The memory made him smile. He hadn’t thought of Martha Jean Steenburger in years, but he could picture her now, just as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.
Martha Jean, home for the summer after her freshman year at college, somehow much, much older than her eighteen years and as gloriously endowed as any sixteen-yearold boy stumbling into manhood could imagine. Martha Jean, eyeing him with interest, making him blush as she took in the height and muscle he’d added since she’d last seen him. She’d flashed him a hundred-watt smile across the barbecue pit at the Steenburgers’ July Fourth party and David had gulped hard, then followed her swaying, denim-clad backside to the calf barn and up into the hayloft, where he’d nervously tried to plant a kiss on her parted lips.
“But will you respect me in the morning?” Martha Jean had said with a straight face, and when he’d managed to stutter out that of course he would, she’d chortled in a way that had made him feel dumb as well as horny and then she’d tumbled him back into the hay and introduced him to paradise.
Ah, but the third lie... The dark scowl crept over David’s face again. It, too, was supposed to be strictly male, but any man over the age of puberty knew that women told it just as often and with devastating effect, because when a woman said, “Trust me,” it had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with love. That was what made it the most damnable falsehood. For all he knew, it had started as a whisper made by a ravishing Eve to a defenseless Adam, or a promise breathed in the ear of Samson by Delilah. It might even have been the last vow made by Guinevere to Arthur.
Trust me.
How many males had done just that, over the centuries? Millions, probably—including David.
“Well, they probably mean it, when they say it,” a fraternity brother had once told him. “Something about the female of the species, you know what I mean?”
It was as good an explanation as any, David figured. And all it took was one trip through the marriage mill for a man to learn that when a woman said a man could trust her, what it really meant was that he’d be a fool if he did. It was a hard lesson to learn, but he’d learned it.
Damn right, he had.
Put in the most basic terms, marriage was a joke.
Not that he’d given up on women. Taken at face value, he liked them still. What man wouldn’t? There was nothing as pleasurable as sharing your bed and your life with a beautiful woman for a few weeks, even a few months, but when the time came to end a relationship, that was it. He wanted no tears, no regrets, no recriminations. Women didn’t fault him for his attitude, either. David figured it was because he was completely up-front about his intentions, or his lack of them. He wasn’t a man who made promises, not of forever-after or anything even approximating it, but he’d yet to meet a woman who’d walked away after he’d shown interest in her.
Jack Russell, one of his law partners, said it was because women saw David as an irresistible challenge. He said, too, that the day would come when David changed his mind. A wife, according to Jack, had a civilizing influence on a man. She’d run your home, plan your parties, help entertain your clients and generally get your life in hand. David agreed that that was probably true, but a good secretary and an inventive caterer could do the same things, and you didn’t have to wonder what day of the week they’d turn your life upside down.
Love, if it even existed, was too dependent on men trusting women and women trusting men. It sounded good but it just didn’t work...and wasn’t that a hell of a thing to be brooding over right now?
David sighed, stretched his legs out as best he could, and crossed his booted ankles.
Jet lag, that was his problem, otherwise why would he be thinking such stuff? The kids standing at the altar today deserved the benefit of the doubt. Not even he was jaundiced enough to be convinced this bride would do a Jekyll and Hyde after the honeymoon ended. The girl was the daughter of an old friend. David had watched her develop from a cute kid with braces on her teeth to charming young womanhood...and he’d watched her father and mother end up in divorce court. In fact, he’d represented Chase in the divorce.
There was just no getting away from it. Marriage was an unnatural state, devised by the female of the species to suit her own purposes, and—
Bang!
What was that?
David sat up straight and swung around. The church doors had flown open; the breeze had caught them and slammed them against the walls.
A woman stood silhouetted in the late afternoon sun. A buzz of speculation swept up and down the aisles.
“Who’s that?” the weeper beside him hissed to her husband. “Why doesn’t she sit down? Why doesn’t someone shut those doors?”
Why, indeed? David sighed, got to his feet and made his way to the rear of the church. This was going to be his day for charitable works. Annie had kissed him hello and whispered that she’d seated him with a special friend of hers.
“She’s no one for you to fool around with, David,” she’d said with a teasing smile. “Her name is Stephanie Willingham, and she’s a widow. Be nice to her, okay?”
Well, why not? He’d been hard on the old lady outside the church but he’d make up for it by being nice to this one. He’d chat politely with the widow Willingham, maybe even waltz her once around the room, and then he’d cut out, maybe give Jessica or Helena a call before he flew back to D.C. On the other hand, he might just head home early. He had some briefs to read before tomorrow.
The woman who’d caused the commotion nodded her thanks. She was the bride’s aunt; he’d met her a couple of times. She was a model, and probably accustomed to making theatrical entrances. He gave her a polite nod as she made her way past him.
David shut the doors, turned—and found himself looking straight at the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
She was seated in the last pew, as he had been, but on the opposite side—the groom’s side—of the church. Her face was triangular, almost catlike in its delicacy; her cheekbones were high and pronounced. Her eyes were brown, her nose was straight and classic and her mouth was a soft, coral bow that hinted at endless pleasures. Her hair was the color of dark chocolate and she wore it drawn back from her face in an unadorned knot.
With heart-stopping swiftness, David found himself wondering what it would be like to take out the pins that held those silken strands and let her hair tumble into his hands.
The image was simple, but it sent a jolt of desire sizzling through his blood. He felt himself turn hard as stone.
Damn, he thought in surprise, and at that instant, the woman’s eyes met his.
Her gaze was sharp and cold. It seemed to assess him, slice through the veneer afforded him by his custom-made suit and dissect his thoughts.
Hell, he thought, could she tell what had happened to him? It wasn’t possible. His anatomy was behaving as if it had a will of its own, but there was no way for her to know...
But she did. She knew. He was sure of it, even though her eyes never left his. Nothing else could explain the flush that rose in her face, or the contemptuous expression that swept over it just before she turned away.
For what seemed an eternity, David remained frozen. He couldn’t believe he’d had such a stupid reaction to the sight of a stranger, couldn’t recall a woman looking at him with such disdain.
Primal desire gave way to equally primal rage.
He saw himself walking to where she sat, sliding into the empty seat beside her and telling her that he wouldn’t have her on a bet—or better still, he could tell her that she was right, just looking at her had made him want to take her to bed, and what did she intend to do about it?
But the rules of a civilized society prevailed.
He