Читать книгу: «A Weaver Wedding»

Prologue

“Can I get you another margarita?”

Tara Browning looked up into the sympathetic eyes of the cocktail waitress as she moved the empty glasses from Tara’s table to the tray balanced on her palm.

Wasn’t there a rule somewhere that drinking alone was a bad sign of something?

Beyond the waitress, the wood and leather-studded Suds-Grill was just about standing-room only. Maybe that meant Tara wasn’t alone, even if she had been stood up by her own brother. She forced a smile. “Sure.”

“Have it out in a few minutes.” The waitress disappeared among the bodies crowded into the small bar.

Tara sighed and glanced over the people. Still no sign of Sloan.

She couldn’t pretend she wasn’t disappointed. The message that her twin brother had left on her phone had been the first time she’d even heard his voice in three years. Five since she’d seen him in person and turned her life upside down because of the choices he’d made in his life.

She should have known he wouldn’t show, despite his message. Not even on this, their thirtieth birthday.

She exhaled and accidentally caught the eye of a middle-aged guy staring at her from his seat at the bar. She looked away. She wasn’t looking for a pickup. Occupying bar stools wasn’t something she indulged in even in Weaver, where she lived and worked, much less here in Braden, a good thirty miles away. She’d come for Sloan McCray. Period.

“Do you mind if I take the extra stool?” The kid from the overflowing, high-top table next to hers was eyeing her earnestly over the top of his longneck beer bottle.

She shrugged. It wasn’t as if she needed to save the seat for Sloan. “Go ahead.”

The kid slid the stool three feet to the other table. “Thanks, ma’am.”

Ma’ am.

Happy big fat three-oh to you, Tara.

The guy at the bar was still eyeing her and she turned slightly on her stool, accepting the fresh margarita from the waitress. She didn’t know why she’d bothered ordering any drinks when she had no head for alcohol. Nor did she know why she stayed in the crowded bar at all when it seemed painfully clear that her brother wasn’t going to show, no matter what his message had said.

She pushed off the stool, swaying a little dizzily. She wasn’t about to hire a cab to take her back to Weaver. Even if she could find one, she’d have to turn around and make the return trip in the morning to retrieve her car.

Which meant a night in the motel across the highway.

If she’d stuck to drinking lemonade, she could have driven right back to Weaver where she belonged.

The irony of that thought didn’t escape her.

She didn’t belong in Weaver, either.

The story of her life.

“Heading out already?”

She stopped short when the shape in her path took form, but realized immediately that it wasn’t the middle-aged man who’d been eyeing her. No. This guy was tall and blond and definitely not portly.

She peered up at him, focusing with an effort. His head topped her measly five feet four inches by about a foot. Even in the dim light of the crowded bar, his eyes were a startling golden brown. “Axel? Axel Clay?”

The man pressed a wide, square palm against his chest. “So, you do remember me.” His sculpted lips tilted. “I’m touched.”

It was hard not to remember. The Clay family was pretty much the bedrock of Weaver. The men were all one version or another of tall and ridiculously handsome, and the women were as varied and as beautiful as flowers growing wild in the fields. A Weaver resident would have to live under a rock not to recognize one of them.

“What are you doing here?”

He grinned a little, lifting the squat glass he held. “Wetting my whistle like everyone else.”

“I meant in Braden.” Her brain felt fuzzy. And he smelled way too good. Amid the crush of bodies in the bar, he seemed like a haven of crisp, fresh air. A magnificently, beautifully, male haven. “You haven’t been around Weaver for more than year.” She flushed. “At least, that’s what I’ve heard in my shop.”

He caught Tara’s elbow and nudged her out of the way, allowing another cocktail waitress to pass. “I’ve been out of the country.”

She’d heard that talk, too. His frequent travels; his talent for horse breeding; his status as a thoroughly eligible—albeit uncatchable—male.

He smiled at her and her head swam. Maybe that’s what she got for living the life of a nun, even at the ripe old age of thirty. She had a drink, saw a handsome man, and had to battle against a tidal wave of unfamiliar desire.

“So, how’s business at Classic Charms?”

She moistened her lips, wishing that she hadn’t abandoned her drink back on the table. Holding it would have given her restless hands something to do, other than tremble with the ridiculous urge to feel if his hair was as thick as it looked. “I’m surprised you remember the name of my shop.” He’d been there only a few times, usually accompanying his mother.

His lips tilted again. “Hey now.” His golden gaze dropped for a moment to her mouth. “You’re not the only one with a memory. I remember all sorts of things.”

She felt more parched than ever. “Business is good. I’ll have to hire a part-timer, soon. Before the holidays.”

“You still have that old phone booth in the center of the store?”

She blinked. “Uh, yes.” The vibrant red phone booth was currently housing a display of not-entirely-innocent lingerie that she’d gotten at an estate sale.

He dashed his fingertip down her nose. “Told you I remember things.” He tossed back the rest of his drink. “So, what are you doing here in Braden?”

She barely kept herself from touching her tingling nose. “I was supposed to meet my brother here. But he…he couldn’t make it.”

He covered her shoulder with his hand and she went still before realizing he was merely moving her aside again for another passing waitress. “His loss is my gain. Let’s grab a table.”

She was unbearably tempted, though she tried not to be. “I don’t think there are any left.” The one she’d abandoned had already been claimed.

“Then, we’ll dance.” Before she could protest, he’d grabbed her hand and led her to the crowded, minuscule dance floor.

Digging in her heels did no good. She was caught in his storm surge, and that was all there was to it. Then he was turning her into his arms and she felt like she was going under for the last time.

“I don’t dance,” she warned, having to practically yell to be heard over the loud music. Jukebox. No live DJ or band for the Suds-n-Grill.

He settled her left hand on his shoulder and took her waist. “All beautiful women dance.”

She was a far cry from beautiful, but whether it was his words or his hand on her waist, she felt fresh heat streaming from her face to her toes. Delectably filling in every nook and cranny along the way.

The music pulsed around them while some rumblingvoiced singer lamented unfulfilled desires. She could feel the imprint of every one of Axel’s fingertips against her waist, right through her tomato-red tunic. Maybe it was her imagination that those fingertips seemed to subtly flex against her, like the sheathed claws of some big, golden cat kneading against his soft prey.

She’d lived in Weaver for five years. But she’d never gotten personally involved with anyone there. Hadn’t gotten involved with anyone even before that. Not since her brief, unsuccessful marriage about a million years ago.

Somewhere inside her dim brain, she remembered that a dance did not qualify as involvement. She moistened her dry lips. “You, um, you didn’t come here to meet someone?”

His head angled toward her and his voice seemed to whisper over her ear. “I got stood up, too.”

“Who would stand you up?” The words came without thought, and her face went hot all over again.

His lips tilted. “At the moment, I’m having a hard time remembering because I didn’t expect to enjoy myself at all. And yet—” he said as he drew her closer “—here we are.”

Her head swirled again, only this time it wasn’t the least bit unpleasant.

And those fingertips of his were pressing more insistently into her waist. His thumb, where their hands were joined, slowly dragged across her palm.

Liquid fire drenched her veins. He might as well have pressed his mouth against hers she was so transfixed.

“It’s my birthday,” she said stupidly.

His gaze was steady on her face. That faint, not really amused, quirk still on his sculpted lips. “Did you blow out the candles and make a wish?”

She’d had a wish. To see the only family she had left for the first time in too many years. Given the fact that she had no way of reaching Sloan—he’d left her the surprising message—she’d thought that was something her brother had wanted, too. Now she knew better.

“No cake,” she told Axel. “No candles.”

His thumb slid down her palm again. “Ah, now, that just ain’t right. Birthdays always come with a cake and candles where my family is concerned.”

She wasn’t surprised. There wasn’t a soul who lived in Weaver who could be unaware of what a tight-knit clan the Clays were. From all appearances, his family was the complete antithesis of hers.

“When it’s just one of you, cake and candles leem a snittle—” she explained, then frowned and marshaled her tongue with some deliberation “—seem a little unnecessary.”

“Well, it’s not just one of you tonight, anymore.” His gaze became even more hooded. His thumb wasn’t stroking any longer. It was situated, dead center, against her palm where it felt as if an electric current was passing directly through to her heart. He turned his head slightly as if he was studying their hands pressed together, and her blood seemed to rush to her head. “Feels like there’re two of us to me,” he murmured.

Her heart bounced around. Her skin felt tight, her nerve endings wanting suddenly to burst free. “Okay.” The word came out more like a breath, but his mouth still slid into a slow, satisfied curve.

He linked his fingers through hers and before she knew it, she felt the cold rush of October night air across her hot face as he pulled her right out the front door.

It vaguely dawned on her that she’d forgotten her jacket, but then it didn’t matter because there, just out of the light of the entrance, he slid his arms around her shoulders, turned her boldly into his arms, and covered her mouth with his.

Sensation blasted through her with all the warmth of a summer afternoon and her head fell back, her mouth opening beneath his.

His hand—oh, it was so warm, so gentle, so strong—covered the base of her neck. Slowly slid along her throat until it reached her jaw.

“Dude. Get a room.” A laughing male voice said from behind them, followed by a trill of female giggles.

Axel lifted his head, but he didn’t even look back at the snickering couple entering the bar behind them. His gaze stayed on her face, but his hand cradled her throat where she felt certain he could feel her thundering pulse. “Wishes aside for the moment, what do you want for your birthday, Tara Browning?”

She moistened her lips and tasted him on them. “You.” The word escaped. Bald. Husky. The blush that hit her face was scorching. “Sorry. Blame that on the margaritas.”

“I was hoping I had something to do with it.” His fingers splayed against her spine, and he nudged her even closer until not even Wyoming cold could get between them.

She inhaled. Everywhere that she was soft and giving, he was…not.

Then his head ducked close to hers, but his lips merely grazed the point of her chin and followed the line of her jaw toward her ear. “Having me is the easy part.”

She shivered and it had nothing to do with the night air. Her fingers latched onto the butter-soft leather jacket covering his wide shoulders.

“But first,” he said as he lifted his head with a devilish grin in place, “some celebrating is still in order.”

She would have swayed again if not for his steadying hold. “Celebrating?”

“Cake and candles at the very least.” He let go of her and in one smooth motion pulled off his jacket and slid it around her shoulders.

The leather hung heavily around her and smelled of him. She managed not to slide into a puddle at his feet and clutched the front of the coat together with one hand. He took the other and pulled her steadily through the dimly lit parking lot, stopping only when they reached the passenger side of a big, dark pickup truck. “If we find a cake at this hour, I’ll eat my hat,” she told him, trying to curtail the excitement racing through her.

“There are better things to eat.” He pulled open the door, ran his hands beneath the jacket to unerringly find her waist, and lifted her right off her feet, sliding her up his long body. “I haven’t been tempted to make love to a woman in a parking lot since I was fifteen.”

She swallowed hard, shocked by the rush of temptation that centered hot and moist inside her. “I don’t…um…do this sort of thing.”

“Celebrate your birthday?” His words whispered along her neck.

Her head fell back. “Invite a man to my room. I was planning to get one at the motel across the street.”

Whether that was margarita-inspired boldness or Axelinspired boldness, she didn’t know, and wasn’t sure she cared. They were adults.

“Good,” he said, sliding his lips over hers in a faint, grazing kiss that made her pulse throb. “We’ll have someplace to go to have our cake—” he slid her slowly onto the seat and tucked her knees inside “—and eat it, too.”

Her heart lurched as he closed the door. She watched him through the windows as he rounded the front of the truck. His gaze seemed to meet hers through the window for a moment that started to stretch forever. Then he opened the door and climbed behind the wheel. “Ready?”

“Mmm hmm.” It sounded strangled even to her.

He put the keys in the ignition and in seconds they were driving out of the parking lot.

Dear Lord, what had she gotten herself into?

But then he glanced at her and his smile was slow. Oh-so-easy. He gently squeezed her fingers where they were clenched against the side of her seat.

And just that easily, calmness spread through her. Her worries settled. Her judgments dissolved. At that moment, she knew she was exactly where she wanted to be.

With him.