Full Throttle & Wrong Bride, Right Groom Read online

  “Wh-what’s in this?”

  “Hot chocolate. A little rum. The finest cognac money can buy. And several other ingredients from the well-stocked bar that you probably don’t want to know about.”

  “Good Lord!” Tears trickling down her cheeks, Abby gaped at the innocuous-looking mug.

  “The PJs have a name for this particular pick-me-up,” Pete told her, grinning. “But we don’t use it in mixed company.”

  “I’m not surprised!” She swiped the back of her hand across her eyes. “Is that what you call yourselves, you and Jordy? PJs?”

  “It’s an old abbreviation, for parajumpers. We’re assigned to pararescue or special tactics now, but the original initials still follow us around.” He gestured with his own mug. “Why don’t you sit down by the fire and recover?”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever recover.”

  She crossed the oak floor and sank into a love seat done in a rich blue-green-and-gold plaid. Pete took the facing love seat, his long legs angled toward the fire and a lazy smile tugging at his mouth. He’d pulled on a blue cotton shirt, she saw, and well-used running shoes that undoubtedly saw duty with the warm sweats she was now wearing. His beaver-brown hair glistened with dark lights, telling Abby that he’d taken advantage of the shower stall upstairs sometime prior to her extended occupancy.

  He looked loose, and more relaxed than she’d yet seen him. And very much at home amid the luxury of oak paneling, rich fabrics and the fine handcrafted furnishings that filled the cottage. Strange, Abby mused, taking another, far more cautious sip from the steaming mug. With his rugged, uncompromising features and tough exterior, she wouldn’t have imagined that he could appear so…so approachable.

  And so incredibly sexy.

  “I’ll go down and take a look at the van in the morning,” he said, breaking into her disturbing thoughts. “Maybe I can get it out of the ditch.”

  “Maybe. But you’ll have to unwrap the back end from around a pine tree first.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “That bad. Oh, well, Beth’s been urging me to retire the Antiquemobile for ages. I guess it’s time to think about a replacement.”

  “That’s one thing your sister and I can agree on, anyway.”

  Abby threw him a warning look. Wisely, he retreated to safer ground.

  “Are you hungry? I started to call the kitchen and ask them to deliver that cake you promised me, but I thought I’d better wait and see if you were still up to it.”

  “Rum-soaked raisins on top of the PJs’ special concoction? I don’t think so. But I wouldn’t mind a taste of the standing rib roast and Vidalia-onion soufflé I ordered for the wedding supper.”

  “Onion soufflé?”

  The doubtful note in his voice won a chuckle from her. “Trust me. It’s the chef’s specialty. People come from all over the South just to experience it.”

  “If you say so. Hang tight. I’ll call room service.”

  He went across the room to consult the resort directory on the desk angled beside a curtained floor-to-ceiling window. A few moments later he returned, a crease between his dark brows.

  “They promised to do their best, but it’ll take a while. The overflow of football fans and a number of strategic personnel absences due to the weather have taxed their resources to the limit.”

  Abby tucked her toes under her on the well-cushioned couch, not altogether unhappy about the delay. So she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast? So her stomach had performed a joyous leap at the mere mention of food? She wouldn’t mind some time before the fire to savor her potent drink, and the even more potent male opposite her.

  “In case my teeth were chattering too loudly for you to hear it before, I want to thank you again for taking me in. And for the, ah, physical exam.”

  His eyes glinted at her delicate reference to the way he’d stripped her of everything but her underwear and her granny boots, then run his hands over her body. Even in her wet, shaking state, Abby had seen that he knew what he was doing. “You’re welcome.”

  “Is that part of your job? Giving first aid, I mean.”

  “We can do a little better than first aid. Every PJ qualifies for national level certification as an EMT before graduating from our academy. We’re also trained in arctic and jungle survival, aircrew operations and underwater egress.”

  “And jumping out of airplanes,” she added with a grimace.

  A shadow rippled across his face. Or it might have been the flickering firelight. It was gone so swiftly, she wasn’t sure.

  “That’s part of the job,” he replied evenly. “Not my favorite part, I’ll admit.”

  “Which is?”

  His shoulders relaxed under their covering of blue cotton. “Putting our chopper down beside a smoking pile of wreckage and watching a crew member run toward us, a grin plastered across his face. Or her face,” he amended, with a smile at Abby. “A growing number of our air force aircrew members are women.”

  “Good for them!”

  His smile broadened. “Right now, women are barred from participating in direct combat, which includes combat rescue. But I don’t think it’ll be long before the first female PJ reports for duty.”

  Abby knew little about the military, and nothing at all about combat rescue, but she’d heard enough about Tailhook and other scandals in the news to suspect that not all military men welcomed females in their ranks. Curious about where Pete stood on the matter, she probed further.

  “Will you have a problem accepting a female PJ?”

  “I’ve been in rescue twenty-two years. It’s my life. I’ll accept anyone or anything that improves our ability to perform our mission.”

  The quiet dignity of his reply gave Abby her first glimpse behind Pete O’Brian’s impenetrable exterior. This man was a far more complex creature than his tough-guy image suggested.

  “What about you, Abigail? How long have you been into antiques?”

  “How did you know I’m in the antique business?”

  “Jordy told me. He also gave me your phone numbers at home and at work, in case there was a foul-up at the airport and Beth and I missed each other.”

  They both left unsaid just how big a foul-up occurred at the airport.

  “I was going to call you tomorrow, you know,” he added slowly, almost reluctantly.

  Surprise and pleasure percolated through her. “No, I didn’t know.”

  “I wanted to make sure you got home okay. Besides, I owed you a dinner, remember?”

  Abby remembered. She also remembered that she’d intended to find out a bit more about him during that dinner…like his exact marital status. She nibbled on her lower lip, searching for a subtle way to find out what she wanted to know. There wasn’t one, she decided, so she opted for a direct approach.

  “I don’t usually accept dinner invitations from men I don’t know. Is there someone waiting for you in England who might object to us dining together?”

  “No, I’m divorced. My wife got tired of a husband who spent more time in the air than on the ground.”

  Even though that was the answer she’d been looking for, Abby felt uncomfortable at having pried it out of him.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “It happened a long time ago. Almost eight years, and I still spend more time in the air than on the ground. Too much to form the kind of relationship where anyone would be waiting for me when I got down, anyway. How about you?” he asked, neatly turning the tables. “Anyone waiting for you at home?”

  His frank response deserved an equally honest answer.

  “No, no one. I’ve been too busy with work and getting Beth through school. And with studying for my appraiser’s license.” She couldn’t resist adding a pleased little footnote. “I got it last year.”

  “Okay, I admit my ignorance. What does a person do with an appraiser’s license?”

  “Detailed descriptions of antiques for insurance purposes, mostly. Also, I value the contents of homes and
conduct sales when families need to dispose of an estate. Right now I’m working out of shop called Things Past, but I plan to open my own business.”

  “Your own antique business? I’m impressed.”

  Abby took another sip of the chocolate neutron bomb, then set it aside. Once a person knew what to expect, the drink was actually pretty palatable. Welcome warmth curled in her tummy as she drew up her legs and propped her chin on her knees.

  “I’ve been saving every penny since Beth finished college,” she confided. “And spending every weekend scouring the countryside for stock. I’ve got things stashed in rental storage facilities all around Atlanta.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “All kinds of things. Primitives. Glassware. Jewelry. Beautiful pieces of period furniture.”

  “Good stuff, huh?”

  Warmed by the chocolate and his interest, Abby opened up far more than she usually did. Beth didn’t share her passion for all things old and well loved. Marissa did, of course, but for obvious reasons, Abby hadn’t told her boss about her careful acquisitions.

  “You should see the George IV four-poster bed I found in an old barn outside Macon.” Her eyes lit up as she described her treasure. “It’s solid mahogany. Crafted by one of the premier cabinetmakers in England. I’ve traced it to a bill of lading written in 1838. It was shipped to Twelve Oaks Plantation as a birthday gift for Mrs. Burgess Clement, of the Macon Clements.”

  “Pretty fancy pedigree.”

  The fervent light in Abby’s cinnamon-brown eyes fascinated Pete. This was an aspect of her he hadn’t yet seen. Vibrant. Glowing. Lost in the pleasure of her profession.

  His fingers tightened on the ceramic mug. What would it take, he wondered, to nudge that pleasure one step further? To make it less professional? More personal?

  “The bed was on Twelve Oaks’ property inventory until well after the War between the States,” she continued. “Mrs. Clements passed it to one of her granddaughters, who in turn passed it to one of the great-great-granddaughters. Can you imagine all the Clement women who must have slept in that bed? Birthed their babies there? Welcomed their men home there?”

  Her soft, dreamy query evoked a juxtaposition of Abby and beds that took Pete by the throat. He swallowed, hard, and set his mug aside. No more of the PJs’ special concoction for him. He had enough trouble reining in his galloping fantasies as it was.

  His abrupt movement drew her out of her reverie. Smiling, she brought him into the conversation. “I’ll bet you’ve seen the inside of some beautiful manor houses in England, filled with all kinds of treasures.”

  Pete had seen the inside of more pubs than manor houses, but he responded to the deep-seated need in her eyes.

  “I’ve been to Windsor a few times. And to Stonecross Keep, which isn’t far from Mildenhall, where we’re stationed.”

  “Really? What period is it?”

  “Stonecross? Norman, I think. It’s pretty solid, all square towers and stone battlements.”

  “What about the inside? How is it furnished?”

  Pete’s mouth curved. If one of his troops had told him he’d be spending an evening discussing castle furniture with a woman who triggered some very fundamental instincts in him, he would have sent the man for a psych eval. Hoping that none of this would get ever back to Jordy, he searched his memory for details of medieval furnishings.

  Either his account of black-beamed ceilings and big, square trestle tables was more boring than even he thought it would be, or the PJs’ brew was more potent than Abby was used to. Halfway through his rambling discourse, her lids fluttered down. Once. Twice. The third time, they didn’t quite make it back up.

  Pete droned on, inventing details when his sketchy memory failed. After the shock of the accident, she could probably use a short nap until dinner arrived. He wouldn’t mind resting his sandpapery eyelids for a few minutes, either.

  Her jaw waggled on its perch atop her knees, then slid off. She jerked awake, embarrassment staining her cheeks. Moments later, she sagged against the couch. She was out for the count.

  Moving with a stealth unaffected by his stiff knee, Pete mounted the stairs and pulled a couple of blankets from the closet at the rear of the loft. When he tucked the downy royal blue cover around Abby’s shoulders, she gave a little mewl of delight and burrowed into its warmth. Her chin caught Pete’s hand. Sighing, she dug a nest for it in his palm.

  Smiling, he gave in to temptation and stroked the side of her jaw with his thumb. Her skin felt as silky as it looked, reminding him of the rippling, sun-warmed stream he used to fish in as a boy. Her scent drifted up to him, a mixture of shower soap and chocolate. Pete detected her soft, steady pulse under his thumb pad. His tripped into double time.

  The lust he felt for Abby expanded, deepened, took on different shapes and colors. Like those in a kaleidoscope, the shapes had no meaning. The colors tumbled and changed too swiftly to have any substance. Pete felt the subtle shift, and it was all he could do not to gather her in his arms and join her on the plaid love seat.

  Exercising a discretion he suspected he’d regret later, he retreated to the opposite sofa. Then he rested his head against the high back, propped his feet on the oak coffee table and gave himself up to the pleasure of watching the firelight play on Abby’s face.

  Minutes, or maybe hours, later, a muffled thump jerked him from a deep, exhausted sleep.

  Groggy, he decided that dinner must have finally arrived. Only after he pushed himself upright did he realize that someone had turned off the heat. And the lights. An inky blackness pierced only by a dim red glow from the dying fire blanketed the entire cottage. Cold air knifed into his lungs with each breath.

  Instant, instinctive wariness wiped away his grogginess. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

  His gaze narrowed on the empty love seat opposite his. As swift and silent as a jungle cat, he rose to his feet. The tension that had become second nature to him in the past few weeks coiled in his gut. Like a predator seeking its prey, he searched the darkness.

  She was down on one knee beside his leather carryall. Undershirts spilled onto the floor, forming vague white blurs. In the meager glow from the fire, the object she held in her hand was unmistakable. Its twisted, tortured shape had been burned into Pete’s soul.

  He crossed the floor in three noiseless strides. Wrapping a hard hand around her upper arm, he yanked her to her feet. She gave a startled squeak and dropped the piece of metal. It clattered on the oak flooring and lay between them like a small, lethal bomb.

  Pete’s fingers dug into her soft flesh. “What the hell were you doing with that?”

  Chapter 4

  Speechless with surprise, Abby stared at the man who gripped her. His face was a shadowed mask in the dim red glow of the fire, but she couldn’t mistake the anger in his dark eyes.

  When she didn’t respond immediately, he bent, dragging her down with him, and scooped up the bit of metal.

  “Answer me, dammit. What did you want with this?”

  Abby found her voice, and a healthy surge of anger, as well.

  “I didn’t want anything with it. It fell out on the floor when I was digging through your underwear, and I picked it up.”

  “You want to tell me why you were digging through my gear?”

  “You want to let go of my arm?”

  They faced each other, his eyes cold and flat, hers narrowed to daggers behind a shield of thick lashes. Abby stood her ground, unflinching. The silence stretched between them like a challenge.

  At last he uncurled his fingers, one by one. The apology, when it came, sounded like the scrape of broken glass.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You should be,” she shot back, giving him a look that should have sliced six inches off him then and there. “You scared me half to death. Just what is that thing, anyway?”

  His jaw squared. “A static-line retriever support.”

  “Oh, that tells me a lot!”

 
Imperceptibly the stark lines in his face eased. He rolled his shoulders, as if shifting a mountainous weight, and sidestepped her sarcastic retort.

  “What were you doing in my carryall?”

  “If you must know, I was looking for another pair of socks.”

  She was more exasperated than angry now, and a little embarrassed at having been caught rooting around in his underwear, although she wasn’t about to admit it.

  “My feet were cold. They are cold. They’re freezing, as a matter of fact. Along with the rest of me. I didn’t think you’d mind if I borrowed another pair of socks, since everything else I’m wearing at this moment happens to be yours. Obviously, I was wrong.”

  “You’re welcome to the socks.”

  “Thank you very much. Now, would you mind telling what the heck this little scene is all about? And then turn up the heat in this place,” Abby added, rubbing her arms as a series of shivers racked her. “You may enjoy sleeping on glaciers and ice packs. I don’t.”

  “I didn’t turn off the heat,” he replied, his voice almost back to its normal rumble. “Or the lights, for that matter. We must have blown a fuse. I’ll go find the circuit box.”

  He slipped the shard of metal into his pocket and started to turn away. This time it was Abby who latched on to an arm with a tight grip.

  “Oh, no, you don’t. I want an answer, O’Brian. I think I deserve one, after that little display of overdone machoism. What the heck just happened here? What is that bit of metal, anyway?”

  A tight almost-smile cranked up one corner of his mouth. “Machoism? Is that a word?”

  “If it isn’t, it should be. It’s the only way to describe your behavior.” She folded her arms across her sweatshirt-clad chest. “I’m waiting.”

  “You’re also freezing,” he pointed out.

  His gaze skimmed down to her feet, crossed one over the other in a futile attempt to warm her ice-cold digits. As he took in her awkward, pigeon-toed stance, the remaining tension drained from his face.