behind him and Alan walked up.
Gil blinked and the moment was gone. He turned to the tall Texan. “Hey, sorry I’m late,” he said as they shook.
“And here I thought you were a pretty sorry specimen already,” Alan said. “Glad to see you finally found the place.”
“You made it,” Lisa said, stepping up alongside Alan.
“I did,” Gil said. Instead of shaking her hand, he bowed down to kiss it. “I really apologize for missing the rehearsal. Major screwup. You’ve got a lot to worry about right now and the last thing you need is more grief from me.”
“Hey, no putting the moves on my fiancée,” Alan protested.
“Especially,” Gil went on, ignoring Alan, “since you’re going to have plenty of grief, already, with marrying this guy off.”
Lisa laughed delightedly and pressed a kiss to Gil’s cheek. “Oh, don’t worry about it. Alan can tell you where you’re supposed to stand tomorrow and I’m sure you can figure out the rest. Why don’t you come meet everybody and have some champagne? Dinner’s just starting.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Gil noticed Jillian drift off to her seat.
Probably just as well, he thought. As an editor at the Gazette, the last thing he needed was to get anything going with Jillian Logan. He’d already been warned.
So he met the rest of the party, laughing, joking, shaking hands. And did his best to forget that strange snap of connection at the top of the stairs.
“This is Ariel, Lisa’s good friend,” Alan said, bringing him to the last table.
“And best chick,” Ariel added.
“Maid of honor,” Alan translated. “And you already know Jillian, here.”
“Informally,” Gil said. He extended his hand. “Gil Reynolds, meter caddy.”
“Jillian Logan, usher wrangler.” She reached out.
Her hand was soft and cool in his. It felt fragile but he’d been right about the strength that underlaid it. He’d expected that.
He hadn’t expected it to be trembling.
In surprise, his gaze shot to hers and he saw her eyes widen before she glanced away. She tugged her hand to free it from his. Some perverseness made him hold on a moment longer than necessary, though, until she looked at him.
And he saw the gold of her eyes had darkened to deep amber.
Then he released her to nod down at the empty place setting at her side, the last one left. “Well, how about that? Looks like this is my seat.”
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, Jillian thought with a mixture of giddiness and alarm as she concentrated on taking slow breaths to try to quiet her system. It was supposed to have been a smile on the street, a quick experiment, a little change—emphasis on little. It wasn’t supposed to turn into anything. It definitely wasn’t supposed to last the entire evening. And it certainly wasn’t supposed to make her world feel as though it had tilted on its axis.
Surreptitiously, she rubbed at her right hand where it was hidden in her lap.
Forget about the quick, impersonal eye contact she’d perfected to keep people at a distance. Gil Reynolds’s gaze had drilled right through her, right into her. And now he was sitting just inches away and she was supposed to be able to hold a conversation as if nothing had happened?
Nothing had, she reminded herself. He’d only been playing games.
Gil picked up the beer that the waiter brought him with the salad course and grinned. “To the happy couple,” he said to Jillian.
She tapped his glass with her champagne flute. “To the happy couple,” she said coolly.
“Come on, I apologized. See? I’m not a complete creep.”
“I never said you were.”
“Does that mean I’m forgiven?”
Jillian eyed him over the top of her glass. “I don’t know. Should you be?”
Gil broke out laughing. “You’re a tough case,” he said. “Lisa forgave me.”
“That’s because you went all Continental and started kissing her hand.”
“I’d be happy to kiss yours, too,” he offered, a gleam in his eyes.
“No fair using the same trick twice,” she objected, moving her hand hastily away. “Think up something else. Come on, you’re a smart guy.”
He eyed her. “This isn’t going to be one of those quest things where I’ve got to go bring back a hair from the beard of the Great Chan, is it? Or find the Golden Fleece?”
“How about cleaning the stables of all the Budweiser Clydesdales in a single day? Of course, then you’d mess up that nice suit.”
“Come on, cut me some slack. I’m a working schlemiel. Why do you think I was late?”
“What do you do?”
His mouth curved. “Make trouble.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Her voice was dry. “And where do you make trouble?”
His grin widened. “Anywhere I can. No throwing things,” he added quickly, as she reached for the basket of bread.
“That wasn’t my intention,” she said with dignity. “Although, now that you mention it…”
“Okay, okay. Blazon Media,” he said, relenting.
“What, like an advertising agency? You’re not one of those account exec types, are you?”
“That’s a harsh way to talk about the people who help you decide how to spend your exorbitant salary.”
“Exorbitant?” She couldn’t prevent the snort.
“Or not,” he added. “What do you do?”
“I’m a social worker.”
“Okay, maybe not so exorbitant.” He raised a brow. “A social worker, huh? And here I thought you guys were all softies.”
“Here I thought you advertising types all had hundred-dollar haircuts and a closet full of Armani,” she countered.
“I’m dressed down for casual Friday,” he said.
“I’d hate to see you when you really put on the Ritz.”
“Just wait until tomorrow.” He winked. “Then you’ll see my really grubby clothes.”
The bartender leaned against the wall in his white apron and watched as the last of the rehearsal party left their tables and headed down the carpeted stairs. They’d closed the place down, Jillian realized in surprise, as she reached the bottom and turned for the lobby. She’d blinked once or twice and the hours had slipped away.
It was a shock, to say the least. Parties weren’t her thing. To be honest, she’d looked forward to the rehearsal dinner with about as much enthusiasm as she would have a root canal. Outside of Lisa and Alan, she’d known no one. Somehow, though, that hadn’t mattered. Forget about the usual rehearsal-dinner work of making conversation with people she didn’t know and had little in common with. She’d spent the entire evening laughing.
And every time she’d turned to Gil, he’d been watching her with that little glimmer in his eyes.
He was beside her now as they walked out into the night. She tightened her jacket against the cool breeze. “I guess it’s not quite summer yet.”
“Give it another month and it will be,” he said. They turned down the sidewalk toward her car. “You going to be okay driving?”
“Sure. I stopped with the champagne a while ago.” Stopped early enough that her feet should be firmly grounded. Why was it, then, that she still felt the little bubbles of effervescence, that she felt like skipping?
“Good. Wouldn’t want you to oversleep and miss my grand entrance at the wedding. I’m planning to be two hours early.”
“Spoken like a true responsible citizen,” she said.
“Making you proud of me is my life.”
“It must have been dull until we met tonight, then,” she said lightly, turning to him as they reached her car.
“It was,” he agreed. “I much prefer this.” And suddenly he was looking at her with a look she couldn’t quite categorize: speculation, anticipation, some special concentration.
Nerves vaulted through her. “Well, I guess you’d better get home and get dressed if you’re going to be two hours early for the wedding, shouldn’t you?”
He nodded, never taking his eyes off her. “I suppose so.”
“It was nice to meet you.” She concentrated on digging out her keys. If she did that, then she wouldn’t focus on that mouth and wonder what it would be like to kiss him.
“It’s nice to see you.”
“It’s late,” she said desperately.
“Then I guess you’d better get going, Cinderella.” With a flourish, he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. Heat flashed through her. “See you at the altar.”
Chapter Three
The dressing room smelled of cologne and hair spray, of freesia and lily of the valley from the bridal bouquets. Silk and tulle rustled below the chatter and buzz of a half-dozen women getting primped simultaneously.
“Lisa Sanders, have I told you how much I love and admire you?” Ariel turned to allow Jillian to zip up the back of her bridesmaid dress.
Lisa glanced over from where she sat at the vanity in the bride’s dressing area. “Any particular reason now?”
“These dresses. They’re gorgeous.”
“I’ll say,” Jillian chimed in fervently. She’d been in more weddings than she could count on one hand and had the closet full of poufy floral dresses to prove it. Lisa had rejected those horrors in favor of slim, tea-length dresses the color of the periwinkles in their bouquets.
Jillian glanced in the mirror at her own dress, admiring the way the bias-cut silk draped. “They really are lovely.”
“And wait until your boy gets a load of you in that,” Ariel said.
Jillian frowned. “My boy?”
“Gil,” Ariel clarified. “I mean, the two of you were flirting like mad last night. Very hot.”
It was crazy to get butterflies in her stomach at the thought of him, Jillian told herself. But every time she remembered the feel of his lips brushing over her knuckles, her stomach lurched as if she was in an elevator that was dropping too fast. She’d tried to tell herself it hadn’t been a big deal. Sure he’d paid attention to her, walked her to her car, kissed her hand, but who knew what that meant? It could just be one of those things people did at rehearsal dinners.
But apparently she wasn’t the only one who had noticed.
Maybe, Jillian thought, just maybe it hadn’t been her imagination. Maybe there really had been that little buzz there, that little something that felt like, oh…
Chemistry.
It happened, she knew. Couples met, clicked and wound up dating. It wasn’t just in movies and books; she heard about it from her patients, her girlfriends, even her siblings. People got involved, they had relationships.
Why not her?
“If I were you,” Ariel continued, “I’d be looking forward to the reception. What do you think, Lisa?”
“I don’t know.” Lisa was focused intently on trying to get her pearl necklace out of its case but her hands were shaking too much to do it. She cleared her throat. “He’s not really your type, Jillian, is he?”
Her type? How did she even know what her type was? He wasn’t a standard pretty boy but she liked that. She liked the humor that was never far away, the way he made her laugh. And she really, really liked that buzz that went through her whenever they made eye contact.
But who was she fooling? What she liked most, what she hadn’t been able to stop thinking of once since it had happened was the way it had felt when he’d brought her hand to his lips. Anticipation fluttered through her.
“He seems nice enough,” she allowed.
Ariel snorted. “Nice enough?”
“Is he seeing anyone?” Jillian asked.
Lisa fumbled and dropped the necklace.
“Uh-oh, looks like prewedding jitters to me,” Ariel said. “Anyone got a shot of vodka?”
“She doesn’t need a drink.” Jillian came over to help. “She just needs us to stop going on about everything else.”
“I should have listened to Alan and gone to Vegas,” Lisa moaned. “Everything would have been better.”
“It’s going to be beautiful,” Jillian soothed, fastening the necklace in place and putting a reassuring hand on Lisa’s shoulder. “You’ll see. You’re going to walk out there and see Alan and everything will be perfect.”
Carrie came back into the room. “All right, everyone, it’s time. Lisa, honey, you ready?”
“I think so.” Lisa rose, touching her hair nervously. “How do I look?”
“Gorgeous,” Jillian said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “Be happy,” she whispered.
Lisa gave her a tremulous smile. “I already am.”
Gil stood in the dressing area watching Alan tie his tie. “So what do you say, are you ready to do this?”
“Of course. Why shouldn’t I be?”
“Just checking. After all, it’s my job as groomsman to prop you up in the bar and feed you a few drinks to get your courage up.”
Alan patted Gil’s shoulder. “I think you were supposed to do all that at the bachelor party.”
Gil snapped his fingers. “Bachelor party. Damn. I knew there was something I forgot to do.”
“I’ll let it go,” Alan said.
Gil studied his friend. “You’re going to be happy, Alan,” he said. “The two of you have a good vibe.”
“Yeah?” For a minute, Alan forgot about the tie and met Gil’s gaze in the mirror. “I keep wondering if I’m out of my mind, marrying a woman seventeen years younger than me. But I don’t know, when I’m with her, it just works.”
“I don’t think you’re out of your mind. She’s smart, ambitious, gorgeous. And more grown-up than her age.” Gil picked a bit of lint off his sleeve. “What she sees in you, of course, God only knows. If I were you, I’d marry her quick before she comes to her senses.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Anytime,” Gil said cheerfully. “It’s a good match. She can introduce you to the Raconteurs and you can introduce her to Tony Bennett and shuffleboard.”
“I’ll shuffle your board if you don’t watch it,” Alan growled.
“Hey, no roughing up the ushers.”
Alan put on his jacket and buttoned it up. “I’ll let you off the hook this time, but only because I have to go get married.”
“Lucky me,” Gil said.
“No,” Alan said, “Lucky me.”
White satin. Ribbons and lace. The church echoed with the liquid tones of the harp. Freesia from the bouquets scented the air. And everywhere faces glowed with that luminous joy unique to weddings.
Jillian stood quietly at the back of the church with the other bridesmaids. Behind them, hidden in an alcove, Lisa shifted nervously. Then the music started and Alan led the ushers out into place at the front of the church. There was a rustling as everybody turned to the back.
At Carrie’s nod, Jillian began the measured walk down the aisle, the same one she’d made so many times before. Before her lay the pews, the ends adorned with bouquets and ribbons. Beyond that, she saw the organ, the altar, Alan and his ushers.
And Gil.
He wore a tuxedo, no different than the men beside him. But, oh, it looked different. Maybe it was his long, lean build, those shoulders, that way he had of standing as though he was totally at ease and at the same time ready for anything. His skin appeared very tanned, almost swarthy against the snowy-white of his shirt.
And he was staring right at her.
A whole squadron of butterflies took off to flutter madly about her stomach. He had that gleam in his eyes, that look that promised something special, she could see it from there. Quickly, she trained her gaze before her, on the altar. Having a bridesmaid going down the aisle staring at one of the ushers didn’t exactly give a dignified look to the procession.
Focusing on the front of the church didn’t help.
The fact that she kept her eyes turned from Gil was irrelevant—she was aware of him with every fiber of her being. She saw the white gleam of his smile, knew when he shifted a bit and clasped his hands together before him. Just taking each step took all her concentration, which was silly. It was only a look from across a room.
So why did it feel almost like a physical touch, one that strengthened with each inch she moved toward him?
The walk seemed endless, and yet Jillian was surprised to suddenly find herself at the end of the aisle. She took her place with relief and a sneaky little whiff of disappointment, as though a beam of sunlight had gone away. She was there for the wedding, she reminded herself, not a flirtation. Turning back to the aisle, she held her bouquet before her.
One by one, the other bridesmaids walked toward her and stepped into line. Including Ariel.
Who gave her a broad wink.
Jillian found herself stifling a giggle. Ariel just glided calmly and serenely into place. Only someone who was looking for it would have known that she was trying hard not to laugh, too.
And then the music swelled and there was a shuffle of feet as everyone stood for the bride.
She was, quite simply, lovely. As Lisa had chosen stylish simplicity for the bridesmaids’ dresses, so she’d gone with simple elegance in her own attire: an ivory satin sheath, a garland of freesia and periwinkle for her hair. She was shaking visibly when she drew nearer, Jillian saw, her face pale, eyes huge. Then she reached the head of the aisle, and Brian Summers passed her hand to Alan.
And the moment their hands joined, the shakes were gone. Alan bent his head to kiss Lisa’s fingers. Her smile bloomed, brilliant and beautiful as a sunrise.
Jillian found herself blinking back the sudden sting of tears.
Love. Honor. Cherish. Till death do us part. The words flowed, the phrases that had always been a part of the lexicon of love, but suddenly they were real. She’d never believed in auras and all that mumbo jumbo, but when Alan and Lisa looked into each other’s eyes, Jillian swore she could almost see their love for each other like a glowing nimbus that enveloped them both. It was real, this feeling, it existed. Blinking, she glanced beyond them.
Only to find her gaze pinned to Gil’s.
His eyes were hot and dark and unwavering. And suddenly it was as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. She couldn’t breathe. She felt light-headed, suddenly dizzy as though the floor had tilted and his gaze were the only thing holding her in place. Everything around her receded. There was only Gil, looking at her and through her and into her.
The sound of applause broke the spell. Alan and Lisa were kissing, Jillian realized. The ceremony was finished and they were turning to march back up the aisle, hand in hand.
She glanced back to Gil to see his lips quirk in amusement. The recessional had begun, the bridesmaids and ushers walking forward to pair up, two by two, first Neal and Ariel, then the next pair and the next.
And then Gil was standing before her, offering his arm.
“Let the record show that here you are at the altar and here I am, right on time and ready to escort,” he said.
Jillian laughed and the tension broke. “I appreciate that. I was worried about getting lost.”
“And me, with no GPS.”
She laid her hand on his sleeve. “I have faith in your sense of direction.”
“Outstanding wedding,” he said as they began to walk back up the aisle.
“It was.” Particularly this part, with his arm strong and steady under her fingers, their steps falling in sync.
“Outstanding bridesmaids, too,” Gil added. “Especially the first one that came down the aisle. The color of that dress does very nice things for you.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“And you do even nicer things for the dress.”
“Are you trying to make me blush?” Jillian asked as they passed the rows of people.
He grinned. “Is it working?”
“You’re dangerous,” she told him.
“Me? I’m harmless.”
“Oh, no. I don’t think you can be trusted for a minute.”
“I can be trusted for lots of things,” he countered as they reached the top of the aisle.
“Like what?”
His lips twitched as they reached the top of the aisle. “Let’s get somewhere a little more private and I’d be happy to demonstrate.”
“Oh, too bad we’ve got to go to the reception,” Jillian said lightly. “I guess it’ll have to wait.” She was flirting, she realized in giddy wonder.
“I can be a pretty patient guy when I need to be,” Gil returned.
And they walked through the front doors of the church into blazing sunlight and the pealing of the church’s carillon.
The reception was at a lovely courtyard restaurant on the river. The June afternoon was mild enough to make it enjoyable, and if there was any flaw to it, it was that Jillian had been seated on the opposite side of the head table from Gil. That simmering sense of expectation still bubbled, even as she worked her way through appetizer and salad, soup and main course, making polite conversation with her companions, waiting for the moment she’d be free to talk with him again.
Because she had to admit it, she wanted to. She wanted to talk with him, to laugh with him, to hear his voice, to feel that little shiver in her stomach when she looked into his eyes.
When Lisa and Alan took the floor for their first dance, Jillian applauded with the rest, but mostly she was trying to manage the rush of anticipation and excitement and nerves. Because something had been set in motion. She had no better way to think about it than that. Something had changed from the night before—or maybe she had changed—and she had no idea what came next.
Except that she wanted more.
“All right, let’s have the wedding party out on the floor for their dance,” the band’s lead singer said.
Jillian stood at the edge of the dance floor. For once in her life, she wasn’t feeling tentative or uneasy or at loose ends. He’d come find her, she knew he would.
And then she turned and he was there.
“I think this is my dance,” he said, offering her his hand.
Jillian stepped forward into his arms. The black fabric of his tux felt soft under her fingertips. She concentrated on that because it was safer than thinking about the way heat bloomed through her from his open hand pressed against her back, because that had her wondering just how that hand would feel smoothing over her skin. She shivered.
“Cold?” Gil murmured.
Jillian shook her head. How could she be, when she could feel the heat of his body just inches from hers? And even without that, there was the unsettling slide of his palm over hers, the disconcerting intimacy of having his mouth right at eye level, that delectable mouth that she found herself staring at even as she watched the corners of it turn up.
She raised her chin and found herself looking into his amused eyes.
“How am I doing?” he asked.
“Arthur Murray would be proud.”
“Wait until I trot out my really smooth moves,” he said.
“Is the world ready for that?”
“Come on, live life on the edge.”
“How do you know I don’t already?” she challenged. “I might be a daredevil.”
“Running with scissors? Mixing whites with colors?”
“Skydiving,” she countered. “Hang gliding. Bungee jumping.”
“Bungee jumping?”
“Bungee jumping,” she said triumphantly.
“Then this ought to feel familiar.”
And before she knew what he was about, he’d tightened his hand at her waist and bent her backward into a deep dip.
A chorus of whoops erupted from the crowd around the dance floor. Jillian’s heart hammered madly. He was bent over her, against her, pressing her tightly to him. And for a breathless, whirling instant, his mouth was almost touching hers.
Then he was standing her up again and bowing to the sounds of applause.
The edge, Jillian thought breathlessly, was getting closer by the moment.
The reception was over and the evening sky darkened to velvet black as Jillian and Gil walked out to the parking lot together. It was the first time she could remember that she’d danced until her feet ached. Now, she dangled her shoes from one hand and walked barefoot over the smooth pavement.
“So let me know if you want to go on tour with our dance-and-dip act,” Gil told her.
“I’ll have to take a look at my bungee jumping schedule,” she said, stopping beside her car.
“You do that.”
“Keep your smooth moves dusted off.”
“Always do. You never know when you might need them.” He studied her mouth. “You know, just because the wedding’s over doesn’t mean we have to go home. You want to go somewhere, get a drink?”
The idea appealed and alarmed. Taking a chance on him suddenly seemed like a far greater risk than merely jumping off a high platform. Yet the sense of anticipation that she’d felt all day suddenly intensified. “I’d like to but I’m meeting my brother and his family for breakfast early tomorrow.”
“Lucky brother. Maybe some other time, then.”
She swallowed. “I’d like that.”
“Yeah?” His eyes locked on hers. “So would I. Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll call you?”
She patted her small, beaded evening bag. “I don’t have a pen or anything. Do you have something to write on?”
He shook his head. “Say it. I’ll remember.”
“You have a photographic memory?”
“For the important things.” He reached out to trace his fingertips along her jaw.
Adrenaline surged through her. Her entire body, every nerve, every sense was immediately focused on that one place that his fingers touched. Warm, as they traced over her skin, just rough enough to give her gooseflesh. Her lips parted, seeking air.
“So tell me.” Gil leaned in closer.
“Tell you?” she said blankly.
“Your number. You tell me and I’ll repeat it.”
Jillian moistened her lips. “Two, two, five.”
“Two, two, five.” His gaze was hypnotic, overwhelming.
“Nine, three,” she managed. Her heart thudded in her chest.
“Nine, three,” he echoed.
Jillian hardly noticed when his arms slipped around her. “Two, one,” she whispered. She could feel herself trembling. She caught a breath and found herself inhaling his air.
“Two, one,” he murmured, his lips almost touching hers.
And then he kissed her.
Jillian had been kissed before. She knew what it was like to have a man’s mouth on hers. It had never been anything like this. It had never set her entire body humming with pleasure. It had never made her forget everything around her, exist only for the mindless wonder of mouth on mouth.
Warm and wonderful and wicked, the kiss flowed through her with the delicious decadence of the most sinful dessert she could imagine. His mouth was softer than she’d expected, and clever, so clever, touching, tasting, tempting her lips to part. Her head fell back, her eyes fluttered shut and she clutched at his shoulders to keep her balance as his taste overwhelmed her.
She’d imagined how it would be with him, how his mouth would feel on hers. But nothing had prepared her for the overwhelming immediacy, for the tempting slide of tongue that had her knees weakening as desire flowed through her like some intoxicating drug that only had her wanting more. When she made a small, involuntary noise, she felt Gil’s mouth curve against hers. His arms tightened around her, she could feel his body harden.
It exhilarated.
And it terrified. Without warning, her throat began to tighten up. Suddenly, she felt the old familiar panic, the one that had always dogged her, beginning to stir. Before she could protest, though, Gil released her. And then he was just smiling down at her and the panic was receding.
“Two, two, five, nine, three, two, one,” he repeated and leaned in to kiss the tip of her nose. “I’ll call you.”
“If you get any more pregnant, Eric’s going to have to rent a moving van to get you to the hospital,” Jillian said to her sister-in-law, Jenny Logan, as they sat out on the back deck of the couple’s house.
“Don’t I know it. These Logan men are healthy individuals.” Jenny leaned back on her chaise and rubbed one hand over her belly. “Why wasn’t I smart enough to be attracted to a short man?”
“She keeps staring at me like it’s my fault,” Eric complained.
“Well, you were a part of the proceedings,” Jenny pointed out.
“I had cooperation,” he said. “Some very enthusiastic cooperation, as I recall.”
“Too much information, guys,” Jillian put in.
“Cole, you come away from that fence,” Jenny directed her six-year-old adopted son.
Eric took two quick steps and hoisted the boy into the air before the rottweiler on the other side of the fence bounded up, barking. “Living life on the edge, my man.”
“I can walk,” Cole argued, squirming.
“No way,” Eric said, tucking the boy under his arm as if he was a newspaper and tickling him until Cole giggled delightedly.
“So how was your wedding last night?” Jenny asked, a contented smile on her face. “Another dress for the horror museum?”
“No. Beautiful dress. Beautiful wedding. And…”
And a stupefyingly wonderful, all-time champion kiss.
Jenny gave her an interested look. “And?” she prompted.
“Nothing.” Jillian flushed.
Eric was moving Cole through the air like Superman. “Look at Auntie Jillian turn tomato-red,” he said.
“Tomato-red,” Cole echoed gleefully.
“Nothing, eh?” Jenny observed. “I don’t suppose this nothing happened to be a wedding guest, did he?”
“I think I hear the timer going off on the pastries,” Jillian interrupted, hopping up.
“I’ll help.” Eric followed her into the house.
“You’re going to have to answer my question sooner or later,” Jenny called through the kitchen window.
Jillian pulled out the tray of bakery brioche and muffins she’d set to warm in the oven. “I can’t hear you.”
“You might as well give in,” Eric advised as he poured coffee from the press pot into three mugs. “She’s an expert at cross-examination.”
That was the problem with a large family, Jillian thought. Nothing could ever remain a secret for long—sooner or later everything got out.
“He’s just a man I met,” she said offhandedly as she carried out the platter along with plates and napkins, Eric following.
“Not just a man,” Jenny observed. “You like him.”
“Okay, I like him. But it was just bridal-party stuff at the wedding. Who knows what’ll come of it?”
“Do you want something to?” Jenny reached for the coffee mug Eric had set down before her.
“I want—”
“Cake!” Cole demanded, running up.
“Compromise,” Eric said, handing him a mug of hot cocoa and a blueberry muffin.
“Hot chocolate!” Happily, Cole settled in with his muffin and drink.
“Gee, I didn’t get any chocolate,” Jenny said.
“Don’t be so sure.” Eric settled back with the paper.
Jenny took a sip. “Mocha!” she exclaimed. “Do you know how much I adore you?”
“Feel free to remind me,” Eric said as he flipped open the paper.
Jillian shook her head at the Gazette. “You know, I’m torn every time I see that rag,” she pronounced, breaking the little ball off the top of her brioche. “Half of me wants to burn it and the other half is desperately curious to pick it up to see if they’ve printed any new trash about Robbie.” As if driving him away hadn’t been enough.
“Don’t give yourself ulcers over it,” Eric said. “That first story was a little strong but they’ve been better since.”
“Sure. Now they want a comment from him. Now that he’s gone. Or maybe they’re just sniffing around for a new story.”
“They don’t really have to. The tabloids have kind of taken it over.”
And it drove Jillian nuts. One day Robbie had been there, the next he’d been gone without a word. One letter, no phone calls. Five weeks. She shook her head. “It’s driving Nancy to distraction, especially since he’s supposed to be checking in with his parole officer.”
“I don’t know how she’s managing. I can’t imagine how I’d feel if Eric just disappeared like that,” Jenny said. “I’d be worried out of my mind.”
“She is. I just keep hoping it’ll all die down, but fat chance.” Jillian leaned back in her chair, staring at the paper that hid Eric. “It’s just one story after another after anoth—” Suddenly, she froze, staring at the banner. The Portland Gazette, it read. And on the line below, in fancy script, A Blazon Media Company.
A Blazon Media company.
“What’s wrong?” Jenny asked, frowning. “You look like you’d seen a ghost.”
“Eric, can I have the front page for a minute?”
“Hmm?”
“The front page. Just for a minute. Here, you can have the sports section.” She took the opening section with shaking hands. “Come on, come on, come on,” she muttered.
“You mind telling me what’s going on?” Eric asked.
“Nothing.” It didn’t mean anything, she told herself as she turned back to the editorial page, the part that carried the masthead. Just because Blazon owned the paper didn’t mean Gil worked for the Gazette. He could do any one of a number of things. Maybe he was in corporate, maybe he was in radio. Maybe he handled their Internet properties.
Or maybe, just maybe, he was the managing editor for the metro section of the Gazette.
“I’m going to strangle him,” Jillian said.
Chapter Four
He was staring into space again, Gil realized with a start. Looking aimlessly out the window at the lights along the Willamette River. And seeing a pair of whiskey-colored eyes, for the umpteenth time since he’d watched Jillian Logan drive away on Saturday night.
It wasn’t like him to let a woman get into his head like this. Sure, he’d been attracted before. He’d even been wildly in lust a few times. Love? Not really his thing. He did better with like. He was one of those guys who liked women through and through, the way they looked, the way they smelled, the way they walked and talked and dressed and blushed. The way they were all different. He liked taking them out, he liked taking them to bed.
And he liked having his life to himself after it was over.
So why did he have Jillian Logan stuck in his head? He kept remembering that husky laugh of hers, that way she had of staying two steps ahead of him, of keeping him on his toes the way almost nobody did. And those soft little gasps she’d made when they were kissing, her hand curled into the front of his shirt as though she couldn’t get enough. Those soft little gasps that had kept him thinking quite a lot about what was underneath that pretty purple dress of hers. If it had just been him and her somewhere private, he might have started to find out.
But it wasn’t just him and her, that was the problem. She was Jillian Logan, the sister of Robbie Logan of the Children’s Connection scandal. And he was the city editor of the Gazette. Alan had warned him of that going into the wedding, Gil reminded himself. He’d known ahead of time to keep his distance.
He just hadn’t been able to help himself.
So now he had a fine mess on his hands. He was the editor of the paper that had outed Robbie Logan and touched off a media firestorm. Considering how protective Jillian had been over Lisa when Gil had missed the rehearsal, he had a pretty good idea that she was going to be seriously ticked when she found out.
Add to that the fact that he’d told her he was with Blazon Media instead of the paper, which only made it look as though he was trying to hide it. That was far from the case, but how would she know?
Letting out a long breath, Gil drummed his fingers on the arm of his couch. He had to be straight with her, that was all there was to it. If he wanted to see where things between them could go, he had to come clean. He’d take her out to dinner, somewhere with good wine and quiet music and lay it all out for her. She’d be angry at first, maybe—okay, definitely—but once she’d had some time to think about it, there was a good chance she’d get past it. After all, the paper was only doing its job, reporting the facts. The public had a right to know. Gil believed that through and through.
The question was, would Jillian?
She’d never been much good at meditating. Oh, sure, she had all the yoga poses down, but as she eased into the triangle, standing on her living-room carpet, Jillian’s thoughts coalesced like bits of mercury, flowing together in fits and starts.
Until she was thinking of Gil Reynolds once again.
He worked for the Gazette, the paper that had driven Robbie away. Maybe he hadn’t written the articles himself, but as editor he might as well have. And the worst part about it was that he’d lied to her. Lied to her. Blazon Media her ass. He’d only said it because he’d known who she was, and known she’d go off on him if he told her the truth.
Instead, she’d kissed him. She’d stood in the parking lot and glommed onto him like a limpet. And made it totally clear she’d liked it. Forget like, she’d loved it, and he’d known. She remembered the feel of his mouth curving against hers and she suddenly had a new appreciation for the phrase seeing red because she swore she could see the ruddy haze of anger like a fine mist over everything in her view.
A dozen flavors of fury, humiliation, betrayal layered over one another, and underneath, deep underneath lurked a dark, sneaky disappointment. It had felt so right. This was the one that she’d thought was actually going to work, the one that was going to happen the way it did for everyone else, meeting a guy, going out and, who knew, maybe getting involved, maybe even, God forbid, having sex for once in her life. It wasn’t too much to ask for, was it? Was it?
Instead, she’d gotten Gil Reynolds playing his tricky game and probably laughing at her the entire time.
Relax, Jillian reminded herself, taking a deep breath as she changed sides and sank back into the pose. Exercise was supposed to soothe, not give her a chance to get more agitated.
The worst part was that she’d liked him, really liked him. He’d seemed genuinely interested, as though he’d been attracted to her, wanted her. What if he hadn’t been?
What if he’d only been trying to pump her for a story?
And at that thought, all possibility of relaxation flew out the window. Forget yoga, she needed to learn something more violent. Kickboxing, maybe, something where she could hit and kick and…
Release, she reminded herself. Let it go.
The phone burbled. Jillian struggled out of her pose and made it over to the handset. As a social worker, answering the phone was never optional for her.
“Hello?”
“Jillian? Gil Reynolds.”
Let it go? Not likely. “Why, Gil,” she said silkily, “what a coincidence. I was just thinking about you.”
“Great minds,” he said. “Having a good week?”
“All right. How about you?”
“Ah, keeping busy.”
“Oh, I just bet you are,” she said.
He stopped a moment. “Yeah. Well.” He cleared his throat. “I was wondering if you still wanted to get together. How about dinner tomorrow night? I was hoping we could talk.”
“We can talk now.”
“Face-to-face is a lot more fun,” he said. “Come on, let me buy you dinner.”
“How about lunch?” she countered. He was right, face-to-face was a lot more fun, and she couldn’t wait to see his when she dropped the bombshell. “Let’s go somewhere downtown,” she added.
“All right. How about noon at Conroy’s?”
“Great. I’ll meet you there.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” he said.
Not nearly as much as she was, Jillian thought grimly as she hung up the phone.
“Reynolds. My office, five minutes.” Russell Gleason, the Gazette’s publisher, barked the words through Gil’s open door.
“I’ve got—” Gil began but he was already gone. Gil bit back a curse. He was supposed to be leaving for lunch with Jillian, not sitting in a meeting all afternoon. And with Russ, you never knew. The discussion could last five minutes. It could just as easily last an hour and forty-five, depending on how many tangents he wandered off on.
The topic was sales and circulation. Or, more to the point, what Gleason thought they ought to do to editorial to provide him with better sales and circ.
Like controversy.
“I’m just saying, we need stories that sell.”
“Stories that sell?” Gil stared at Gleason. “We’ve just lit a big enough fire under Nash and his cronies that the state’s threatening an audit. What more do you want?”
The publisher tapped his fingers on the black slab of his desk, dissatisfaction coming off him in waves. “That’s politics. That doesn’t sell papers in this day and age. We need something juicier.”
“Politics doesn’t sell papers? This is Portland we’re talking about. People here live and breathe politics. Take a look at your reader surveys.”
“All I know is when you broke the story about that football player’s kid, our newsstand numbers went through the roof.”
Gil bristled. “First of all, I didn’t break that story. I was on vacation when it hit. And if you remember, we had to print a retraction on parts of it. Sloppy researching, sloppy editing and it was just your pure damned good luck that Lisa Sanders didn’t take legal action.” And that he hadn’t lost one of his closest friends over it, Gil added silently.
“There wasn’t anything actionable,” Gleason scoffed, but his eyes flickered.
“Look, Russ, you take care of the business end and let me deal with editorial. Separation of church and state, right?”
“I’m just saying we’ve got stuff going on around here. What about that Logan thing?”
“I’ve got Mark Fetzer on it.”
“So why haven’t I seen any more stories?”
“They have to do something before we can write about it,” Gil reminded him wearily.
“Look at that Weekly Messenger. They run a Logan story on the front page just about every issue.”
“When they’re not writing about Elvis sightings. Russ, for Christ’s sake, the Messenger is a tabloid. They don’t need facts, they print tripe. We’re Portland’s primary newspaper. We’ve got a responsibility.”
“Yeah, to our advertisers and shareholders. I want Logans,” Gleason said obstinately. “That family sells newspapers. Besides, it’s a public service. With all the fiascos that clinic has had, it should be shut down.”
“Funny, the state and federal regulators don’t agree with you.”
“Yeah, well, our state senator does.”
“Showboating.” Gil dismissed it. “Look, it’s not our role. Our role is to support the news.”
“Our role is to support our shareholders,” Gleason countered.
“Circulation was just fine the last time I checked. And ad sales. In fact, I seem to remember cutting a story last week because the ad count ran over. You do what you do well, Russ, and leave me to what I do well. Look—” Gil checked his watch “—can we get back on this in the afternoon? I’ve got a lunch meeting.”
“Skip your lunch meeting. Go ask Nash what he thinks about a babynapper running a day care center. Better yet, go interview a Logan.”
Gil snorted and rose. “Yeah, sure, Russ. I’ll get right on that.”
She had to give it to him, he’d chosen well. It was a quiet little restaurant in the Pearl District. Once, the area had been home to light industry, auto-repair garages and the like. No, it had become fashionable, the welding shops and upholstery businesses supplanted by galleries and expensive boutiques, hair salons and intimate restaurants whose tabs rose in indirect proportion to the number of tables.
Gil hadn’t chosen one of the chichi ones, though, but a modest little pub that might well have been there the whole time. It was quiet and only half full. Privacy, Jillian thought as she glanced at her watch. They’d be able to have their conversation without having to shout to be heard. Which was fine with her. Scenes had never been her thing. She wanted answers. She wanted to know why the Gazette had gone after Robbie. She wanted to know why Gil had lied. And she’d find out.
Provided he ever bothered to show up.
Stifling impatience, she took a sip of water and set the glass precisely back in its damp ring. She’d arrived her habitual five minutes early. Now fifteen more had gone by and she itched to check voice mail, to drag out her PDA, do something productive with the time. But she didn’t. She had a personal rule about waving electronics around in restaurants. Then again, if Gil didn’t show up soon, she might just break that rule.
Or walk out entirely.
When she glanced over to the door again, though, he was there. And for a moment, her thoughts scattered. For a moment, she was back in the church at the head of the aisle and he was watching her every step. Except this time around, she was the one watching. The man had presence, she’d give him that. There was something absolutely riveting about him. She wasn’t the only one who thought so; she saw a waitress turn to stare in his wake.
Jillian just gazed, unmoving, until he was standing beside the table, looking down at her.
“Hello,” he said. She hated the fact that her pulse stuttered. He hesitated a moment, long enough that, for a breathless instant, she wondered if he was going to lean down and kiss her.
But he didn’t. Instead, he sat. “Sorry I’m late. My boss called me in just as I was leaving.”
“Trouble?”
His grin flashed, quick and white. “No more than usual.”
Just looking at him made her remember the feel of his mouth on hers, the taste of him, the intimacy of that dark, male flavor. And the man knew how to kiss, knew how to use that clever, clever mouth to turn a woman to mush.
Not her, not anymore, she reminded herself grimly.
“So how was the rest of your weekend? Breakfast with your brother, right?”
“Good memory,” she said.
“Where’d you go?”
“His house. His wife’s pregnant and on bed rest, so I brought the breakfast. We mostly just sat outside, drank coffee. And read the paper,” she added, watching him closely. “After all, it wouldn’t be Sunday without the paper, would it?”
“No, indeed. Are you a big newspaper fan?” he asked, just a touch of care in his words.
“Oh, about like average. I like to know what’s going on in town. Of course, I like it from a reputable paper, not a scandal rag.”
“Don’t like reading about Brangelina and space aliens?” He looked amused.
“Don’t like seeing people’s reputations trashed. Some of these reporters, they’re like snipers taking potshots from deep cover. They stay nice and safe while they destroy innocent people’s lives. And the editors just let them do it.”
“Not everybody who winds up in the paper is innocent.”
“And not every story written is accurate. Of course, the problem is that the jazzy stories show up on page one and the retractions show up on the bottom corner of page thirty-eight.”
“News sells.”
“Wrecking people’s lives sells,” she countered.
Gil leaned forward. “So did Woodward and Bernstein destroy lives or uncover corruption in government?”
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/kristin-hardy/always-a-bridesmaid/) 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.