Full Throttle & Wrong Bride, Right Groom Read online

  Common sense had motivated her to draw back from Pete’s kiss. Her body had reacted to him on a more instinctive level, seeking warmth and comfort and a closeness that was all too physical.

  His body had reacted, too.

  Abby’s face burned as she remembered how she’d dozed off and somehow hitched a leg up his hip. She’d come awake with a start when he gave a little grunt and tried to ease her knee from his groin. They’d both pretended not to notice the rigid protrusion her knee bumped against as it resumed its rightful place.

  “Are you finally awake?”

  She responded to the amused query by hunching the blankets up over her ears.

  “No.”

  “Not ready to face the winter wonderland yet?”

  She wasn’t ready to face him, not while the memory of what her knee had encountered during its inadvertent explorations remained so vivid.

  “I thought you might want to know the cottage has a gas water heater. There’s enough left in the tank for a quick shower, if you want one.”

  Abby poked her head out of the blankets. Suddenly her layers of T-shirts and sweats and socks and blankets felt a little gamy.

  “I want one.”

  He grinned, and the thought rocketed through Abby that any woman who wasn’t severely hormonally challenged would enjoy waking up to that particular arrangement of facial features. If only it came packaged with one or two of her more basic requirements for a mate, like a cheerful acceptance of Beth, with all her exasperating faults. Or a desire to build a nest, and occasionally occupy it.

  From what Pete had told her last night, the military was far more than a profession to him. It was part of his being. An essential core of training and experience that had sent him plunging through a night sky to snatch a tumbling body back from certain death. Abby couldn’t see a man like Pete O’Brian needing roots, especially not the comfortable Sunday-morning-pancake-breakfast kind she craved.

  “I saw more wood stacked in a shed a little way down the road,” he told her. “I’ll go retrieve some while you hit the showers. Then we’ll decide what to do about breakfast.”

  The mere thought of something other than sour-cream potato chips was enough to get Abby off the love seat and up the stairs. She enjoyed roughly three and a half minutes of hot water before the pulsing stream started to run tepid. When she stepped out of the glass cubicle, instant goose bumps danced all over her skin.

  Unfortunately, her black velveteen dress hadn’t dried before the electricity went out last night. It was still draped over the edge of the tub where Abby had wrung it out, frozen into position. Tiny bits of ice fell off the white lace collar when she fingered it. Pete’s maroon sweats, slept-in though they were, would have to do for a little while longer yet.

  With the speed of an actor changing between onstage scenes, Abby ripped off the terry robe and dived into the sweats. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she pulled on one pair of socks, then reached for another. A blur of movement outside caught her attention. Socks in hand, she rose to peer through the sliding glass doors that gave onto the balcony.

  Pete was making his way down a steep slope to a shed set midway between the honeymoon cottage and its nearest neighbor, some hundred or so yards away. Traversing that sharp incline wasn’t an easy task. The ground beneath his feet glittered with a layer of bright, shining crystal. Thick sleeves of glistening ice bowed the pines’ branches, many of which had broken off under the crushing weight. The road leading away from the cottage gleamed like a ribbon of black coal in the sunlight. Its slick surface was no doubt why Pete had abandoned the road to work his way down the stubbled hillside.

  He appeared to constitute the only living thing in this frozen, fantastic tableau. With his dark hair, brown bomber jacket and blue jeans, he stood out against the glittering background. Clutching the socks, Abby stood by the windows, watching as he slipped and slid on the treacherous slope.

  Her heart jumped to her throat when he went down on one knee. His bad knee, she saw at once. Even from her elevated perspective, she couldn’t miss the grimace that twisted his face. He gripped his leg just above the kneecap and pushed himself up.

  “Oh, Pete!”

  Her heartfelt murmur of sympathy hung on the cold air. Biting her lip, she watched him struggle to rise. Absorbed in the drama, she didn’t notice the shadow coming out of the trees beside him right away. When she did, she couldn’t figure out just what it was that had snared her attention.

  Her first thought was that it was some kind of an animal. Something big and furry and bent over. Whatever it was, it came close to the size of a man.

  Good God! Were there bears in this part of Georgia?

  She jerked forward, driven by an instinctive urge to yank open the windows and alert Pete to possible danger. She had both hands on the window latch when a flash of bright color snagged her eye. Her heart pounding, she squinted through the searing glare. Then she sagged against the glass doors, feeling weak with relief and slightly idiotic.

  This particular variety of Georgia bear shaved its legs and wore red ankle boots. It also appeared to be friendly. Very friendly, judging by the way it slipped an arm around Pete’s waist and clung to him for support.

  While Abby watched from above, Pete and the…creature started up the slope toward the cottage. Slowly. Carefully. Picking their way around pines and fallen branches. As they neared, Abby saw that the fur was reddish in color, more foxlike than bearish. From the length and stylish drape of the covering, she was willing to bet it wasn’t the fake fun fur advocated by the politically correct.

  Abby pulled on the second pair of socks and made her way to the front door to greet them. When she stepped onto the small porch, dazzling brightness blinded her. Flinging up a arm to shield her eyes from the glittering array of color and light, she squinted through the glare. Icy air knifed into her lungs with every breath.

  Pete caught sight of her from twenty yards away and waved. It was not the wave of a man locked in a mortal struggle with a wild creature, Abby noted wryly.

  “We’ve got company,” he called, his breath frosting on the air. “This is Cherry. She and her husband are in the next cottage.”

  Abby peered at the black silk scarf wrapped around the woman’s head. It covered her forehead, her nose, her mouth. It covered everything but a pair of sultry green eyes framed by impossibly long black lashes.

  “Their phone and electricity are out, too,” Pete reported, still panting from the climb. “Cherry saw me outside and came to see if ours was working.”

  The woman lifted a hand to push back her scarf. Flaming red hair spilled out, as vibrant and eye-catching as a flashing hazard signal.

  “Poor Pete.” She gave a husky, contralto laugh. “I practically fell into his arms when I got to him. He wasn’t sure whether I was introducing myself or attacking him.”

  “Really?”

  Abby declined to mention that she hadn’t been all that sure, either. She didn’t want to admit that she’d been on the verge of charging out of the cottage to rescue Pete from the clutches of a…Cherry.

  The unwitting victim frowned as he took in her attire. “What are you doing outside without any shoes?”

  “They weren’t dry enough to put on yet.”

  “Well, you’d better get inside, before those ice cubes you call toes fall off. You and Cherry both. We decided we’d better combine forces to conserve firewood,” he explained. “There’s no telling how long it will take for the power to come back on.”

  “Oh. Good thinking.”

  “I’m going to go back down and tell…” He arched a question at the woman next to him. “Irvin.”

  “I’ll tell Irvin, and bring him back with me.”

  “Have him bring the rest of the party tray that’s in the fridge,” Cherry called as Pete started back down the slope, step by cautious step. “And the baguettes. Oh, and the Grey Poupon. I can’t eat Danish ham without it.”

  Abby gave a joyous gasp. The strange feelin
g she’d experienced at the sight of this gorgeous, fox-furred female nestled against Pete’s side evaporated.

  “You have food? Real food?”

  “Tons of it,” Cherry replied with a friendly smile as she followed Abby inside. “You wouldn’t guess it to see Irv, he’s such a pipsqueak, but he chows down like a team of Clydesdales. He called ahead and made sure our cottage was well stocked before we checked in yesterday. Hey, this place is something!”

  The statuesque redhead stood in the center of the room and spun in a slow circle. Her viridescent eyes gleamed as they took in the majestic proportions of the main sitting room, the soaring, beamed ceiling, the blues and greens and golds that gave richness and warmth to the oak furnishings.

  “It’s the honeymoon suite,” Abby explained as she scooped a blanket from the love seat and draped it around her shoulders. Lifting a foot, she propped it on the hearth to toast.

  “The honeymoon suite! Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry! Pete didn’t tell me you were on your honeymoon.” Hitching up the collar of her coat, Cherry headed for the door. “You two don’t want Irv and me around while you invent new ways to keep warm.”

  “No, wait! We’re not married. I mean, we’re not on our honeymoon. That is, I’m not…”

  When she stumbled to a halt, the other woman laughed and gave her a knowing wink.

  “That’s okay. Irvin and I aren’t married, either. Well, he is. Sort of. He should have signed the divorce papers ages ago, but now he’s decided he wants the Lincoln.”

  Abby lifted her other foot to the blaze, both amused and a bit daunted by the other woman’s forthright disclosures. Shaking her fiery mane in disgust, Cherry strolled over to the hearth.

  “I mean, why go to court over a four-year-old Lincoln? If they were fighting over her Jag, or the Maserati Irv bought me last year, I could see it. But a Lincoln? I ask you, does that make sense?”

  Pouty red lips demanded an answer.

  “Maybe it has sentimental value,” Abby offered weakly.

  The other woman huffed, then suddenly stilled. An arrested expression came into her vivid green eyes.

  “You know,” she said slowly, “you might just have something there. Irv and I almost wore out the shocks when we got caught in traffic after a Cowboys night game last year. For a little guy, he sure can…”

  “The Cowboys?” Abby interjected hastily. “Are you from Dallas?”

  “Irv has his practice there, although he was born right here in Georgia, which is why we come back for this silly game every year. I’m from nowhere in particular. What about you, sweet— Say, what’s your name, anyway?”

  “I’m Abby. Abby Davis.”

  The visitor slid her hand from her coat pocket and extended it. A chunk of amethyst the size of Rhode Island caught the morning light, sending purple lasers all through the sitting room.

  “I’m Cheryl Pryoskovich, but I go by my stage name, Cherry Delight.”

  Abby tried. She really tried. But she couldn’t quite hold back a little choke as she shook Ms. Delight’s hand.

  At her helpless gurgle, Cherry’s infectious laughter sprang loose. “I know, I know….”

  Lifting her hands, she cascaded her thick mane through her fingers. In the process, she also let her coat drape open. Abby caught a glimpse of a minuscule fire-hydrant-red skirt, and a matching sweater stretched tight across a bust that could only be termed magnificent.

  “With this orange hair, it was either Cherry Delight or Tomato Toots. I never would’ve broken out of skin flicks with that one following me around.”

  While Abby digested that interesting bit of information, her guest tucked her hands back in her pockets and glanced around the cottage once more.

  “So you and Pete aren’t married, huh? He must have it really bad for you to put you up in style like this. What does he do, anyway?”

  “He’s in the air force, and he doesn’t have it bad for me. We’re just…acquaintances.”

  “Sure you are, sweetie,” Cherry teased. “I suppose that’s why you’re wearing his sweatshirt? And why he was so worried about your little toesies?”

  Abby had a feeling she wasn’t going to win this one, but she gave it another try.

  “Actually, I reserved this cottage for my sister and her fiancé. They were supposed to get married yesterday, but Beth chickened out. Then Pete showed up at the airport with the news that the groom had shipped out on a no-notice deployment.”

  “So you decided to stand in for the bride, and Pete played groom.” Cherry waggled her auburn brows. “You lucky thing. If I didn’t have Irv to play with, I wouldn’t mind a few parlor games with a hunk of masculine maleness like Petie-kins, myself.”

  Abby gave up. She cast around in her mind for a polite topic of conversation, and had just decided there wasn’t one when she heard the stomp of booted feet outside. Relief coursed through her, and curiosity about the man who held this stunning woman’s affections.

  Pete opened the door and stood aside. A balding, stoop-shouldered man in wire-rim glasses rushed in.

  “Has it come on?” he demanded. He swiped at his glasses with a gloved hand to clear the frost and answered himself immediately. “No, I can feel it hasn’t. It’s freezing in here. Damn!”

  Cherry had said that her…friend…was a little guy, but Abby had assumed she’d exaggerated somewhat.

  She hadn’t.

  The top of Irv’s shiny head couldn’t reach the buxom redhead’s chin. Padded as he was in a blue ski jacket and what looked like five or six layers of sweaters and shirts, he appeared almost as round as he was tall.

  “Irv, sweetie, come meet Abby.”

  “In a minute. Let me try one of these outlets first. Just in case.”

  Her eyes widening, Abby watched him get down on hands and knees and stab a plug at a wall socket. He sat back, fumbling inside his jacket for a moment, then pulled out a five-inch TV set and held it a few inches away from his nose.

  “Nothing! Damn!”

  “Irv…”

  “Hang on a minute. I want to try another plug.”

  Scrambling along the oak floor on all fours, he tried the next outlet. Then the next.

  Abby swung her incredulous gaze back to Pete. Grinning, he deposited a bulging pillowcase on the coffee table.

  “Irv was hoping we might have juice coming in from a separate line. Just enough to get the game.”

  Good Lord! Abby had forgotten all about the game. The big Thanksgiving shoot-out. This was also the day a good part of the nation would sit down to a mouth-watering feast of turkey and dressing. Sweet-potato pie topped with pecans and little marshmallows. Green peas and rolls dripping with butter.

  She eyed the bulging pillowcase on the coffee table with a combination of hope and resignation.

  “It’s bad enough the Pines didn’t sand the roads so we could get out of here and make it to the stadium,” Irv complained as he got to his feet. “There’s no excuse for this extended power outage. Anderson’s going to hear about it, that’s for sure.”

  “Walt Anderson’s chairman of the corporation that owns the Pines,” Cherry explained in an aside to Abby. “Along with a string of other resorts. Irv does his gums, you know.”

  “Uh, no, I didn’t.”

  Cherry beamed with pride. “Irvin’s the best periodontist in Dallas.”

  Her proud smile folded into a sigh as she observed her companion’s glum face.

  “Poor baby. He’s been calling a local radio station every half hour on his cellular phone to check on the roads. Now he’s conserving the battery, so he can get updates on the score when the game starts. Assuming it starts at all, of course.”

  Irv shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a stubby finger. “Of course it will. With millions in advertising riding on every minute of airtime, it has to. But we won’t be there to see it.” His pale blue eyes filled with despair. “I’m sorry, Cherub.”

  Cherub?

  Once more Abby’s startled gaze flew to
Pete’s. The laughter in them warmed her all the way down to her chilled toes. Cherry must have shared some of her artless confidences with him during their walk up the slope. Either that, or he’d figured out all by himself that angels didn’t customarily robe themselves in cardinal-colored ankle boots, thigh-skimming skirts and tight sweaters. Nor did they tuck their… friends’…heads against their bosoms and plant wet little kisses all over their shiny crowns.

  “Forget about the game, honey. If we miss it, we miss it. Now come meet Abby.”

  While Cherry performed the introductions, Pete restored the love seats to their original facing positions before the fire. The guests claimed one, leaving the other for Pete and Abby. The thought of once again sharing that yard or so of soft, well-cushioned space with the man now hunkered down before the fire, his muscled thighs straining against his jeans as he fed the blaze, sent anticipation singing through Abby’s blood. With some effort, she repressed the unexpected sensation.

  “Shall we eat here, close to the fire?”

  “Oooh, let’s!” Cherry exclaimed. “We’ll have a picnic.”

  While Abby rooted around in the kitchenette for silverware and plates, Cherry found a linen tablecloth in a drawer and spread it over the coffee table. She then dug into the pillowcase, removing all kinds of goodies. At her suggestion, Pete unbent a hanger and used it to toast the baguettes. Irv spent his time jiggling the batteries in his TV, in the futile hope they might yet yield some power.

  When the impromptu brunch was all laid out, Abby had to admit that, while it wasn’t quite the elegant Thanksgiving feast the Pines had promised its guests, it would do. It would do nicely. Silver utensils gleamed. Crystal bar glasses sparkled. And the variety of delights arrayed on the snowy linen tablecloth made her wrap an arm across her stomach to keep it from yowling.

  In addition to smoked Danish ham, Irv’s party tray had yielded generous helpings of sliced turkey breast and cold roast beef. It also provided crunchy carrot sticks, celery stalks, smoked oysters, and an assortment of cheeses to complement the toasted French bread. Abby had added their contribution, which included what was left of the cashews, another full jar of olives, cocktail onions, the untouched caviar, orange cream soda and a bottle of champagne.