The Notorious Groom - Caroline Cross

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a pair of more voluble comments.

      “Nonsense! I most certainly did not forget,” the judge asserted in the same instant that Mr. Lampley objected.

      “A kiss? Poppycock! Under the circumstances, I hardly think that’s necessary—”

      “She’s right.” Eli’s quiet voice silenced both men.

      Norah gasped. “She is?”

      He turned toward her. “Sure.” Although his voice was light, his eyes were dark and glittered with some unreadable emotion. “After all, if you can’t live a little on your wedding day—” he stepped alarmingly close “—when can you? Your wedding night?”

      Paralyzed by his sudden nearness, it took a second for his meaning to sink in. “Oh. Oh, no. That is, I d-don’t think—”

      “Go with that.” With no further warning, he slid his hands up her arms and cupped them around her shoulders.

      Oh, dear. To her shock, a jolt of pure pleasure flashed through her. She stared up at him, her heart pounding, her thoughts tumbling wildly. If she found the mere clasp of his hands on her bare skin so unnerving, how would she ever survive the touch of—

      His mouth. Oh, my. His mouth was divine. It skimmed her lips, then slowly, slowly, settled in. Hot, slick and certain, it effortlessly matched the shape of hers, coaxing a response she was helpless to prevent.

      But then, maybe she didn’t want to. She’d wondered for so long what it would be like to be swept up in a masculine embrace. She’d speculated, theorized and conjectured. She’d read countless books and watched scores of movies.

      Now she knew, and it was even better than anything she’d ever imagined.

      A haze settled in, fogging her brain. All she could do was feel. And what she felt was the controlled strength of Eli’s hands on her shoulders. The heat of his mouth as it plumbed hers. The unexpected ache blooming low inside her.

      He widened his mouth over hers. Something tickled her lower lip. She vaguely realized it was his tongue.

      How strange. How shocking. How...exciting.

      Her knees turned to water. Instinctively she leaned forward, slid her hands up his chest and pressed even closer.

      “Oh!” With a muffled cry, she opened her eyes as he abruptly thrust her away.

      She blinked as the sudden blast of sunshine washed away the haze in her brain. She looked around, registering various expressions. Chelsea looked happy, if a little embarrassed. Judge Orter seemed on the verge of swallowing his tongue. Mr. Lampley seemed oddly alarmed. As for Eli—

      She forced herself to look up.

      In his face, she could see nothing at all. The discovery made her heart sink. Particularly when she realized that just seconds ago she’d been all over him like a clinging vine.

      But this was not the time, nor the place, for histrionics.

      No matter what her feelings—and, oh, how she wished she could disappear in a puff of smoke or sink through the floor—there were other people she had to consider.

      She tried to decide what Emily Post would do.

      “Well. Now that that’s done...” She took a deep breath and came up with a shaky smile. “Would anyone care for a piece of cake?”

      Three

      “Eli!” Chelsea’s excited voice floated down the long upstairs hallway. “Come see! Come see my room! It’s so-o-o-o cool!”

      “I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Eli called as he came up the stairs, juggling a pair of boxes. Counting doors, he went into the room that Norah had indicated was his and dumped his burden on the thick ivory carpet. He straightened and looked around.

      Decorated in shades of cream, taupe and blue, the spacious room held the usual complement of furniture, plus a couch and a pair of chairs grouped around a marble-faced fireplace on the far wall, at a right angle to the trio of French doors that opened onto a wide terrace.

      Like the rest of Willow Run, it was classy. Not to mention comfortable, attractive and a heck of a lot nicer than his previous domicile.

      So why did he feel so out of sorts? he wondered as he moseyed over to the windows, twitched back the sheers, and stood looking out at the velvety green lawn bounded by its beautiful banks of flowers.

      That was easy. If he had to take a guess, he would say it was because he’d had all the goodness he could take for one day. The room was good. The view was good. Chelsea was being good. Orter and old Lampley, within the confines of their holier-than-thou personalities, had been good.

      As for Norah...well, he had to give her credit. Although clearly unnerved by their kiss, she’d done her darnedest to be a good postceremony hostess, serving refreshments, signing papers, anxiously making small talk until Lampley and Orter had finally left. She’d presented him with the keys to the carriage house—his new garage, she explained—and had given him and Chelsea a tour of it, the grounds and the house, as well as the rundown on Mr. and Mrs. Barnes, who came in three days a week to cook, clean and maintain the yard All in all, she’d been so good she probably qualified to have her picture next to the word in the dictionary.

      With a disgusted snort, he turned his back to the windows and strolled over to the bed, where he sat and bounced a few times to test the mattress. Great. No lumps, no squeak, no sag. And, hallelujah, it was king-size. There would be no more bumping his head on the wall or having his feet stick into space the way they had on the fold-up bed at the bungalow.

      So who cares? Why don’t you drop the prerense and admit what’s really on your mind? Like what the hell possessed you to kiss Boo that way?

      He gave a little groan and flopped back on the mattress.

      For the life of him, he didn’t know. Or maybe he did, but just hated having to admit that it had been something as stupid as a childish resistance to doing what he was told. One minute he’d been standing there, thinking there wasn’t much to getting married. In the next moment, when he heard Orter and Lampley dismiss Chelsea’s claim that it was time for a kiss, he’d been overwhelmed by the sort of defiant I’ll-show-you response that had gotten him in such trouble as a kid.

      Which wouldn’t be such a big deal except he was no longer a kid, he was somebody’s father. And up until a week ago, he would have sworn he’d outgrown such immature behavior. Just as he would have sworn that he was an impeccable judge of women, capable of assessing their attributes—or lack thereof—at a glance.

      Yeah? Well, it seemed he was wrong on both counts.

      He muttered a curse that would have cost him a bundle if Chelsea had heard it.

      All right. There was no getting around the fact that he’d behaved immaturely. He would learn to live with it. But as far as his judgment about women was concerned—now, that really hurt.

      Still, he had to admit that for years, his playful threat to kiss Boo had been predicated on certain expectations. Like the notion that her skin would be dry and rough. That her mouth would be tight and prim, and her body bony and shapeless. And that at his first touch, she’d stiffen up like a starched sheet hung out in a hot wind.

      Instead, what skin he’d felt had been petal smooth And her mouth, though untutored, had been soft, sweet and shyly eager. Even her scent had been a surprise—a faint, exotic blend of tropical flowers instead of the old-maid lavender fragrance he’d expected.

      As for the rest of her—well, all it had taken was the touch of his tongue to her lips to make her melt against him like a punctured balloon. That alone had so surprised him, it had taken him longer than it should have to identify the source of the pressure suddenly nudging his chest.

      Eventually it had dawned on him that it was her breasts. Her small, aroused breasts. At which point his mature, discerning, adult response had been to thrust

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