Tears stung her eyes.
She could be a sucker. Any man could play the prince for twenty-four hours. Her ex-husband had pulled it off for several months, actually, before the two years of misery had begun. This Vegas guy was being charming for one meal. Helen wasn’t going to get all mushy because some man she’d frolicked with in a king-size bed was being charming for one meal.
She ignored the sparkle of the ring on her finger as she grabbed a crystal goblet and chugged orange juice like it was water from a canteen during a twelve-mile road march.
Better. She plunked the empty goblet down and lifted a silver dome. The heavenly scent of bacon made her mouth water. She took one bite before reaching for the carafe of coffee. It would help her headache and keep her awake for the eighteen-hour drive that lay ahead of her. She held the strip of bacon between her teeth, so she could use two hands to pour.
“Good morning, beautiful.”
That deep bass—Helen whirled around, cup in one hand, carafe in the other, bacon dangling from her teeth.
Good God, he was gorgeous.
I slept with that?
Mr. Cross had short, thick, black hair, yet his eyes were an arresting, brilliant blue. He leaned more toward rugged than pretty, with the great bone structure that could sell expensive watches or yachts in a magazine for men who wanted to be more manly. But no—it wasn’t that rugged handsomeness that would make men want to be like him. It was the way he carried himself, the way he stood before her with only a towel wrapped around his waist, unselfconscious despite being half-naked, that really knocked her out. Confidence was sexy to her. A man with an athletic body and a handsome face who seemed in charge, in control—and comfortable to be so—was sexy as hell.
I slept with that!
Well, damn, she was impressed with herself.
He smiled at her, a real smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle and revealed some perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. Where had she found this man?
She didn’t realize she was smiling back as he walked across the room toward her—confidently, of course—until he took the dangling strip of bacon from her mouth. Her smile faded as she looked into those blue eyes. He was really looking at her. Only her. All his attention was on her.
“Good morning,” he said again. He tossed the bacon onto the table, slid his arms around her and kissed her.
She melted instantly, going completely boneless in some kind of Pavlovian response that required no conscious thought at all. The cup and saucer slid from her fingers to hit the floor with a crash, the carafe landed with a thud in the tangled train of sheets, but she wouldn’t fall, not as long as he held her in his strong arms. She made a little sound, a whimper of longing, a pant of excitement, and he broke off the kiss to cup the back of her head in his hand and whisper over her lips. “I thought I dreamed you. You’re real.”
They stared at each other a moment, then he was kissing her again and she couldn’t keep her eyes open. She couldn’t keep any thought in her head, except to know she could surrender, she could lose herself and let go, and she’d be safe and happy and a part of him. She was glad when his hands untucked the sheet, grateful when he nudged her back toward the couch, where they fell together as they pushed yards of sheets and one plush towel out of their way. She was greedy to touch him once more, to feel again all that strength and power and male grace. She wanted it all, forever.
Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?
I do.
His body filled hers completely, and the whole world became just the two of them and the way they felt, the way they made each other feel, the way they moved together. They whispered their amazement to each other in syllables that never became full words—ah, oh, ess—and in words that never became sentences—my, you, there. They climaxed together, then lay still, catching their breaths in silence.
I now pronounce you man and wife.
Mrs. Cross started to cry.
The woman beneath him started to laugh—or at least for a second, Tom thought she was laughing, because they’d laughed together last night.
This was different.
“Helen?”
She had one hand over her eyes, her ring hand. The sight of that diamond and gold band choked him up, too, a sob of gratitude sticking in his throat, gratitude that he’d finally met the woman he’d dreamed of. His wife. His wife.
His wife was crying.
“Hey, Helen. What’s going on?” His voice came out a little more husky than normal, emotion making his throat tight, because she was wonderful, and he didn’t want this wonderful woman to be upset. About anything. Ever.
She took in a shivery breath, one he felt through her whole body and his, joined as they were. He kissed her hand and she lifted it away. Her eyes were closed and her lashes were wet, although no tears had spilled over. He brushed her hair away from her cheek, savoring their physical closeness, skin against skin, and he waited. His wife often paused before speaking, but she always answered him. He loved that about her. He would never have to cajole, beg or plead with her to talk to him. She was the last woman in the world who’d resort to giving him the silent treatment.
Helen opened her eyes, those beautiful warm brown eyes, and looked at him the way she’d been looking at him since their eyes had first met across a crowded casino.
“I...” She cleared her throat.
He waited.
“I can’t believe I did this.”
“This?” He raised one eyebrow as he looked down at her. “This seems to be what happens whenever we’re in the same room. We’ve been doing this all night.”
He smiled gently at Mrs. Tom Cross. It was an emotional morning. Crying was a normal reaction at weddings. He kissed the corner of her eye before a tear of joy could slip away.
The slight salt on his lips did something to him. To his heart. He felt it expand, like a lion stretching in the sun, full and satisfied. Content—he felt supremely content, heading into the rest of his life as a married man.
“All night?” She looked away, and pressed her fingertips into her forehead, like someone trying to think hard. “Yes, of course we have.”
“Of course,” he echoed her, and shifted some of his weight off her. “It was our wedding night.”
She shielded her eyes with her hand as if looking at him was as painful as looking into the sun. “It really was?”
He frowned. She hadn’t meant that to sound like a question, surely.
She held her hand out a little way to look at her wedding ring. “This is really...real?”
Another emotion tried to crawl up the back of his throat, threatening his contentment. He swallowed it down and kissed the tip of her nose. “Is that question really real?”
She didn’t smile.
He suddenly couldn’t, either. “You’re serious. You don’t remember?”
She looked away again, concentrating, but after a moment, she shook her head. “No.”
Alarm tried to choke him, but he beat it down. This was temporary. They’d