Christine Bell - A Valentine from Harlequin: Six Degrees of Romance

“Me, too.” He glanced at her and grinned in a way that made her flush.

“What I’m trying to say is…” A highway exit sign flashed by her. “Where are we?”

“Going for a drive.”

“I thought we’d just go around the block.”

“You thought wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m kidnapping you,” he said calmly, checking his rearview as he merged into the highway traffic.

She turned to stare at his profile, looking for the smirk, waiting for his laugh and a “gotcha.” His face seemed perfectly serious.

Since he didn’t laugh, she did. “And why are you kidnapping me?”

“The usual reason.”

She played along, enjoying the game. “Ransom?”

He nodded.

“But you have tons more money than I do.”

“I’m not after money.”

“You’re not.” Her chest started to feel tight, squeezing her lungs so she felt breathless. A semi roared by and she jumped. “What are you after?”

He shot her a quick glance, but still there was no joking in it, only a tenderness that made her quiver, and a heat that made her blush. “Your heart.”

“My heart.” She sounded like a ninny repeating everything he said in this stupid fashion, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.

“That’s right. You give me your heart and I’ll take you back home.”

For a long moment she just stared at his profile, its clean-shaven angles and planes, the straight blade of his nose, the determined chin. Tears blurred her vision as she accepted the truth. She’d never stopped loving him. She took a deep breath. “You already have it,” she said in a husky voice.

He nodded like a satisfied salesman who’d just closed a big deal. “I thought so.”

She laughed helplessly. “You can take me home now.”

He shook his head. “I’ve got my reputation as a kidnapper to consider. If I take you home now, I’ll look like a wimp. Besides, I can’t just take your word for it. I need proof.”

She opened her mouth to argue, then shut it again, realizing she’d been just as irrational when she’d wanted proof he didn’t sleep with another woman. Their future together wasn’t just about love, it was about trust. Her breathlessness was back—if anything it was worse. “What kind of proof?”

“Your signature on a marriage license ought to do it.”

“Marriage? But you said—last night you said—”

“Last night I said goodbye.” He pulled over onto the shoulder and turned to her. “I meant what I said. I wanted to put a new memory over the old one, but I also needed to know whether you still loved me.”

“And what did you find out?”

“You wouldn’t have gone to bed with me last night if you weren’t still in love with me.” He reached forward and took her chin in his hand. “Last night wasn’t just sex. Was it?”

She shook her head.

“We were making love.” She didn’t nod, but her tearing eyes must have spoken for her. “I love you, Charlotte. But we’re at a crossroads, quite literally.” He smiled at her and pointed to the highway exit ahead. “I can take that exit and have you back home in half an hour and we’ll say goodbye.”

“Or?”

“Or you trust me with your heart. Pay the ransom and spend your life with me.”

His logic was a little faulty, but she didn’t call him on it. Absently, she rubbed the ring finger of her left hand where his engagement ring used to sit. “You mean you want to get engaged again?”

“Oh, no. I’m not being a chump twice. I made an appointment at city hall. We get married today.”

“But I…” She glanced down at her sweats, thought of the designer wedding dress she’d never wear, the 200 invitations she’d never address, the relatives and business associates she wouldn’t dance with at her wedding, the lunches, dinners, and brunches she wouldn’t eat, the thank-you notes she’d never write—and it was like an elephant stepping off her chest.

She gazed into those beautiful gray eyes, drawn as always by the streaks of gold. Who needed a designer dress? She grinned right back at him, and threw herself into his arms. “I’m in.”

And at that moment, as her pulse pounded, her heart felt so light that it might indeed float over to lodge in John’s chest for safekeeping. 

Charlotte winced as an inebriated party-goer stepped on her foot, but she kept moving determinedly toward the doors that led to the balcony. The Duncans would be delighted with their party; it was clearly the event of the season, and their daughter had been successfully launched into society.

Unfortunately, the noise, the heat, and the crowd combined with Charlotte’s pounding headache to make her want to escape for a breath of fresh air. Reaching the balcony doors, she opened them to find two people engaged in a passionate kiss.

“I’m sorry.” The words escaped her mouth before she realized it would have been better to make an exit without being noticed. The couple jumped apart.

Charlotte felt the blood drain from her face as she stared at her fiancé. “John! I thought you were dead!”

Seeing her own horrified fascination mirrored on his face, she groped for the nearest object—anything solid enough to keep her from keeling over—and found herself grasping the edge of one of the spindly wrought-iron tables scattered the length of the balcony.

Clearly, he hadn’t heard the sound of the balcony doors opening, which wasn’t surprising, given the amount of heavy breathing he’d been enjoying. As for noticing a third party had arrived, he’d only had eyes—not to mention lips and hands!—for the dimpled blond pressed so snugly against him that, for one briefly hysterical second, Charlotte wondered if their bodies were held together by a strip of Velcro.

Tearing himself free, he spun around and squinted disbelievingly into the light blinding him from the room behind Charlotte, the winsome brown eyes she’d once thought reminded her of an eager puppy seeming now more appropriately likened to a shortsighted troll. “Charlie? Is that you?”

“Who else?” she said, rallying her pride. “Unless, of course, false rumors of your death have been broadcast to a host of other fiancées, too?”

He opened his mouth to reply, then apparently finding himself completely at a loss, snapped it closed again. Of the two of them, he, it appeared, was vastly more taken aback. Just as well, Charlotte decided. There was nothing like the element of surprise to startle a man of limited wit into spilling out the truth—and John, she belatedly realized, didn’t have much to offer in the way of sparkling intellect.

“Fiancée?” Dimples adjusted her cleavage, pulled the neckline of her dress back where it belonged, and fixed him in a reproachful stare. “I’m the one wearing your ring, so what’s she talking about, Johnnie?”

“Nothing,” he said, pointing her firmly toward the party taking place beyond the club’s elegant French doors. “It’s a joke in very bad taste that I don’t expect a lady of your breeding to appreciate. Go inside, precious, and leave me to deal with it.”

“It?” Charlotte mocked, once they were alone. “Is that what I’ve been reduced to in your estimation, John? A tasteless, inconvenient ‘it’?”

“A figure of speech only,” he shot back irritably. “Your problem, Charlie, is that you take every word coming out of a man’s mouth literally.”

“Should I interpret that to mean you had something other than wedded bliss in mind when you proposed to me, six months ago in Barbados?”

Growing more rattled by the moment, he went on the offensive. “Look,” he huffed, “this party wasn’t arranged by that outfit you work for, so I don’t know how you managed to wangle an invitation to an upscale affair far beyond what you’re used to, but I can tell you this: If you think bulldozing your way in here and making a scene is going to accomplish any sort of positive outcome, you’re sadly mistaken. I will not be coerced into resurrecting what can only be described as a moment of madness. Holiday romances aren’t designed to last, as any fool can tell you.”

“You’re right.”

“Glad you agree.” He swiped one palm against the other, as if he’d found something downright nasty crawling over his hand, and straightened his black bow tie. “So may we please forget Barbados ever happened, and simply go our separate ways?”

“No, we may not,” she said. “I’m not quite finished with you yet.”

He flung her an outraged glare. “Don’t be difficult, Charlie. We are finished. Not that we ever really got started. But the woman I fully intend to marry is waiting for me in the banquet hall, and nothing you can say or do is going to keep me from her.”

“Perhaps you should bring her back out here again, then,” she said. “Perhaps she should hear what I’ve got to say. It might spare her a lot of grief down the line.”

He paled a little at that. “I never figured you to be the sort of person who’d go out of her way to hurt an innocent bystander.”

“Appealing to my better nature isn’t going to work, John,” she said flatly. “I have questions begging to be answered, and I’m not going to disappear into the woodwork until my curiosity’s been satisfied. That much, at least, you do owe me. So either make your excuses to the future Mrs. Weatherby and afford me the courtesy of a few more minutes of your time, or else we can have this conversation inside and let everyone listen in. I can’t speak for you, of course, but I don’t have anything shameful to hide.”