Out of Town Bride Page 14

  “Are you okay, Dad?” John-Michael asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “’Cause I have half a mind to take you to the hospital. With all you drank, then almost freezing yourself to death—”

  “I’m okay. Can’t a man get drunk without causing a national emergency?”

  “You could have died, you idiot. Don’t you realize that?”

  “She’d have been sorry, then,” he murmured.

  Muffy. He didn’t imagine he was going to get the whole story out of Jock tonight. But tomorrow he intended to get to the bottom of it. As if that would do any good. His days as the Patterson gardener were over. He wondered if all this was some kind of unconscious attempt on Jock’s part to keep John-Michael here, prevent him from taking an outside job and leaving the fold.

  It wasn’t going to work. But John-Michael was going to have to figure out what to do with his father.

  Jock was walking more or less under his own power, though leaning heavily on John-Michael during the short walk to his bedroom. The bed had been turned down, pajamas laid out—Sonya’s doing. He felt a swelling of warmth around his heart for all that Sonya had done. He’d seen no sign of the spoiled princess tonight. He didn’t know exactly what had happened, but it seemed to him that Sonya had risked her own safety to save his father.

  After climbing into pajamas, Jock flopped onto the bed and, after a couple of attempts, managed to shove his feet under the covers. He dropped onto the pillows, and John-Michael saw how old he looked.

  “I’m sorry,” Jock murmured, his eyes awash in tears. “Do you hate your old man, John-Michael?”

  “Of course I don’t hate you, Dad. You made a mistake, that’s all. No one’s perfect.”

  “She’ll fire me.”

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” Maybe, John-Michael thought, if he managed to replant the camellias, Muffy would give Jock one more chance.

  He left his father gently snoring and found Sonya sitting on a plastic bag on the sofa, so as not to get the furniture wet. She had her arms wrapped around herself, and she was shivering. It hadn’t occurred to him that Jock might not be the only one in danger of hypothermia.

  “Is he okay?” she asked.

  John-Michael nodded. “But you’re not. You need to get out of those wet clothes.”

  She nodded.

  “You can use the shower at my place. It’s closer.” Which was a thinly disguised excuse to keep her close to him. He wanted to find out exactly what had happened. But he also just couldn’t get enough of looking at her, this strange, bedraggled creature who, in a previous incarnation, had been unable to go five minutes without powdering her nose.

  They walked along a stone path, lovingly landscaped with a rose arbor arching above it. The grass had been trimmed around the stepping stones, and soft lights peering unobtrusively from behind shrubs and at the bases of live oak trees allowed them to see where they were going.

  “So what happened?” he asked. “How did you end up out in the woods with my father?”

  “It was pure luck. I went for a walk to clear my head, to try to make sense of Muffy and Jock…and you and me,” she added, sounding embarrassed. “Anyway, I heard this Tarzan yell…”

  As the story unfolded, John-Michael’s surprise grew, along with his respect. The method she’d used for pulling Jock close enough that he could save himself wasn’t rocket science, but he probably wouldn’t have thought of it.

  “You could have gotten hurt yourself.”

  “I know, but I didn’t feel I had a choice. I couldn’t leave him alone, not even long enough to summon help. You aren’t going to yell at me about this, are you?”

  “Yell at you?” Far from it. He wanted to wrap his arms around her in gratitude for saving his father’s life at the risk of her own. What kind of woman would do that? Certainly not a spoiled, self-absorbed one.

  It wasn’t far to John-Michael’s apartment atop the five-car garage. Truly, though, his place wasn’t any closer than Sonya’s suite would have been. He walked her up the stairs, wondering how messy his place was. He was nowhere as obsessively neat as Jock, though he didn’t live in complete chaos, either.

  When they entered through the kitchen, John-Michael was relieved to see no piles of dirty dishes in the sink of clothes lying around on the floor. The service that took care of housekeeping in the main house also took a swipe at his place every couple of weeks—one of the perks of working for Muffy.

  “You can use the shower first,” he said, though he hoped she didn’t take too long.

  “Thank you.” But she made no move for the bathroom. Instead she looked around the place, her eyes taking in everything. “I haven’t been in here for a long time. I think the last time I saw your apartment, you still had heavy-metal band posters on the walls and motorcycle parts on the living room floor.”

  “I still have an Ozzy Osbourne poster in my bedroom.” Ouch. He wished he hadn’t mentioned his bedroom.

  “Not quite as grown-up as you pretend to be, huh?”

  “Would you just go take your shower?”

  She reached out a hand and took his. “Why don’t you take it with me?”

  Her request was so straightforward, so lacking in pretense or coquettish seduction, that he nearly fell over from the force of it. He squeezed her hand as a whoosh of breath left his chest. He couldn’t. Could he? Earlier today, he’d sure been thinking he could.

  She must have seen his indecision, because she smiled encouragingly. “Could we just forget about all the stupid stuff, for once? Forget the master-servant roles our parents have brainwashed us with, and just be together?”

  He wanted that, more than anything, right this moment. But the habit of delaying gratification was so ingrained in him, he found it difficult to throw caution and prudence out the window.

  “If it’s not what you want, just say so,” Sonya said, far too reasonably. “But hurry up and decide. I’m freezing.”

  He let go of her hand, shrugged out of his soggy leather jacket and dropped it, his gaze never leaving hers. She took a sharp breath, and her pupils dilated, giving her eyes a dark, mysterious look.

  “I hope you like plain ol’ Dial soap,” he said as he took her in his arms. Her lips were cool to the touch, but they warmed up fast enough as the kiss ignited a bonfire that warmed them both faster than the shower they’d been talking about.

  John-Michael walked her backward all the way to the bathroom. He didn’t bother turning on the lights. The hundred-watt bulbs that were indispensable when he was shaving would be unwelcome now. Instead he left the door open so the light from the hallway gave the room just enough definition that they wouldn’t run into the walls. Still kissing Sonya, he opened the glass doors on the tub enclosure and turned on the hot water.

  As the kiss heated up, Sonya went to work on the buttons of his denim shirt. Much as he liked the romantic notion of them undressing each other, with their wet clothes it would take forever. He set Sonya away from him, mourning the loss of warmth as he quickly stripped off his clothes and shoes. Taking his cue, Sonya did the same, hopping on one foot as she tugged at her wet jeans.

  “This part always looks more romantic in the movies,” she said, her voice oddly hoarse.

  Taking pity, he helped her with the T-shirt, which clung tenaciously to her. When all that remained of her clothing was her bra and panties, it finally occurred to her to feel shy. She hesitated, and her reticence caught him right in the solar plexus.

  This was Sonya. Sonya Patterson was standing in front of him in her underwear, and he was naked. His desire overcame the cold, overcame all second thoughts that might have arisen, any common sense that tried to seep into his consciousness.

  He pulled her to him, wrapped his arms around her, and unhooked her bra. “You can change your mind.”

  “Oh, no. I’ve been fantasizing about this since I was fifteen. And if you even think about changing yours, so help me, McPhee, I’ll break every bone in your body.”

&n
bsp; He laughed as he slid the bra straps down her arms and off. Her bare breasts were all the more intriguing to him because they were mostly in shadow. He cupped his hands around them and lightly brushed her nipples with his thumbs, and her whole body shuddered. Her nipples were already hard from the cold. He wanted to take one in his mouth and suckle. But the steam from the shower drifted out, enveloping them, reminding them how nice the warm water would feel.

  John-Michael slid his hands down Sonya’s torso then down her hips, taking her tiny wisp of silk panties with them.

  “I’m naked,” she said, her voice full of wonder, as if she’d just made a surprising discovery.

  “So you are,” he said with a low chuckle as he led her into the shower.

  He let her stand in the spray. She emitted a groan at the pleasurable feeling. John-Michael squirted some shampoo into his hand and lathered her hair. The long, golden strands had always intrigued him. He buried his hands in the soapy, silky mass, massaging her scalp with his fingertips, and she groaned in pleasure.

  She tipped her head back to rinse the suds from her hair. While she did that, he found his uninspiring deodorant soap and worked up a lather in his hands, then rubbed Sonya from her neck to pearly-pink-polished toes. She reached up to hold onto the shower nozzle for support as he let his fingers flirt with her femininity.

  “Oh, John-Michael, don’t.”

  “Don’t?”

  “Don’t end it too quickly.”

  “That goes double for you.” And he handed her the soap. They changed positions, and she soaped him up just as he’d done for her. She saved his most sensitive areas for last, but by the time she touched his arousal, his anticipation was so high that he nearly exploded then and there.

  “Whoa.”

  “Mmm.”

  He grabbed her hand. “I think that’s enough showering. The water’s starting to go cold.” He turned off the faucets, opened the glass doors, found a couple of towels.

  He barely let Sonya daub at herself with the towel before he grabbed her up in his arms and headed for the bedroom. There was no more talking. They had a common goal in mind, and clearly Sonya did not need any more niceties. John-Michael managed to hold himself together long enough to protect Sonya from any unintended results. Then he spread her legs and entered, slowly at first. She was tight, and she gasped at the intrusion. He was afraid he’d hurt her until she tilted her hips up and took him even more deeply, sighing with deep satisfaction as he filled her.

  He’d never felt anything like it. She made every other woman he’d ever had fade into obscurity, and he was positive he would never be the same after this, never be satisfied with ordinary sex again.

  Their dance of intimacy didn’t last long. They’d worked themselves up to such a froth in the shower that it didn’t take much stimulation to send Sonya into a frenzy of writhing and uninhibited cries of ecstasy. As soon as he felt her climax, John-Michael was there, too. His entire consciousness became focused into one area of his body, until the rest didn’t exist.

  When it was over, they both lay panting on top of John-Michael’s down comforter—a Christmas present from Muffy a few years ago, he recalled with a pinprick of guilt. But, no, he wasn’t going to regret this. He might pay for it in unpleasant ways, but he wasn’t going to regret it.

  They didn’t speak for a very long time. Sonya snuggled up against him, her head on his shoulder, and breathed long, soft breaths against his skin. He rolled the edge of the comforter over her and let her sleep. He tried to sleep himself, but he was so overcome by all that had happened that his mind wouldn’t shut down. Muffy, his father, the camellia bushes, his father—again—and Sonya, incredible, delightful Sonya, who didn’t want to think about tomorrow.

  He was willing to let her sleep as long as she wanted to, but she awoke after a couple of hours. “Oh,” she said muzzily. “I fell asleep. How rude.”

  “I don’t mind that you did.”

  She pushed up on one elbow, and he could almost see the memories of all that had occurred that night filtering back into her consciousness.

  She peered at the glowing green numbers of his bedside clock. “Oh, it’s late. I have to go.”

  “Why?”

  “I have to check on my mother.”

  “At four in the morning? She’ll be fast asleep.”

  “I know, but I’m really worried about her. And you should check on Jock, too.”

  Okay, now he got it. Sonya had been full of brave words in the greenhouse, but she didn’t want anyone to know she’d been with him all this time, alone in his quarters. The realization felt like a kick in the gut.

  “Yeah, it would be better if you sneaked back into the house now, before anyone sees where you’ve spent most of the night.”

  She stiffened and moved away from him. “I wasn’t thinking anything even close to that.” She sat up all the way, holding the comforter over her breasts. It was dark enough in the bedroom he couldn’t see much, anyway. But he did catch the glisten of tears in her eyes. “You’re going to make this into something ugly.”

  “No. Not ugly. Never that. But definitely not something that can withstand the light of day.”

  She looked angry. Well, hell, was he supposed to let her get away with this and not challenge her? Then again, could he really blame her for how she’d been raised?

  He’d been a complete fool to even think a wealthy debutante could fall in love with him. But he wasn’t going to let her know that he’d had expectations—or see how she’d hurt him.

  “I’m trying to be practical here,” he said. “I caught a glimpse of the Promised Land, but it’s not a place I can enter and stay indefinitely. I know that.”

  “McPhee, you don’t know squat.” She shrugged off his attempted farewell caress and threw herself out of his bed, practically stomping her way to the door.

  “Sonya—”

  “That’s ‘Miss Patterson’ to you,” she called from the hallway. He heard the sound of damp clothing being tugged on. “If you’re going to insist on throwing out this class-distinction crap, let’s be consistent.”

  He jumped out of bed and grabbing the first clothing he could lay his hands on, a pair of sweatpants. “Wait a minute. How can you throw this back on me? Who’s the one sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night?”

  “I’m not sneaking.” He followed her into the living room, where she threw open his front door. Then she took a deep breath and shouted at the top of her lungs, “I slept with John-Michael! I had sex with—”

  He yanked her inside and slammed the door. “Are you nuts? Do you really want to announce to the world that you slept with me when you’re in the middle of planning a wedding with someone else?”

  “Yes I do,” she said. “But apparently you’d prefer it if I didn’t. You didn’t even wait until we were out of bed before picking a fight with me, so you wouldn’t have to face the possibility of, God forbid, a real relationship.” She pulled the front door open again. “If you don’t feel the same way, then fine. Just tell me. I’ll survive, just like I survived ten years ago. But don’t try and blame it on fate or society or class disparity or family pressure. I want us to be together. It’s not something I want to hide or be ashamed of. So if we end up not together, the fault falls squarely on your shoulders. Just be very clear about that.”

  He was so shocked by her outburst, all he could do was gape at her like a landed fish. How had this conversation gotten so out of control, so fast? He’d had her. He’d had everything he ever dreamed of in a woman, right in his bed. And then he’d blown it by letting his insecurities get the better of him.

  Deep down, had he suspected all along that Sonya would reject him? Had he been looking for any sign of that rejection, jumping unfairly on the slightest signal that she didn’t take him seriously?

  He wanted to reassure her that he didn’t take lightly the fact they’d made love. It had just happened a little ahead of his timetable, and he hadn’t been prepared for it. When he
’d been closest to realizing his dreams, he’d choked. He’d blown it, too afraid to really believe his dreams could become real.

  Too afraid to face disappointment if he was wrong.

  But by the time he formulated any words that would make sense, she was gone.

  MUFFY WAS SLEEPING SOUNDLY when Sonya checked on her. She was glad, because if her mother had been awake, Sonya was afraid she would have collapsed against her and cried as she’d done when she was a little girl. Any such display would have required explanation. And while she wanted to tell her mother all that was going on, she couldn’t burden Muffy with her own heartaches.

  Sonya went to her own suite, but she didn’t think she would be able to sleep. She changed out of her damp clothes into a comforting flannel gown, soft with many washings. She’d teased Brenna when she’d worn something equally disreputable during their road trip, she recalled. She’d been too hard on Brenna.

  Sonya slept fitfully, waking at the first sign of dawn. She showered again, dried her hair and pulled it back into a ponytail. Styling it required too much energy. Wearing faded jeans and an old, purple-striped polo shirt, she padded in sock feet down to Muffy’s suite and peeked in the door. Muffy was still sleeping. Sonya slipped inside. She would wait, so Muffy wouldn’t have to wake up alone.

  She looked around the room for something to read—her mother always kept fashion and decorating magazines in a basket by her bed. But her gaze landed on several pieces of paper spread out over Muffy’s bed. They were letters, she realized. Hand-written letters on plain white stationery, yellowed with age. The frayed ribbon they’d been tied with lay unfurled nearby.

  Love letters? From her father, perhaps. Maybe that was why Muffy was so sensitive last night. She’d been thinking about her husband. Paul Patterson had been prospecting for oil in South America when he’d been kidnapped by some self-styled rebel group. They’d demanded a million-dollar ransom, which Muffy had gladly paid. Then, for unknown reasons, they’d killed him anyway.