Their Child?: Lori's Little Secret / Which Child Is Mine? / Having The Best Man's Baby. Christine Rimmer
drops mixed with hail. The sky in the distance lay in heavy layers of gunmetal gray. Lightning slithered down out of the clouds, slicing the grayness with its hot-white gleam. Thunder roared.
Staff members had already been out there to take in the chair and sofa cushions. The bare wicker furniture skittered around in a jerky dance, dragging against the porch boards.
Lori swiped a few strands of hair from her mouth. “Tucker, I don’t know if we—”
“This way.” He led her over, out of sight of the windows, into the corner where the wall of the foyer jutted out toward the wide entrance steps. He pulled her around and backed her up against the wall so she was sheltered from the wind. Then he braced a hand on the wall to either side of her, boxing her in. “Better?”
“I…” Words deserted her. She looked up at him and she knew he was going to kiss her and she also knew that she wasn’t going to stop him. Still, she made a piddling little effort at it. “I think we should—”
“Shh,” he whispered, as beyond the shield of his big, warm body, lightning flared in a chain of bright explosions, followed by bursts of thunder, booming, then rolling away, then booming some more. Hail drummed on the roof over their heads.
Tucker ignored the fury of the storm. He nuzzled her temple, whispered, “Lori. I swear. I was going to go slow, you know? But I don’t want to go slow. I want to kiss you. Please. Say it’s all right.”
All right?
It was more than all right—except for the fact that she should tell him about Brody first, before they did any kissing. She should tell him about Brody, and then, if he still wanted to kiss her, they could take it from there.
But there was a problem.
She was doing that falling thing. She was dropping, drowning, melting into those velvet-brown eyes of his. The wild storm beyond the veranda, the three hundred wedding guests on the other side of the wall…
Everything—all of it—receded. The world went quiet and still. They’d entered the center of their own private storm. There was only Tucker. Tucker, who wanted to kiss her. And Lori, who only longed to kiss him right back.
She lifted her face, anticipation shivering through her like ripples on a glassy pond.
“Say yes,” he whispered. Yes. A truly beautiful word—and, all at once, the only word she knew. “Yes,” he prompted again.
So she said it. “Yes…”
And his lips descended.
Beyond the veranda, the rain came down in punishing sheets, the hail pounded and the lightning flared, answering claps of thunder booming out a moment afterward.
Tucker covered Lori’s sweet mouth with his own—and it happened again. The driving beat of the rain, the bright bursts of lightning, the crash and roll of the thunder—all that, everything that made up the real world—faded away.
It was that night again. Eleven years ago. It was that night…
And this woman.
Amazing. Incredible. The warm, thrilling fit of her mouth under his…the very taste and scent of her: the same. Exactly the same. He thought, Lori. It was Lori, that night…
He thought it, and then he let it go.
It didn’t matter, what crazy tricks his mind and his senses insisted on playing on him. This was what mattered.
This woman. This moment.
This perfect kiss…
He deepened the kiss, pressing himself against her, clasping her arms to pull her away from the wall enough that he could slip his hands around her and gather her close.
She shuddered and sighed and raised her slim arms to clasp his neck. He went on kissing her, tucking her into him, feeling the singing, smooth length of her all along his body, breathing her scent, hearing the rustle of that pink silk dress like a whispered promise of pleasure to come as she kissed him more deeply and pressed ever closer.
This… yes! This was all he wanted. This woman, this moment, with his arms around her…
It just didn’t get any better than this. He wanted to go on kissing her forever.
But then she took her hands from around his neck and lowered them to his shoulders. Lightning flared and thunder exploded and he felt the gentle, insistent pressure as she pushed at his chest.
And he knew she was right. It was neither the time nor the place to get too carried away. He lifted his head and looked down at her flushed cheeks and tempting, kiss—swollen lips and again he had that weird, déjà vu feeling he’d been having since he saw her at the table with Brody. He gave her a smile and whispered her name. “Lori…”
“Oh, Tucker,” she murmured, looking sweet and bewildered and adorably unsure. “If only…”
A hard gust of wind brought a spray of rain and hail slanting onto the veranda. It spattered the boards at their feet and stained the hem of her dress a darker pink.
He swore at his own idiocy and grabbed her hand. “I was nuts to bring you out in this. We should get the hell inside.” He started to turn.
But she held on, tugged him back. “No. Listen, I—”
“Tucker!” It was Tate’s voice, from behind him. Tucker cast a glance over his shoulder. His brother was braced in the half-open door to the ballroom. “Damn it to Hell. There you are!” His usually tanned face had a grayish cast.
Tucker turned. “What’s up?”
“We got a call. We’re under a tornado warning. Clouds boiling up to the south, behind the clubhouse. Things don’t look good. It’s time to head for the cellar.”
Chapter Seven
“Listen.” Lori motioned for silence and huddled closer to Tucker. “Do you hear it?”
Tucker did—in the distance to the north, beyond the wind-tossed oaks that lined the wide front driveway. The storm siren in town had gone off.
Lori’s face went dead white. “Oh, God. Brody…”
“Settle down,” Tate advised. “So far, it’s just a warning. But we’d better not fool around with it. Come on, let’s go.” Tate held the door for them and they ducked inside, where the ballroom was empty except for the tight line of silent, frightened-looking people snaking out from the braced-open double doors to the kitchen.
The club’s manager hovered at the back of the line, herding everyone forward. At the opposite end of the room, up on the stage, Lena’s wedding cake waited, alone in a spotlight, surrounded by band equipment.
Lori demanded, “Tate. Please. Brody—have you seen him?”
Tate had already rushed past them. He sent her a bleak look back over his shoulder, but he didn’t break stride. “Sorry. I haven’t. But we tried to send the kids down first. Come on. Get in the line.”
“We have to find Brody,” Lori insisted. “Brody!” she called, pulling her hand free of Tucker’s, racing for the stage, as if the boy might be hiding up there, behind that big cake. When no answer came, she paused, pink skirts swaying and put her hands to her face. “Oh, God. Oh, God…”
Tucker caught up with her. “Lori.” He took her by the shoulders, turned her to face him.
“No. No…” She shoved at his chest. “Let me go.”
He held on. “Steady. Don’t panic. Tate said he’s probably safe in the basement.” She stared at him, terrified, her slim body shaking. He grabbed her hand again. “Come on. We’ll find out where he is.”
She let him lead her. They