His Bride by Design. Teresa Hill
at the scene.
He didn’t care.
“What the hell is going on here?” he asked, spotting Chloe’s half sister, who’d always been the sanest one of the family.
“They want their money back for their dresses,” she said, glaring at him.
“Write them checks, if that’s what it takes to get them to leave,” he said.
“I’ll take care of it,” said Adam, who’d fought his way to James’s side. Adam, who had a check James had just written in the car, a check with lots of zeroes on it. Let everyone think Adam was covering the new debts, too. James would find a way to explain exactly what was going on to Chloe later.
His first thought was to get her away from this crowd, inside, maybe even carry her upstairs to her cute, quirky attic apartment, where he’d bumped his head on the low, sloped ceilings more than once. To the big cream-colored iron bed he used to share with her.
He hesitated, wondering if he was making a mistake by not taking her to his apartment in the city. Here she could kick him out whenever she pleased. When she got her second wind, she’d start her whole I-don’t-need-anyone routine. But he couldn’t risk giving this mob a second chance at her. That settled it. He took her inside.
Reluctantly, he set Chloe on her feet just inside the doorway. She seemed so slight standing there in front of him, so sad and defeated. He put his hand to the side of her face, tilting it up toward the light.
“Is it just this?” he asked, finding a slight swelling at her cheekbone. “Or are you hurt anywhere else?”
“I’m fine,” she insisted.
But her face was pale as could be, a few tiny, light brown freckles that he knew she hated spread across her nose and cheeks. He used to tease her that her freckles looked like fairy dust and kiss each one. God, he’d lost his head completely over this woman the first time and was clearly in danger of doing the same thing again.
He couldn’t help it.
He leaned down, his face lingering against hers, the tip of his nose pressed against her skin, soaking in the sweet, wild essence of Chloe, drawing his other hand through her pretty blond hair. It was even longer than it used to be and hanging loose and messy, the way he remembered it from rare mornings when she’d arisen from her bed before he left.
She was not a morning person, had always said she did her best work late at night. He didn’t mind. It was fine to get up and dressed and be able to stand there and stare at her in a rumpled bed, her hair all wild around her face, those little sprinkles of fairy dust on her bare cheeks.
How had he ever managed to drag himself away?
How would he do it again?
Was he not going to think of saving himself from her a second time? Self-preservation was usually one of his strong suits. But he just couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment.
He picked her up once again and carried her upstairs.
Chloe was still thinking it all had to be a dream.
Monkeys escaped from zoos at times and attacked people. Bears walked out of the woods and into camping areas. Every now and then an elephant got loose from its ankle stakes.
But who got attacked by crazy, garment-bag-wielding brides?
Didn’t happen.
She’d never heard of it happening, never read about it, never imagined it. What made it even more improbable was that James Elliott IV would show up, charge into the crowd and rescue her from them. Yet, in her muddled mind, that’s what had happened.
He laid her gently on the unmade bed in her little attic apartment, then sat down by her side, looking concerned and strong and tall and absolutely gorgeous.
She whimpered and then said, “Pinch me.”
He frowned, touched his hand to the side of her face, feeling the spot where she thought the shoes in one of the brides’ garment bags had gotten her. “Do you need a doctor? I’ll take you.”
“No, I mean … I think I’m dreaming …” Then thought how that might sound to him.
I was dreaming you came charging to my rescue, after a year without a word from you …?.
No, not going there.
Not with James, especially if he really was here.
“I dreamed I was being attacked by brides with bouquets,” she said.
Which had him looking even more concerned. “Flowers? Chloe, those were garment bags—”
“No, I know that! I’m just confused,” she said. “Not in that concussion sort of way. In that this-is-really-weird kind of way. You know?”
“Yes,” he agreed, still looking worried.
God, he smelled so good, so familiar.
Chloe winced.
Not now. Her life was falling apart already. She could not do this now with him. She looked at him warily.
Collapsing in his arms the minute she saw him again was not how she’d ever imagined any reunion they might have. She was supposed to look her best, maybe all done up for a show, and he was supposed to look bleak and sad and lonely without her. He was supposed to say he missed her terribly, that he had never stopped thinking about her.
That’s how it was supposed to go.
“All of that really happened just now?” she asked him.
“Yeah, it did.”
“Pinch me,” she said. “I have to be sure.”
James smiled for the first time since she’d seen him again, looking heartbreakingly sexy and so appealing she thought about dragging him down into the bed with her right that minute.
“I’m not going to pinch you,” he whispered, ever so slowly lowering his head to hers.
Her whole body started trembling before he even touched her, and she could have stopped it. Truly, she had time. And some sense of self-preservation that was still alive inside of her.
After all, her most recent ex-fiancé had just been outed as a sometimes-gay man, having an affair with Chloe’s model’s boyfriend, outed on the runway at her Fashion Week show. Even Chloe, stupid as she could be about men, knew that the last thing she needed was for James Elliott to kiss her, even just once.
But he’d charged to her rescue like Prince Charming, saving her from hysterical, rioting brides, after all. She still wasn’t convinced this was real. So she let him kiss her. It wasn’t the stupidest thing she’d done lately, and it was one thing she actually wanted to happen.
He let his whole body sink into hers, those chiseled abs, the hard chest, wide shoulders. They sank into the feather mattress on her bed like they used to do. He’d loved this bed with her in it. She whimpered, a rush of hurt and longing washing over her, sending her arms around his shoulders and pulling him closer.
“Don’t be scared,” he said, tenderly, sweetly, his mouth merely a breath from hers.
And then he finally closed that last bit of distance between them, his lips soft and firm, heartbreakingly familiar, and yet as tentative as he’d ever been with her. As if he knew how much this meant to her, and he truly didn’t want to hurt her. As if he knew what they were both risking, and yet just couldn’t stop himself.
She let her eyes drift shut, drew in that wonderful man scent of his. Her hands came up to frame his face, to slide into his hair. He had beautiful, thick black hair. He took his time with the kiss, didn’t attack with his mouth as so many men did. He coaxed. He soothed. He smiled against her mouth, teasing ever so softly with his tongue, while she wanted to open up and devour him whole.
He had to know that.
It