Elley Arden - Baby by Design

And he did.

“So what do you do for a living, Mr. Corcarelli?” Aunt Constance eyed him like he was more delectable than the wedding cake.

After being softened by his polished charms for four hours, Trish suspected he was.

“I own a furniture upholstery business.” He grinned.

“Oh yes, I could tell you were a business owner. You have that air about you.” She made an awkward sound, half giggle, half whimper.

Trish gripped the stem of her champagne glass and looked over her shoulder so she could cringe.

“It’s a lovely wedding, and your daughter is a beautiful bride.”

Again with the silly sound, but this time, instead of cringing, Trish smiled at her aunt. “Speaking of the bride, we should offer our congratulations while she’s free. Excuse us, Aunt Constance.”

Trish tugged on Tony’s arm, but not before he took Aunt Constance’s hand and smoothed it between his palms. “You take care.”

The woman swayed a bit, prompting Tony to clutch her elbow and steady her.

“Ooh, my. Low blood sugar,” she giggled. “Time to cut that cake.” She waddled off with her head held high. It was a familiar scene.

Apparently Angie was right about unrelated vaginas and their reaction to Tony.

“What are you doing?” she asked, tugging Tony across the ballroom floor, not at all aware of where she was taking him.

“What do you mean what am I doing?”

“You’re laying it on a little thick, don’t you think?”

“You said behave.”

“I did, but don’t…” Trish attempted to swallow the unrest that had plagued her since their car ride, “try so hard.”

How was she supposed to stop looking at Tony like a potential father for her baby if her family didn’t stop fawning over him? It was the suit. She groaned into her champagne glass.

“Whaddya say?”

Whaddya. Exactly. “Nothing,” she grumbled.

“Antonio, dear.” Trish’s mother excused herself from a small group and cornered Tony. “Would you suggest linen for an ottoman?”

“No, ma’am. I wouldn’t. Linen may resist pilling and fading, but it soils and wrinkles.” He leaned closer, as if he was going to whisper in her ear. “And that’s not the kind of fabric you want handling feet.”

“Just as I suspected.” She grabbed hold of Tony’s Trish-free arm and squeezed. “Thank you for taking my side on this. Oh, Rosemary.” She let go and fluttered back to her group.

Trish frowned. “She could’ve asked me.”

“I think she wanted to touch my bicep.”

Like Trish was touching his bicep? Her palm flattened against his arm, while her fingers stretched to his triceps. A thick wool suit coat and broadcloth shirt weren’t enough to mask the feel of his muscles, contracting beneath her hand.

She had to stop this slow slide out of sanity…fast.

“Let’s dance.” She let go of him, dropped her glass on a passing table, and powered through the crowd to the dance floor.

If she could keep him moving to this God-awful jazz music, she could get him sweaty enough to remove his coat and roll up his sleeves. One look at Tony’s tattoos, and the DeVigns would be lining up to protect Trish from the hoodlum.

Not that he was a hoodlum, and not that she needed protection from him. It was more like she needed protection from herself.

When she reached the dance floor and turned around, she half expected Tony to have returned to their table. After all, she’d never known a guy who liked to dance outside of the requisite slow dance. Even now, the dance floor was filled with poky ladies and a couple half-soused old men.

But Tony was right behind her.

“Are you sure you can dance in that dress,” he said, leaning his mouth so close to her ear his breath fluttered the curls at her temple.

“Stop it,” she hissed, but there was little bite behind her words. The playful swat and nervous smile probably had something to do with that.

Shaking off the little thrill of having his lips so close to her face, Trish fisted her hands and lifted them to chest-height as she bounced on the balls of her feet. “Heavyweight linen would work fine for an ottoman used in a formal living room.”

He stood there, not moving a muscle, not shedding a single bead of sweat. “Formal living rooms are a waste of space.”

“Says the man who lives in a shoebox.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “How would you know what I live in? You’ve never been to my place.”

And she was going to keep it that way. “Dance. You look silly, standing there, watching me.”

“I like watching you.”

Zing! No little thrill that time. Her body nearly puddled at the truckload of heat he dumped over her. “Tony,” she warned, but some errant impulse caused her to spin, showing off her grooving backside.

When she spun back around he was dancing, not the drunken flail of her sixty-something uncles, but a cocky toss of his head, and a smooth roll of his hips.

Who was sweating now? Beads tickled between her shoulder blades. Maybe her dancing was to blame. Although that would be pathetic—she hadn’t been moving for more than five minutes.

He reached up and loosened his tie.

That-a-baby, she thought, remembering she was on a mission to prove that Tony Corcarelli was 100 percent wrong for her and her future plans.

But then he grabbed her hand, pulling her fast and hard against his chest.

“Hey,” she protested, wiggling against his palm on the small of her back, but as she did, she realized her legs rested on either side of his thigh, and the fabric of her dress strained against his knee.

“What? You too old and stuffy for a good grind?” He gripped her right hand in his left hand as he lowered them both to the floor.

Her knees shook. Her heart raced. A steady stream of sweat spilled down her spine. She couldn’t imagine how undignified this looked…which was exactly why she stayed. In his arms. With his body nearly infiltrating hers. If Tony wasn’t going to shed the suit coat and brandish those tattoos, he could at least make a tawdry exhibition out of her, horrifying her family and dispatching them to her aid.

It was a plan she was certain would work, until the band lambasted her with a slow song, and Tony nuzzled his cheek to hers.

If the twinges in her stomach were any indication, this night was not going to end well.

Tony didn’t drink a drop of alcohol, so why was his head spinning? He stared at the beautiful woman sitting across the table from him. Tiny curls, wet from the sweat of their dancing, clung to the sides of her head. Her skin glowed a happy pink from the exertion. And he wondered—against his better judgment—if she looked like this after sex.

“Where are you kids headed after this?” Dr. DeVign swiped a white napkin across his mouth and then tossed it on the table.

“No place. This is it.” Trish’s eyes were wide as she nodded. “Such a great night. So tired. Big day tomorrow. Huge.”

Tony hadn’t just flustered her, he’d nearly incapacitated her. He knew it the moment she broke from his arms at the start of the slow dance only to come back here and take a seat in silence next to her mother.

“Very good. I have quite the day, too. Dolores, shall we give our best to the bride and groom, and be on our way?” Dr. DeVign didn’t allow his wife to answer. He stood, lifted his jacket off the back of his chair and extended a hand to Tony. “It was nice meeting you, young man. Make sure Trisha gets home safely.”

“Yes, sir,” Tony said, standing to return the healthy grip.

Mrs. DeVign latched onto Tony’s arm. “Don’t rush out on our account. I’m sure you have time for one more dance.” She looked at Trish, who was looking anything but eager to take her mother’s advice. “Right, dear?”

“Leave the girl alone, Dolores.” Walking behind Tony, Dr. DeVign took his wife’s arm and led her from the table, pausing briefly to place a kiss on his daughter’s forehead.

Tony watched the older couple fade into the thinning crowd, and then he slipped his hands into his pants pockets as he smiled at Trish. “How ’bout that dance?” he asked, even though he expected a refusal.

She shook her head. “I really am tired.”

So was he….tired of skirting around the obvious attraction, but what was their alternative? Angie’s steel-toed boot in his ass as she kicked him out of her garage, guaranteeing he’d lose his space to work—should Trish ever feel comfortable enough to hire him again.

He walked around the table and pulled back her chair, and when she stood, stopping inches from his chest, her face never lifting, he felt like a freaking martyr for putting the brakes on whatever was happening between them.

Tony hated brakes. He liked to go like hell, then back off the gas and coast until he came to a nice, easy stop.

“Thanks for coming with me tonight.” Trish still wasn’t looking at him. Instead, she pushed in her chair, fussed with a wedding favor, and smoothed the wrinkles from her dress. And then she walked to the door. Unlike her parents, she didn’t exchange goodbyes with the bride and groom or a single relative, but she did nod sweetly at the wait staff, clearing plates from a table near the door.

She was a complicated creature. Tony was used to Ma and Angie, two women who put family above all others and told it like it was, whether he liked it or not. He was also used to overly eager twenty-somethings who clung to him at the bars, saying all sorts of things that made him blush. Him. Blush. Which wasn’t easy.

It also wasn’t easy to figure out where Trish DeVign fit in that mix.