The Sometime Bride Read online

Mike’s chest wall relaxed a notch. Of course he was the innkeeper. Who on earth else could he have been?

  “I trust,” Mr. Gilpatrick said, directing his question at Mike, “you and Ms. St. John are enjoying your stay here?”

  Mike stepped over and drew a tight arm around Carrie’s shoulders. “Delightful place. You should be very proud of what you’ve done with it. You’ve only been in business for about a year now, isn’t that right?”

  Gilpatrick’s gray eyes warmed in appreciation. “I see Carrie’s not the only one with an aptitude for doing her homework.”

  Mike pulled Carrie in a little tighter, her side heating his skin, even through his clothing. “She’s quite the student, my Carrie,” Mike said, caressing her shoulder.

  Carrie squirmed in his grip, as his fire spiked through her. It started at his fingertips, where they lightly massaged and caressed her bare shoulder, ricocheted to her breastbone, then sunk low in her belly. Boy, was she done for, Carrie thought, realizing she’d missed something in the conversation and that both Charles and Mike now had their expected gazes turned on hers.

  “Honey?” Mike asked, leaning over, his whisky whisper tickling her ear.

  Carrie blanched, suddenly light-headed. “Yeah, sure. That’s fine,” she reported, sinking into her chair beneath the two men’s congenial laughter.

  “The Merlot will be fine, Charles,” Mike said. “Thanks so much for the offer, and coming over to introduce yourself.”

  “The pleasure’s all mine,” Charles said, departing with a nod of his head.

  Carrie picked up her water glass and drained most of it while Mike sat across from her. “What was so funny?” she asked, knowing she’d embarrass herself by asking, but fearing it would be worse for her still if she never even knew.

  Mike’s smile broadened over his own water glass. “Charles had offered a complimentary bottle of Virginia wine, or in your case, since you’re such a special guest -- his entire wine cellar, to which you --”

  Carrie rested her near-empty water glass against the side of her flaming cheek. “Indicated I’d take the whole wine cellar.”

  “More or less,” Mike replied with a grin. “But, no worries, I saved our new friend from bankruptcy by agreeing to take him up on his earlier offer of a Merlot instead.”

  “I see,” said Carrie, setting down her glass.

  A wine steward appeared and display a Norton Vineyard label before Mike. “Excellent year,” Mike said. “Believe that one was an award winner, wasn’t it?”

  Their server nodded solemnly and uncorked the bottle with white gloved hands. After a brief wine tasting interlude, the beverage was poured and Mike and Carrie left alone to once again confront each other in peace.

  “Mind telling me why we are considered such special guests in this place?” Mike asked, lifting his glass.

  “Mind telling me how you know so much about Virginia wines?”

  Mike lightly swirled his glass and surveyed the softly shadowed face of the woman in front of him. Elegant, sophisticated, and, if she was getting special treatment from innkeepers, most likely rich.In light of all that, Mike somehow didn’t think telling Carrie he’d spent his high school summers working the vineyards would sound all that impressive.

  “Let’s just say,” Mike said, lightly clinking her glass. “I’m a man of impeccable taste.”

  “To impeccable taste,” Carrie said, raising her wine to her lips.

  “Seriously, Carrie,” Mike said, once they’d both set their glasses back on the table. “Why is it that we, or rather you, merit such special treatment here?”

  Carrie looked at him innocently and shrugged, picking up her menu.

  Mike reached out and lowered the laminated page, so he could look in her eyes. “Are you...? You’re not...?”

  “What?” she asked, her eyes alighting with amusement. “Somebody famous?”

  Mike leaned in just a tiny bit more. “We-ell?” he asked, drawing out the word in a blood-pounding way as sea green eyes washed all over her.

  Carrie laid down her menu and gripped the table edge to get her bearings. “Nope. Nobody famous, if you must know. Just your regular old girl from Virginia. Hope that doesn’t disappoint too much.”

  Uh, uh. Carrie St. John had done nothing to disappointment him yet, and she wasn’t going to start now. Her eyes were fanning wide, half playful half daring. The deepest chocolate brown, even darker by candlelight than they’d appeared in the light of day. And everything about her seemed to be drawing Mike closer. Even as he willed himself to remain stoic in his chair.

  But instead of staying put, Mike found himself reaching across the table. Wrapping her satiny shoulders in his trembling grip, leaning his mouth in toward hers as the moonlight and the table and the milling voices of others all melted away.

  Carrie titled her chin in expectation, but didn’t break away. Rather than pause she seemed susceptible to the same raging pull that had engulfed Mike’s senses. Her eyes lingered tantalizingly on his own -- beckoning, promising. She let out a little gasp, lightly moistening her lips.

  “Ready to order?” the maître d’ inquired, jackknifing the air between them.

  “Not on your life,” Mike said, slamming down his napkin.

  ****

  Chapter Six

  “Excuse me,” Carrie said, abruptly pushing back her chair. “I’m going to powder my nose.”

  Thank God, Carrie could hear herself thinking. Thank God, thank God, thank God! If that maître d’ hadn’t interrupted just in the nick of time, who knows what would have happened?

  Carrie knew exactly.

  She pushed her way into the ladies room and made a beeline for the faucet, where she ran the water cold.

  Get a grip, Carrie, she warned herself sternly, dousing some paper towels and dabbing them at her neckline and brow. Water streamed from her neck to cleavage, reminding her of the effect Mike Davis had inspired at the pool. What was it with this man and water! Every time Carrie thought of him...

  Carrie looked up into the mirror and found her face a heated rash.

  And this was supposed to make things all better? Getting tangled up with someone new when her heart hadn’t even had half a chance to heal was going to somehow alleviate the ache in her life?

  Carrie shook her head at the woman in the mirror. Plain old girl from Virginia was right. To look at her now, no one would ever suspect her worldly sophistication. They’d liken her, in fact, to some high school hayseed, fallen right off the turnip truck.

  Mike sat at the table dumbfounded. This had to be the longest nose-powdering in history, he thought, staring down at his and Carrie’s lukewarm entrees.

  She’d agreed to let him place the orders, but then had bolted like a minnow in the path of a Man-o-ray.

  Mike wracked his brain for something -- anything -- he could have done wrong, but all he came up with was that “almost” kiss. Now, if he had kissed her and botched it miserably, he would have understood her wanting to take flight. But he hadn’t even gotten his chance. And, no matter what excuses she planned to offer to the contrary -- and Mike was quite certain that’s what she was doing at the moment, concocting excuses -- there’d been that unmistakable look in her eye that said she’d wanted him to take it.

  Mike had been with plenty of women, enough of them to know when one wanted kissing and wanted it badly. Was it really possible all his years of training could fail him now?

  Mike stood from the table, thinking he should go check on her. As far as he knew, Carrie didn’t own a black Jaguar to escape in, but Mike supposed it was possible that Carrie could decide to run out on him just as Alexia had.

  Mike was just rounding the corner where trellised vines climbed heavenward when he ran smack into Carrie.

  “I was just coming to check on you,” he said, when she halted in surprise.

  “Sorry,” she said, with a trembling smile. “I had to collect myself.”

  “You doing alright?” Mike asked with concern.
/>   Carrie looked at him then pursed her lips to keep them steady.

  “Carrie?”

  Her eyes fell to the ground as she slowly shook her head. “It’s no use, Mike,” she said, her voice cracking up. “This whole charade is --”

  “Who says it’s all a charade?” Mike asked, stepping forward and taking her by the elbows.

  “Mike,” she said, looking up, and trying her damndest to look tough. Be in control. But Mike could see Carrie St. John was no more in control of her own racing heart than he was of his. “This thing, this arrangement, simply isn’t going to work.”

  “Says who?” he asked, scooting in just a little bit closer as a couple of departing diners scooted around them on the pathway. “Did you find that on some literature in the ladies’?”

  Carrie heaved a sigh without smiling, but he could tell she was loosening up.

  “Or perhaps,” he said, sliding his arms around her waist and tugging her in to his rock solid frame. “You found something disparaging written about me on the bathroom walls?”

  Carrie looked up at the impossible man and shook her head, trying to deflect the comfort of his humor, trying to make herself believe that nothing Mike Davis could say could possibly make things seem any better.

  Mike reached out and tilted her chin. “None of it’s true, Carrie,” he said, his mouth closing in. “Except for maybe the part about me being a good time...”

  Carrie’s knees went weak at that thought, as his overpoweringly male scent washed over her in ocean waves.

  Trying to fight her natural attraction to Mike Davis, she decided, was a losing battle.

  And, when he claimed her mouth with his, she knew it wasn’t only battles they were talking. They were playing for the highest stakes. Every ounce of her hurting interior was at war with what her body was doing. Revealing in, encouraging, his bittersweet, luxurious kisses. Carrie wasn’t even sure it was legal to kiss that well. Especially in the state of Virginia. Where exactly was that turnip truck, anyway?, Carrie wondered, feeling herself spiral further and further away into the magic of Mike’s embrace.

  “Carrie,” Mike said, pulling back, “maybe we ought to find someplace more private...”

  A fanning burn in her throat prevented her from answering. She was hot and tipsy, his raged fire still tearing through her like the strongest scotch whiskey. And this was a drink she wanted straight up. No ice.

  Mike bucked as the icy chill raced through his sports coat and centered in on his spin.

  “Oh! Oh, my goodness!” the befuddled voice called behind him as a hard metallic clank echoed from somewhere near his feet. Cold water sloshed forward, followed by a parade of ice cubes. Mike whirled to find the red-faced young woman who’d just poured her champagne bucket down his back.

  “Oh, gracious!” she continued to babble, kneeling to scoop the miraculously intact bottle off champagne of the brick walk. “I’m so sorry! Must have run straight into --”

  From just over his shoulder, a woman erupted in raucous laughter.

  Mike spun to find Carrie cupping a hand over her mouth as her whole upper body quaked with mirth.

  If only he’d known what she’d been thinking! What was it about Mike Davis, Carrie wondered, that always seem to attract him to water? Or, vice versa, Carrie thought, exploding once again in giggles.

  Mike ignored the women at his feet, busily scooping ice cubes back into her silver bucket, and kept a watchful eye on Carrie as he stealthily removed his dripping sports coat and shook it out at arm’s length.

  “Feeling all better, I see,” he said, cocking one eyebrow, and looking -- what?, Carried wondered -- amused at her amusement?

  “Sir, I --”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Mike said, nearly deaf to the stranger’s apologies, as he stooped to gather ice cubes and toss the cleaner ones back into the bucket. “Accidents happen." But what had happened between him and Carrie just now hadn’t been an accident at all. For the briefest moment, she’d been all his. And it had been wonderful. So wonderful he’d been itching to continue things on an even more intimate level back in his room. And now -- this.

  Finally, their embarrassed interloper straightened and made off with her champagne. Carrie, Mike noticed, still looked as if she was going to burst into hysterics at any moment.

  “I --” she sputtered a laugh, then stopped and collected herself. “I am feeling much better, thank you. But you’re -- all wet...”

  “Nothing that I haven’t been before,” he assured her, holding up his jacket to examine it in the moon light. “I’m sure my clothing and I will survive.”

  To her embarrassment, Carrie’s stomach growled loudly.

  “Still hungry?” Mike asked, feeling for the ice cube that had wedged itself between his belt and waistband at the small of his back and plucking it free.

  Carrie giggled again, as he offered it as further proof of his ordeal.

  Carrie lifted the ice cube from his palm and hurled it into the darkness. “Starved. But, how about you? Don’t you think you’d better, uh...change?”

  “Change?" Mike grinned. “Thought you were starting to like me just the way I am.”

  Carrie felt herself color from head to toe. “You, Mike Davis, are --”

  He cocked one eyebrow and waited.

  “-- a very nice man,” she finished, feeling renewed heat in her cheeks.

  Mike chuckled and brought a tender hand to her face. “Ah, Carrie. Yes. And you, my dear, are very -- sweet.”

  Mike leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the forehead, something akin to affection sparkling in his eyes. No man had ever looked at Carrie like that before. With hunger, anticipation, yes. But this was a different sort of appreciation altogether, and it warmed her through in through.

  “Want to see if dinner’s still on the table?” he asked, taking her hand.

  “Great idea,” Carrie said, wondering what on earth was happening to her. This wasn’t love. At least, not like she’d ever known it. Carrie St. John was falling “in like” with a man who looked like a god, and neither her heart nor her head knew precisely what make of that.

  ****

  Chapter Seven

  Mike draped his still damp-clothing over the wooden hangers he’d suspended from the shower bar. All in all, things hadn’t gone badly. Even if he had taken a bath, in a manner of speaking, the look on Carrie’s face had been worth every ounce of icy discomfort. Somehow, Mike suspected, Carrie didn’t get the opportunity for laughs often. Though laughter suited her beautifully. So well, in fact, Mike was going to make it his personal ambition to ensure she wore it more often.

  Mike puzzled at his instant attraction to the woman he’d met a day ago. Yet, somehow, when he looked in her deep browns eyes, he had the notion he’d known her a lifetime.

  Now, he was getting sappy, Mike thought, sitting down on the bed to tug off his socks. Thinking that things between him and Carrie had, in some way, been preordained. Just who did he think he was kidding? Mike’s judgment in the past regarding women had left much to be desired. And yet, what he desired more than anything was a chance to prove -- to himself and Carrie -- that perhaps this time his instincts were dead on.

  There was something about her that got to him on more than just a physical level. He liked Carrie. Honestly enjoyed spending time with her. And, looking back, Mike wasn’t sure he could make that unequivocal statement about any of the previous women in his life. Up until now, Mike had always looked at romance as a love-hate proposition. The woman you loved was supposed to drive you mad, wasn’t she? Feminine wiles were supposed to be mysterious, impossible to understand. And, up until now, Mike hadn’t given one iota whether he’d understood them or not. Wooing women was something Mike had experience in. Plenty. But befriending them? That was a totally new concept altogether. And a woman who could prove both a lover and a friend...?

  Mike fell back on the bed and pulled a fluffy pillow over his head. Maybe once he got down to the Caymans he wouldn’t h
ave to deal with such bubble-headed notions. A woman as a friend! Hoo! Who in Hades did he think he was fooling?

  Carrie fluffed the pillow and repositioned it beneath her elbow, making believe she was reading the magazine. But truth be known, she’d been staring down at the same article on backyard decorating for the past twenty minutes and hadn’t absorbed a thing.

  The rest of the evening had gone like a charm. The two of them swapping humorous stories over their second bottle of complimentary Merlot. Though he’d had nothing to do with it personally, the innkeeper had been quite embarrassed by Mike’s earlier run-in with the champagne bucket and had insisted on more wine as an apology.

  Mike had accepted graciously, asking if it would be too much trouble to sample a different vintage, a sweet Virginia red perhaps, as they’d already moved on to dessert.

  It still struck Carrie as odd that a realtor knew so much about wine. Not that he didn’t have a right to be a connoisseur if he wanted. It was just that Carrie couldn’t help the niggling sensation that something about Mike didn’t add up.

  He seemed so out of character as a realtor. And yet, if he professed that’s what he did, what gave her reason to doubt him? Perhaps it was merely her own guilt seeping through. Guilt over not being completely honest with him about who she was or what she did. Though she’d informed him of the generalities, she’d very purposely ignored the particulars.

  Mike seemed to like her so much, just a she was -- the homespun girl from Virginia. And she, Carrie admitted truthfully, laying a palm over her fluttering heart, had been very much been enjoying his down-to-earth manly attentions. Finding out her net worth, would surely change how he looked at her. And, at thirty-three, Carrie St. John had tired of being looked at as nothing more than a financial opportunity. Both of her boyfriends thus far, even the younger one in college, had seemed to sense she was going places and had wanted to latch onto her coat tails. At least, temporarily.