Нора Робертс - Happy Ever After

“I’ll try not to.”

“Are you after my girl, Malcolm?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Don’t screw it up.”

“I take that as a green light from your corner, so how about some tips on navigation?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think you need them. I will say she’s all too used to the men who go after her being predictable. You wouldn’t be. The girl wants love, and with it the rest she grew up with. That kind of partnership, respect, friendship. She’ll never settle for less, and shouldn’t. She won’t tolerate dishonesty.”

“Lying’s just lazy.”

“Which you’ve never been.You’ve got a way of nudging people to tell you things about themselves without telling much of anything about you and yours. She’ll need to know you.”

He started to say there wasn’t much to know, then remembered his open-book comment to Carter and the response. “Maybe.”

She waited a beat, watching him. “Do you see much of your uncle and aunt?”

His face closed up. “We stay out of each other’s way.”

“Tell her why.”

He shifted, obviously uncomfortable. “It’s old business.”

“So was all you wanted to hear from me over chicken pot pie. The old goes into making us what we are, or what we’re hell-bent on not being. Now go on back to the party, see if she can make use of you. She appreciates useful.”

“I’ll help you clean up.”

“Not tonight. Go on, get out of my kitchen. Get in her way for a while.”

HE GOT IN HER WAY. IT WAS HARD TO COMPLAIN WHEN HE MANAGED to get in her way and be useful at the same time, but still . . . he got in her way.

By the end of the evening, she wasn’t sure what to do with him or about him. Enjoy it, and him—that was her friends’ advice. Yet how could she enjoy something, or someone, who made her so uneasy?

She told herself to concentrate on the job, on her work, on the details of the wedding, and managed to do so.Through most of it. When she helped escort guests out at the end of the evening, Parker congratulated herself on having avoided, patched over, or negotiated around the many pitfalls inherent in tonight’s particular event.

And Drunk Uncle Henry slipped past her radar.

“Beautiful! Beautiful wedding, beautiful girl.”

“Thank you, Mister—”

“Beautiful!” He wrapped Parker in a boozy hug that included his busy hands on her ass.

Before she could break away, she spotted Malcolm striding up. Her first thought was oh, no. She didn’t need a white knight who’d very likely punch first and ask questions later.

“Mister—”

“Hey, Pops.” Malcolm’s remarkably cheerful tone matched the quick grin on his face.“You’re going to want to move those hands. How’re you getting home?” Since the man was already unsteady, Malcolm easily peeled him off Parker. “Have you got a ride?”

“I can drive.” Henry swayed, grinned, lifted a thumbs-up sign. “One hundred percent.”

“I think that’s a hundred proof.” Malcolm maneuvered Henry so that the man’s arm slung around his shoulders. “Hey, have you got your keys? I’ll hold on to them for you.”

“Ah . . .”

“Hey, Dad!”A man hurried down the steps, sent a quick, apologetic look toward Parker. “Sorry, he got away from me. Let’s go on out, Dad. Mom and Anna are coming right down. My wife and I are taking him home,” he explained to Malcolm.

“Okay. I’ve got him. I’ll help you out with him.”

“Beautiful wedding!” Henry exclaimed on the way out. “Got to kiss the bride.”

“And any other female under a hundred and twenty he could get his hands on,” Mac commented. “Sorry, I was just heading down, and didn’t move as fast as Mal when you got the DUH treatment.”

“I lived.” Parker blew out a breath, tugged her jacket into proper lines.

“Em and Laurel are helping the stragglers find misplaced whatever. Jack and Del and Carter are doing the security sweep in cleared areas.We did good.”

“We did great. I’ll start sweeping this level if you want to take over here.”

“Good enough.”

Parker moved into the parlor, through to the Great Hall and the Solarium where the subs had already removed and transferred flowers, tulle, lights, candles.

Here, for the moment, it was quiet, shadowy, with the wistful scent of flowers still lingering in the air.They’d dress it all again in the morning for Sunday’s more intimate event, but for now—

“Henry’s poured into the backseat of his son’s Lexus,” Malcolm said from behind her.

She spun around, watched him move in through that shadowed light. Though he moved with hardly a sound, the room no longer seemed quiet. “That’s good.Thanks for the assist.”

“Easy enough.You thought I was going to clock some drunk old guy for wanting a squeeze of a very nicely toned ass.”

“It was a momentary concern.”

“For the future? Clocking happy drunks is a cheap shot. If I’m going to punch somebody, I like it to be worthwhile.”

His voice remained easy, casual, so why, she wondered, did that wistful, flower-scented air suddenly seem electric, suddenly feel dangerous along her skin? “So noted.”

“Plus, as it’s a really great ass, it was hard to blame him.”

“I thought you liked the legs.”

“Baby, there isn’t an inch of you that isn’t prime, and you know it.”

She tilted her head, doing her level best to match his easy tone. “That didn’t sound like a compliment.”

“It wasn’t. It’s just a fact.” He started toward her in the shadowy light, and she had to fight the urge to step back.“What do you do after one of these to wind down?”

“It depends. Sometimes a group after-event debrief. Sometimes we all just limp off to our own corners to—Wait,” she said when his arms locked around her.

“I thought we’d try another kind of winding down.”

He took her mouth in a flash of heat that was more threat than promise. His hands slid down, slid skillfully over her until thrills—yes, dangerous thrills—shot over her skin. Under her skin.

She told herself to break it off, then as that heat sizzled into her bones, wondered why.

“I want my hands on you, Parker.” Not casual now, not easy. Here was the recklessness she’d sensed under the calm. He took his mouth from hers, skimmed his teeth along her jaw.“You know that, too.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“Let me.” He slipped a hand between them to flip open the buttons of her jacket.

“I have to—”

“Let me,” he repeated, and swept his thumbs over her breasts.

Her breath snagged as the sizzle shifted to ache, and the ache to raw, stark need.“I can’t do this now. I’m not going to bed with you when—”

“I didn’t ask you to bed. I just want to touch you.” While he did, he watched her face, watched her face until his mouth came to hers again, all fire and demand.

“Come out with me tomorrow.”

“I . . . Yes. No.”Why couldn’t she think? “I have an event.”

“Next night you’re free.” He glided a hand down the outside of her thigh, up again until the muscles went to water.“When is it?”

How was she supposed to form a rational response when he was turning her body inside out? “I think . . . Tuesday.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven. Say yes.”

“Yes. All right, yes.”

“I’d better go.”

“Yes.”

He smiled, and when he jerked her back against him, she thought oh God before she went under again.

“Good night.”

She nodded, said nothing else as he let himself out the Solarium door.

Then she did something she never did after an event. She sat alone in the dark composing herself while her partners handled the bulk of the work.

AS PART OF HER ROUTINE, PARKER SPENT HER POSTEVENT SUNDAY evening on paperwork, for Vows, for the house, for her personal business. She cleaned up her e-mails, her texts, voice mails, reviewed her calendars—personal and business—for the next two weeks, reviewed the schedules of her partners, made any necessary additions or changes.

She rechecked her list of errands to run the next morning.

She didn’t consider it busywork. She made it a habit, a strict one, to start every Monday with a clean desk.

Satisfied, she opened the file on the book proposal she’d been toying with, did some tweaking. Almost ready, she thought, to show to her partners, get their input, have a serious discussion on moving forward.

By eleven, she was in bed with a book.

By eleven ten, she was staring at the ceiling thinking about an entry on her calendar.

Tues, 7:00: Malcolm.

Why had she said yes that way? Well, she knew exactly why she’d said yes, so it was ridiculous to ask herself the question. She’d been sexually flustered and aroused and interested. No point in pretending otherwise.

So flustered, aroused, and interested, she hadn’t even asked where he planned to go, what he planned to do.

How was she supposed to dress, for God’s sake? How was she supposed to prepare without the smallest detail to go on? Did he plan to take her to dinner, a movie, a play, straight to a motel?

And why would they go to a motel when they both had homes?

And why couldn’t she stop thinking and just read her damn book?

She could just call him and find out. But she didn’t want to call him. Any normal man would’ve said,

I’ll pick you up at seven, we’ll go to dinner. Then she’d know what to expect.

She certainly wasn’t going to dress up when he’d probably pick her up on his motorcycle. She didn’t even know if he had a car.

Why didn’t she know that?

She could ask Del. She’d feel stupid asking Del. She felt stupid thinking about asking Del.