Lone Star Wedding. Sandra SteffenЧитать онлайн книгу.
seem to come up with the word no, couldn’t seem to think, couldn’t seem to move.
Parker had no such problem. He tried another key, and opened the second door. “We can discuss the party, have a cup of—that’s right, you don’t drink coffee, it’s the caffeine—decaf. I can invite you to dinner, you can say yes, and then you can kiss me.”
Before she knew how it had happened, she was raising her face to his, and kissing him, exactly as he’d said. He hadn’t coached her about touching him, so that must have been her own idea. What an idea it was. He felt like a dream, but he was solid, hard, real. His shirt bunched in her fingers; heat radiated outward from his chest, his arms, his shoulders, warming her hands everywhere she touched.
One minute they were standing on the stairs behind a closed door; the next thing she knew she was sprawled on top of him on the stairs, a tangle of arms and legs, hearts racing, breathing erratic, mouths joined. His hand inched between their bodies, covering her breast. She arched toward him, passion rising up in her, clouding her brain.
She couldn’t control her gasp of pleasure at the feel of his mouth at her breast through the thin fabric of her shirt and the lace of her bra. She grasped his head, and whispered his name, only to groan slightly when the corner of the step jabbed into her back.
“Let’s go upstairs.” His voice was a husky murmur, at one with the tremor he’d started deep inside her. He rolled her on top of him, so that she straddled his legs. The level of intimacy in their positions was about to go through the roof.
She had to stop.
She wanted him to kiss her again. She wanted to feel his mouth on her naked skin.
“Hannah?”
Her head was spinning, but she heard herself say, “No, Parker.”
He went very still.
“We don’t even know each other,” she whispered. “And we just can’t do this. I just can’t do this.”
She felt the change that came over him. He stiffened. Not with anger, but with quiet acceptance. “I know I should apologize, but that felt too good, and I’m afraid I’m just not sorry.”
He’d said he was honest. Tugging at the hem of her shirt, she stood. He climbed to his feet much more slowly. She noticed he didn’t ask her to invite him upstairs again, but he wanted to. It was there in his eyes, in his deeply drawn breath and the grim set of his jaw.
“We never got around to discussing that party you mentioned this afternoon,” she said conversationally.
He quirked an eyebrow in her direction.
She shrugged. “I was trying to take your mind off it.”
To his credit, he didn’t say, “It?” But he might as well have. Hannah made a valiant effort not to smile.
Parker’s heart was still racing, his breathing was still deep. No wonder. He was still in the throes of a strong, swirling passion, and her “barely there” grin wasn’t helping. It wasn’t like him to lose control. Hell, he was thirty-one years old, not eighteen.
It was probably a good thing one of them had kept their wits about them. Probably. He bent one knee in an effort to ease the fit of his pants. It was going to take him a couple of minutes to get himself completely under control.
“I’ve always heard it’s helpful to think about negative things.”
Under other circumstances, there would have been something enchanting in her humor. “Unspent desire is negative,” he said.
She smoothed a hand down her skirt, and sat again, patting the space next to her. As he lowered to a sitting position on the steps, she said, “Perhaps it would be better to think more along the lines of a cash flow problem, or maybe the inflation rate, or world hunger, maybe, or family difficulties.”
He scowled.
Aha, she’d hit a nerve. “Tell me about your family.”
“There’s not a lot to tell.”
“There’s always a lot to tell when it comes to family. Everybody thinks their family is the only one with problems, but I think pretty much every family has its eccentricities.”
He cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“Come on, Parker, give it your best shot.”
His sigh was long and loud. “I grew up in your basic bitter, all-American dysfunctional family. One father, one mother, one sister. There was a lot of yelling, a lot of doors slamming, a lot of accusations and recriminations. My parents divorced when I was eight. I lived with my father, my sister lived with our mother. And everyone nurtured the bitterness for all it was worth.”
“Time hasn’t helped?” she asked.
“My sister hasn’t spoken to my father since my mother’s funeral, five years ago. Even then, it wasn’t pretty.”
“What about you?” she asked. “Do you ever talk to your sister?”
She felt his shrug near her own shoulder. “Not often. She’s stubborn. Won’t accept my help. I guess you could say Beth and I aren’t close.”
“My sister and I aren’t close, either.”
“Ah, yes, the ever-elusive Maria.”
Hannah’s strained relationship with her only sister was her greatest sadness, greater even than the loss of her big, burly, gentle father ten years ago. For a moment she’d let her guard down, forgetting that Parker put as much thought and effort into obtaining divorces for his clients as she put into planning weddings for hers. His description of Maria reminded Hannah that she and Parker weren’t on the same side when it came to her mother’s marriage to Ryan. Parker was Ryan’s divorce attorney. She was Lily’s wedding planner.
“My parents were happily married, Parker. They were living proof that marriages can survive obstacles, heartaches, hard times, and that the two people involved can grow more deeply in love over time.”
That’s what she wanted. To love, honor and cherish the man she eventually married. Until death. Apparently, Parker didn’t believe in love or in marriage. She remained pensive, deep in thought.
“Tell me,” she said quietly sometime later. “Have you always felt this way about marriage? Or has your profession tainted your view?”
He slid his palm over the fabric covering his knee. “It has nothing to do with being tainted. People are born. For the next twenty or thirty years, they’re single. They get married. Ultimately, they get divorced. Eventually, they die. Some people repeat a couple of those steps. Once was enough for me.”
She turned her head fast, but the implication rendered her speechless. He’d been married? Once? When? Was he still married?
He caught her looking at his left hand. “I’ve been divorced for almost four years. But you’re right,” he said, glancing into her eyes, and then at her lips. “Talking about the negative side of life has done the trick.”
He moved fast, but she still should have seen the kiss coming. His lips moved over hers swiftly, intensely, masterfully, but only briefly.
“Although that,” he said while her mind was still spinning, “had the potential to reverse some of the progress. I’ll call you tomorrow. We can discuss our plans for dinner then. Good night, Hannah.”
She rose to her feet, then stood perfectly still. Her heart pounded an erratic rhythm. It came from trying to keep up with a man as sharp and witty as Parker. It came from trying to listen to every word he said, no matter how quickly he said it. It came from the fact that he’d been married. Once, he’d said, had been enough.
She sat back down on the step, landing with a heavy little thud about the same time the outer door closed behind him.
There was