Drop Dead Gorgeous (Blair Mallory #2)

Chapter Nine

I felt much better the next day, Sunday. The headache had subsided from a pounding presence to just a presence, and one that I could almost ignore.

Wyatt drove me over to his mother’s house so I could inspect the arbor; as Jenni had said, it needed a coat of paint—as well as scraping and sanding before it was painted. But it was the perfect size, and the shape was wonderful, with a graceful arch that reminded me of the onion domes on buildings in Moscow. Roberta was in love with the arbor and wanted it as a permanent addition to her garden. We agreed that sanding and painting the arbor was a perfect job for Wyatt, since he was in charge of the flowers.

I could tell from the faintly wary look in his eyes as he studied the arbor that he was beginning to realize “the flowers” meant more than a couple of vases and a bouquet. Roberta could barely hide her grin, but until he asked for help she was going to let him stew, while she quietly handled the flowers herself.

There was always a chance he wouldn’t ask for help—his inborn aggressive, dominant streak might keep him from admitting he couldn’t handle the job. We had agreed we wouldn’t let the charade go on any longer than two weeks. That was long enough to let him share in the stress, without actually letting him do something that would interfere with our plans.

Yes, it was mean. So?

From there we went to my parents’ house for lunch, to satisfy Mom’s need to fuss over me and my need to be fussed over. We were grilling pork chops—grilling is never out of season in the South—so Dad and Wyatt immediately went outside, beers in hand, to see to the grill. I thought it was cute, the way they’d bonded, two guys trying to stay afloat in a sea of estrogen.

Dad’s very philosophical and smart about it, but he’s had years of experience with Mom and Grammy—Grammy equals, like, two of me. Plus, Dad had raised three daughters. Wyatt, on the other hand, was accustomed to being immersed in guy stuff: first football, then law enforcement. Even worse, he’s an alpha personality, and has a hard time understanding the concept of “no.” Getting me was a testament to all the dominant, aggressive facets of his personality; keeping me was a testament to his intelligence, because he’d seen right away that Dad was an expert in the war between the sexes. Okay, so it isn’t really a war; it’s more like different species. Dad speaks the language. Wyatt was learning.

Mom and I got everything ready for the grilling to start, all the while making more war plans—er, wedding plans—and when the men took over the pork chops we had a few minutes to rest. She’d found a dress online that she liked, which she’d ordered, and she showed it to me on the computer. I wasn’t having any attendants, the wedding would be smaller and more informal than that, so I didn’t have to deal with picking out bridesmaids dresses or anything like that, thank heavens. We looked some more for the gown I had in mind and once again came up empty, which was really annoying because it wasn’t as if I wanted some over-the-top wedding dress with lace and flowers and seed-pearl embroidery. I’d had that the first time I got married, and didn’t want to go through the experience again.

“I know!” Mom suddenly said, her face lighting up with inspiration. “Sally can make the gown, and this way you’ll know it’ll fit perfectly. Sketch the design you want, and we can go tomorrow to find the fabric.”

“Call Sally first,” I suggested, “to make certain she can do it.”

Sally had her own troubles right now, what with Jazz being mad because she tried to hit him with her car, and her being mad because he ruined her bedroom by having it redecorated behind her back. They were living apart, after being married for thirty-five years, and they were both miserable. I was excited by the possibility that she could make the gown, though, because that was the perfect solution. Sally was a whiz with a sewing machine; she’d made Tammy’s prom gowns, which had looked gorgeous.

Mom called Sally right then. Sally said of course she could do it, then Mom passed the phone to me and I described the gown I wanted to Sally, who, bless her, said it would be simple to make. It was a simple design, no frou-frou to it at all. The way I envisioned it, the magic would be in the flow of the fabric and the way it fit, and Wyatt wouldn’t be able to think of anything except getting me alone and out of the gown.

I was so relieved I could barely stand it. I still had to find the perfect fabric, but finding fabric is much easier than finding the perfect ready-made gown. If I’d been prepared to settle for something that merely looked good I wouldn’t have been so worried, but I’m not the best in the world at “settling.” Sometimes I have to, but I don’t like it.

Over lunch we told Dad and Wyatt how Sally was saving the day. “She needs something to get her mind off Jazz, too,” Mom said.

Wyatt’s gaze met mine and I saw his expression. It isn’t that he doesn’t get Mom’s and my position on the matter, which is that Jazz deserved being hit with a car for what he did, because I’ve explained it to him; it’s that his cop instincts are outraged. He looks at Sally trying to ram Jazz with her car as attempted murder, even though Jazz jumped out of the way and wasn’t hurt, and he thinks Jazz should have reported the incident to the police and pressed charges against her. Sometimes I think his sense of right and wrong is a little warped by all those criminal justice classes he took in college.

He didn’t say anything, but I knew he wasn’t happy about Sally making my dress; I also knew he’d have plenty to say when we were alone, but he wasn’t going to start an argument in front of my parents, especially when it was about Mom’s best friend. The glint in his eyes, though, told me we’d be discussing it plenty when we were alone.

I didn’t mind. I was in an unassailable position. No matter what decision was made about any part of our wedding, it was All His Fault, because his deadline was what had precipitated the rush. I just love unassailable positions—so long as I’m the one occupying them.

He barely waited until I was buckled into the seat of the Avalanche before he attacked. “Can’t you find someone else to make your wedding dress?”

“There isn’t enough time,” I said sweetly.

He saw right away where that was going, and detoured. “She tried to kill her husband.”

I gave a wave of my hand. “I don’t see the connection between that and making my dress. And I’ve told you: she didn’t try to kill him, she just wanted to maim him a little.”

He shot me an unreadable glance. “Two days ago I watched a videotape of someone trying to hit you with a car. Don’t talk to me about ‘maiming a little.’ A car is deadly. She was going so fast she couldn’t stop before she hit the house. If Jazz hadn’t jumped out of the way, he’d have been pinned between the car and the house. Do I have to find scene photographs to show you the damage that can be done to the human body in situations like that?”

Damn it all to hell and back, I absolutely hate it when he makes a point that overrides my unassailable position.

He was right. Viewed from his vantage point as a cop, which meant he regularly saw things that would give me nightmares, he was right. Sally had acted with complete disregard for Jazz’s life and well-being. Not only that, I knew that if our positions were reversed and I’d watched someone try to kill Wyatt, I wouldn’t be the least forgiving about it.

“Shit.”

One of his level brows lifted. “Does that mean you agree?”

“It means I see your point.” I tried not to sound sulky. I don’t think I succeeded, because he hid a quick grin.

This was now a sticky wicket, because Sally had already agreed to make my dress; not only that, she was excited about it, because Sally loves my sisters and me almost as much as she loves her own kids. We’re like family. I couldn’t find someone else to make the dress now without really hurting her feelings. For that matter, in the short length of time I had, I probably couldn’t find anyone else to make the dress, period.

I wasn’t dumb enough to bang my head against the dashboard in frustration, but I felt like it.

Wyatt had caused this dilemma by using common sense. That’s cheating. So I threw it back in his lap. That’s only fair, right? “Okay, here’s the deal: I’m really, really short on time. The odds are I won’t be able to get the dress made by a professional, because they’ll all already be booked. It’s possible I can find what I want ready-made, but I didn’t find anything in the mall and I haven’t found anything online. If you insist, I’ll somehow find a way to back out of letting Sally make my dress, but , you’ll have to live with the consequences if I have to get married in whatever dress I can find at the last minute.”

I was deadly serious in my tone and expression, maybe because I was deadly serious. I wasn’t taking this lightly. I had a dream, a vision of how I wanted my wedding to him to be, and a big part of that dream was seeing the look in his eyes when I walked toward him wearing this killer gown. It was a moment something in me needed, something that had taken a big hit when I found out my ex was unfaithful. I didn’t go around whining about it all the time, but I hadn’t escaped my first marriage totally baggage-free; I had a couple of small carry-ons that had to be dealt with.

He gave me a quick, piercing look, gauging my sincerity. Really, I don’t know why he didn’t just take what I said at face value. Okay, so I do know. Probably it should bother me that the man I love doesn’t trust me, but it would bother me a whole lot more if he were fool enough that he did trust me. I’m not talking about cheating on him sexually or emotionally because that wasn’t going to happen, but in our own private little battle for relationship turf, all strategies were fair. He’d made that rule himself, with his damn-the-torpedoes, get-her-at-all-costs pursuit of me. Actually, he hadn’t even pursued me; he’d grabbed me and refused to let go.

Remembering that gave me a little flutter, both in my heart and farther down, and I squirmed a little.

He swore under his breath, jerking his gaze back to the street. “Damn it, stop squirming. You do that every time you think about sex.”

“I do?” Maybe I did. But he was…squirmworthy.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel, reminding me that we hadn’t made love since Wednesday night, and it was now Sunday. He’d relieved some of my tension the night before, but as good as he was with his hands and mouth it just wasn’t the same as his penis. Some things are made to go together, you know?

Wyatt, on the other hand, hadn’t had any relief unless he’d taken care of the matter while he showered. Considering the whiteness of his knuckles, I didn’t think he had.

“We were talking about Sally,” he said, his tone rough and tense.

I fought to bring my thoughts back on subject. “I’ve told you what I think.”

He took a couple of breaths. “Exactly what will be the consequences if you don’t get married in this dress you want so much?”

“I don’t know,” I said simply. “I just know it’ll hurt me.”

“Shit,” he muttered. He doesn’t mind driving me nuts, making me angry, or frustrating the hell out of me, but he’ll move heaven and earth to keep from hurting me. Every women should be loved like that. My heart swelled, or it felt as if it did. That’s a scary sensation, too, because if your heart really swelled it could probably tear some of the plumbing lines loose, or something.

He was silent for about two blocks and I began to tense, wondering what he was thinking. Wyatt’s too smart to let him think for long, or he’ll come up with—

“Get them back together,” he said.

My brain felt as if all the gray stuff was suddenly squeezed together. “What?” Damn it, damn it! Was he serious? I assumed he was talking about Sally and Jazz, but their own children couldn’t even get them in the same room together. I should have interrupted him at least a block back, jerked the steering wheel or something, or maybe clutched my head and fallen over, except then he’d have taken me to the ER again, and I’d had enough of that place.

“Sally and Jazz,” he said, confirming my fear that he was trying to completely derail me. “Get them back together. Make them sit down and talk this out. I figure if you can get Jazz to move past his wife trying to kill him, then I’ll have to admit I’m taking this too seriously.”

“Are you nuts ?” I shrieked, rounding on him, which wasn’t a good idea because the sudden movement shifted my headache from a mere presence into an attention-getter. I did clutch my head, but I didn’t fall over.

“Be careful,” he said sharply.

“Don’t tell me to be careful after you throw something like that in my lap!” Just when I thought he couldn’t get any more outrageous or demanding, he pulled something like that. He’s a diabolical fiend.

“It’s roughly equivalent to what you threw in mine.” His eyes were glittering, sharp little green lights of mixed temper and satisfaction.

Oh. He’d noticed that, huh?

“You aren’t incapacitated with a concussion! Or by a concussion. Whatever.”

“You’re recovering fast,” he said with a notable lack of compassion. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you went back to work tomorrow.”

I had, in fact, been planning on just that. I scowled at him, which he took for an admission.

“I’m not a marriage counselor,” I said in frustration. “Even worse, I’m almost like one of their own children. They won’t listen to their kids, why do you think they’ll listen to me?”

“That’s your problem,” he said, again with a notable lack of compassion.

“You don’t think it’ll be your problem if I’m not happy at our wedding? Didn’t you hear me say I’m short on time ? This will take time I don’t have!”

“Make time.”

He thought he was so smart. I narrowed my eyes at him. “Okay. I’ll take the time we would have spent making love, and that’s when I’ll talk to Sally and Jazz.”

He actually laughed out loud at that. Yeah, I know my track record for refusing him anything is really pretty sucky, but he laughed.

One cannot flounce when one has a concussion, even one that’s mild. I didn’t even want to get out of his truck by myself, because it’s a big truck and you have to climb down, and if I landed just a little too hard my head would be jarred and that was really no fun at all. So I had to wait for him to come around and lift me out of the truck, which he did with great pleasure because then he could let me slide all the way down his front, and I almost got caught on the parts that were jutting out, which made him smile with satisfaction.

This man was evil.

I said furiously, “ If we ever have sex again, which right now is very much in doubt, we’re doing it the tantric way.”

He was grinning as he followed me up the steps to the front door. “I’m not chanting anything when we have sex.”

“Oh, it doesn’t involve chanting. I don’t think. It involves discipline.”

“I’m not letting you anywhere near a whip.”

I scoffed. “Not that kind of discipline. Self-discipline. Tantric sex lasts a long, long time.”

“Now that I can get behind,” he said, looking interested.

Smiling sweetly I said, “Oh, good, we’ll try that, then. You promise, don’t you?”

“You bet,” he said, his libido getting in the way of thinking clearly. That state of affairs wouldn’t last for long, though, so I hurried in for the kill.

“By the way—”

“Yeah?”

“It lasts a long, long time because the man doesn’t get to come. ”