Here Comes the Bride Read online

  Nick frowned and picked up the pamphlet. A legal seminar? He avoided them like the plague. He started to chuck it into his favorite circular file, then caught sight of the seminar’s location—Boston, Massachusetts.

  He studied the thing for one long, prurient moment, then shoved it into the wastebasket. If he wanted to see Fiona, he wouldn’t hide behind a flimsy excuse like a seminar. He started to tell Jas just that, but when he glanced up, she was sashaying neatly out the door, apparently satisfied with her dirty work.

  TWELVE

  July had sweltered its way into Boston. Mornings were the only respite Fiona had from the heat—and they were short-lived. This accounted for her cross-patch humor, she told herself, determined to believe it. But each night she recognized it for the lie that it was.

  At night she tossed and turned in her big, empty antique four-poster and missed Nick with a hunger she couldn’t deny. Her memory betrayed her with its keen sense of detail, its sharp particulars of the silvery nights she’d had with Nick, the glorious days.

  It had all felt so right at the time, but that sense of rightness had blinded her to the future—and the fact that there’d never be one with Nick.

  She knew full well how he felt about love, about marriage. Nick had been perfectly honest about that.

  It hurt to think of him, to remember his touch, his kiss, but still she couldn’t summon up regret for the time she’d spent in his arms. What they’d shared had been special—even if Nick didn’t realize it.

  Time would ease her pain, make her memories of him more bearable. Time etched a patina on the antiques she sold in her shop, and time would etch a patina on her love for Nick too. One day she’d place that love on a shelf, cherished and beautiful, but relegated to the past.

  One day it wouldn’t hurt anymore.

  Her hands dusty, she unpacked another new treasure she’d bought today at an auction in the country, carefully lifting it from its bed of protective newspapers. It was an old tarnished brass kaleidoscope, its antique stand broken, but it still worked. She raised it to the light and carefully rotated the cylinder, awed at the brilliant bursts of colors that emerged in front of her eyes.

  Finally she set the piece aside and jotted it down on her inventory list. After adding the price she’d paid for it, she reached for the next item. But before she could unearth it, the bell over the shop door tinkled merrily. Glancing up, she saw Elaine from the photography shop next door breeze inside.

  “The postman left your mail at my place while you were out antiquing this morning,” she sang out. She threaded her way along the crowded, narrow aisle to the back.

  “Thanks, Elaine.” Fiona reached for it, but Elaine held it aloft, just out of reach.

  “Not so fast,” she said with a wide grin. “Who’s Nick?”

  “Nick?” Fiona’s heart did a fast somersault. Had Nick written?

  She hadn’t heard from him since she’d been home. Several times she’d been tempted to call him—to see if he’d had any news of the delinquent honeymooners—but each time she’d thought better of it.

  Hearing his voice would cause her fresh pain. She had to wait until she was stronger—until it would no longer hurt.

  When Elaine began to read the postcard in her hand, Fiona realized it wasn’t from Nick, but from her father and Winnie—about Nick.

  Her heart sank as Elaine read aloud:

  Dear Fiona,

  Suppose by now you had to get back to your shop, but we hope not before you and Nick fell crazy in love. Don’t mean to be nosy—it’s just that we’re so wildly happy, we want the same for those around us.

  Talk to you both soon.

  Love,

  Walter and Winnie

  Elaine raised her head from the card, her eyes shining with a speculative gleam. “I repeat my question. Who’s Nick?”

  Fiona dropped into an old Windsor chair she intended to refinish and let out a pent-up breath. Elaine was her closest friend in Boston—but she wasn’t sure she could share the deepest part of her heart right now.

  He wasn’t needed.

  Nick nursed the last of his scotch, then picked up the postcard he’d gotten from Auntie and read it through again.

  She and Walter were happy. There was a glow to her words he’d have to have been blind to miss. She didn’t need Nick to race to her rescue. The old sedan had even held up. Walter had wheeled it through the mountains at Tahoe without any trouble.

  He got up and paced his condo that lately seemed to close in on him. He’d gotten away for a vacation, but after his second day in Nassau, he’d been so restless, he’d caught the next flight back to Vegas.

  He’d missed Fiona too much while he was there—whenever he’d looked at a sunset, when he’d crawled into bed at night, and all the times in between.

  When he’d returned, he’d checked in at his office, only to have Jas tell him the parties of one of the divorce cases he’d been handling had reconciled in his absence.

  He always recommended a cooling-off period to his clients, along with some stiff marriage counseling, but those measures seldom panned out.

  Until now.

  He didn’t mind in the least losing the fat fee, but the turn of events had rattled his belief system.

  And now Auntie’s postcard was having the same cataclysmic effect on him. Love did seem to be alive and flourishing in the world, at least for a few.

  Was it possible it could be that way for Fiona and him? Could he give her the kind of marriage she deserved, the forever kind?

  He poured himself another drink, splashed in two ice cubes, and studied the amber liquid for the answer.

  The midnight flight was full. Nick was squashed into a middle seat, the only one left on the crowded DC-9. He squirmed, trying to get comfortable between the two men on either side of him. The one by the window snored and the other wanted to talk.

  Nick didn’t want conversation. He wanted to count the miles, estimate the time down to the second that it would take him to get to Boston.

  He chatted with the man on the aisle for a brief moment, his answers bordering on rudeness, though his seat companion didn’t seem to notice. He was far too intent on relating to Nick the details of his winning streak that had turned sour.

  Nick had heard the story before, a hundred different versions of it, but always with the same ending. People thought they could beat the odds. They couldn’t.

  And what about his own odds? Nick wondered. He had a lot more at stake here than a few measly gambling dollars. He was betting on the rest of his life.

  By the time the plane touched down at Logan International, Nick had a bad case of nerves. After a quick shower and a change of clothes at the hotel, he walked over to Antiques ’n Such.

  He had no trouble recognizing Fiona’s shop. It was just as she’d described it to him, right down to the quaint copper kettle filled with bright flowers that hung out over the door.

  The store’s front window was stuffed with treasures, everything from an old grandfather clock to a child’s rocking horse. The place echoed Fiona’s uniqueness, her style and charm, her elegance and warmth. He stood across the tree-lined street and observed it all.

  He wasn’t sure she’d even want to see him. And he wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t. They hadn’t talked of love. But Nick had felt it, with every touch, every caress, though it had scared the hell out of him at the time. It still did—enough to make him consider hopping the next plane back home.

  Fiona had a life here in Boston, a life she loved, judging by the care and effort she’d put into her small shop. What did he have to offer her? Did he have the right to offer her anything? Perhaps she’d chosen to forget him, forget about their nights together in the desert.

  All he knew was that he had to see her again, had to know if what they’d shared had been real. If there was a chance for them.

  He crossed the street, wishing he had some small gift to bring her. He remembered how her eyes had lit up at the sight of the sm
all antique jewelry box he’d bought for her that day they’d visited the ghost town together. He remembered his own pleasure at her surprise, her happiness.

  He wished he had something now, something he could give her, something that would make her eyes light again even slightly. But he’d come to Boston totally unprepared. He’d hopped the first available flight without a thought for anything beyond seeing her again.

  Then he spotted a vendor on the street corner selling flowers from a pushcart. What woman could resist flowers? He hoped Fiona couldn’t, hoped it would soften her heart just a little, enough that she would listen to what he needed to say to her, what was in his heart. He raced off down the street.

  “Got some pretty summer bouquets here,” the flower woman said when he approached. “Fresh-picked blooms.”

  “Very pretty.” Nick gazed over the selection. What kind would Fiona like? He didn’t know. “Blue,” he said after a moment of hesitation. “I’ll take a bouquet of those blue ones.”

  “They’re dyed blue daisies,” the woman informed him as if she knew he wouldn’t recognize a dandelion from a daffodil.

  She rolled them into a cone of white tissue and handed them to him.

  “Thanks.” He told her to keep the change and started off back down the weathered-brick street.

  He’d feel a whole lot better armed with a box of Godiva chocolates as well, he thought as he counted the storefronts back to her shop.

  As he neared it his steps faltered. What could he possibly say to her? He clutched at the cone of flowers, his hands sweating all over the thin paper.

  Swallowing the knot of fear in his throat, he peered through the wavy glass. He couldn’t see Fiona, but there was an “open” sign in the window. She had to be there.

  Squaring his shoulders, he tucked the bouquet behind his back and turned the brass knob. The door opened with the bright tinkle of a bell.

  Fragrant smells of fine furniture polish and beeswax greeted him, teasing at his senses. Antiques of every description vied for space in the quaintly cluttered shop. He stood still in the center of it, taking in Fiona’s world, breathing in the essence of it.

  Each treasure she’d chosen and restored defined the woman Fiona was. Beautiful. Warm. Caring.

  “I’ll be right with you,” she sang out in that voice that haunted his dreams.

  She didn’t glance up from the old, tarnished teapot she was busily polishing. It gave him a moment to observe her, and in that moment he knew he’d been right to come.

  “Nick?”

  Soft surprise filled her eyes when she saw him, quickly replaced by something else—alarm. Wariness shimmered in their green depths, and he knew he’d hurt her badly, though it had never been his intent.

  He also knew he couldn’t hurt her all over again.

  “Is … is something wrong?” she asked. “Has something happened to Dad … or Winnie?”

  She thought that was the reason he’d come, not that he’d had to see her. “No, everyone’s fine,” he quickly reassured her.

  He wasn’t certain, however, that these words applied to himself. Just the sight of her made him ache with the need to touch her again, fold her into his arms, and never let her go.

  She let out the breath she’d been holding and he fought down the urge to go to her. She’d never looked more beautiful to him than she did at that moment. Or more fragile.

  A soft, mint-green summer dress draped her feminine frame, and her long, glorious hair coiled around her face, framing it with its burnished red glow. Only the smudge of tarnish on the tip of her pretty nose kept her from looking like she’d just strolled across the lawn at a garden party.

  Just then he remembered the flowers he had hidden behind his back, their stems no doubt tortured from his strangled grip on them. “I brought you something,” he said, and presented them to her.

  Her eyes widened and her mouth curved up in a pleased smile. She set down the silver teapot she’d been holding and wiped her palms on a soft towel. “Oh Nick, for me?”

  “For you.”

  Their hands touched briefly as she took the bouquet from him. The inadvertent brush sent a thousand-watt bolt of electricity streaking through him, nearly rocking him off his feet.

  “I’ll just put them in water,” she said quietly.

  He swallowed against the dryness in his throat as she bent to search a glass-fronted cabinet for the proper vase. Finding one that pleased her, she turned to a small sink and filled the vase with water.

  “Why are you in Boston? A case?” She tossed the question over her shoulder as she arranged the flowers.

  “A case?”

  Nick wanted to lie and tell her yes. He wanted to sneak away before he could hurt her more. He’d seen the faint blue tinges of fatigue beneath her eyes, suspected the same sleepless nights that haunted him had haunted her—and he hated that. Still, he knew a lie would stick in his throat.

  “No, not a case. Fiona, I—I had to come.”

  She spun around and the green of her eyes swamped him.

  “I missed you,” he added, his voice a definite quaver.

  Fiona wasn’t sure she’d heard Nick right. She had wanted him to come; she had wanted to go to him. She’d wanted all this misery to end.

  From the looks of him, Nick had been suffering too. The desert blue of his eyes had faded to the dusk of an evening sky and something had happened to that smile she remembered. She couldn’t believe he was here. In her shop. In the middle of the morning.

  For a moment, when she’d first seen him, she had thought she’d conjured him up out of her desperation, from the dreams that played out in her mind at night.

  She didn’t dare ponder why he’d come. For now, at least, it was enough that he had, that he was here. She wouldn’t wonder why.

  “I—I missed you, too, Nick.” The words tumbled out and it was too late to snatch them back. “Even though I shouldn’t. I know how you feel about us … about—”

  He took the vase from her hands, setting it down on her small, disorderly work counter. She shivered as he stroked his thumb along the side of her cheek. She wanted him so much, she ached from it.

  “You don’t know how I feel about us, Fiona. I never told you, because I didn’t want to say the words and end up hurting you in the process. I didn’t want to bear the hurt myself, the disappointment, when what we shared was crushed into dust at our feet.”

  Fiona squeezed her eyes shut. Nothing had changed, then. Nick didn’t believe love could survive in the imperfect world he saw around him.

  Oh, why had he come here? Why did he want to say all this to her again? She was sure she couldn’t endure it—not a second time.

  “Fiona, we need to talk. Can you put a ‘closed’ sign in the window? Play hooky with me today?”

  She swallowed hard. A part of her wanted to, another part knew she’d only be hurt all over again. But she had to share one more moment with Nick—just one. And as his eyes caressed her face she knew she couldn’t summon the strength to refuse him.

  “All right. I’ll just set the answering machine and lock up.”

  Nick had never felt time creep by so slowly, but finally Fiona flipped the sign in the shop’s window and they pulled the front door shut behind them with a click.

  They retrieved his rental car from the hotel, and he found his way out of the city, driving along a meandering route that followed the shoreline. They stopped at a roadside place for lunch, devouring the fresh clams like two hungry urchins.

  After lunch they strolled on a quiet beach, her hand tucked into his, softly, securely. It felt so right, so perfect, so natural there—as if there were no problems, no barriers. And maybe there weren’t—except for the ones they’d erected themselves. He’d erected. To preserve his heart.

  He loved Fiona. If there’d been any doubt in his mind about that, seeing her again had answered it. He also knew he couldn’t live without her.

  “What did you want to talk to me about, Nick?” Her vo
ice was soft and low against the rush of the ocean. He wanted to hear it always, a throaty purr in the morning, a husky growl at night when they made love.

  He turned to her then and drew her against him. She felt so soft, so fragile. “I want you, Fiona.” He whispered the words into her hair. “I need you in my life. I know that now; I know I should never have let you go.”

  Fiona drew back and gazed up into his eyes. Something shimmered there that she wanted to believe was love, but she didn’t dare let herself hope. She had to protect her heart. Nick had stolen it; she couldn’t let him crush it.

  But then he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her. A kiss hot and full of want, the same want that surged through her. She was lost in the heat of him—hopelessly lost.

  Finally he broke the kiss and gazed down at her, vulnerable and needy. “I love you,” he murmured. “Do you think you could love me?”

  “Oh, Nick, I already do.”

  He studied her face as if searching for doubt in her answer. Lord help her, she had none—in spite of the risk she knew she was taking.

  “I’ve hurt you, Fiona. You believed in love and happily ever after and I—I couldn’t …”

  “Oh, Nick …” She would teach him, if only he would let her. She’d teach him if it took the rest of their lives.

  He drew her down on a rock at the edge of the sea, kissed her again, then stroked her face. “There’s so much I have to say to you, and I don’t know how to start.”

  She didn’t want to talk; she only wanted to taste him again, all his fire and passion, all that she had missed the past two weeks. But Nick was right—there was too much unsaid between them.

  “Just start,” she said, her words a bare whisper.

  He stood up, then began to pace the sand in front of them. “I’d been seeing the wrong side of love in my practice, Fiona, the side that got tangled up in selfishness and mistrust—and all the other things that can turn a marriage sour.”