he said, she knew that much, because her body was responding—please yes more—to her fractured, incomplete memories.
Arousal was useless right now. Helen couldn’t crawl back in that bed and wait for the man to get out of the shower, even if she wanted to. Which she didn’t. She couldn’t—she needed to extricate herself from this situation and get back on the road to Fort Hood. She had to report to her new unit by noon tomorrow. There were no clocks in this room, but judging by the sun, it was full morning, and she still had at least eighteen hours to drive. She was not going to report late to her new post because of a one-night stand. That wasn’t acceptable to the army. It wasn’t acceptable to her. Captain Pallas would never be so unreliable. Never so unprofessional.
How many times had her ex-husband mocked her for that?
Once, Helen, just once, would it kill you to be late to formation when I want to have sex with my wife? Not every chick in the military is as uptight as you are, thank God.
The headache that had started to recede came back in full force, but Helen couldn’t let a little thing like physical pain stop her. She had orders to obey.
She’d taken an oath for the army long before she’d made any vows with this Tom Cross. Unlike a husband, the army would never change its mind. Legally, she had to be in Texas by 1200 hours tomorrow, or she would be AWOL—absent without leave.
A real commitment like that made decisions easy. She would bid farewell to this Tom Cross, give him back his ring and hit the road. There was no other option.
The sound of the running water stopped. Helen marched out the bedroom door, head throbbing. The sheet trailed behind her like a train, a mockery of a wedding gown. This wasn’t a real marriage, anyway, thank goodness. She wouldn’t survive another goodbye like the one that had ended her real marriage. This was just a one-night stand. She’d never had a one-night stand before, but how hard could it be to say goodbye to a stranger?
There was no dark-haired man in the gilded living room. Instead, there was breakfast for two, a beautiful table set with linens and silverware and more roses, white and pale pink and pastel yellow, forming delicate bouquets in mini crystal vases.
Roses are always going to make me think of sex with you.
Not just sex, but sex with you. She’d forgotten that part. There’d been something special about him.
Or at least she’d thought so while under the influence—obviously, or she wouldn’t be here right now, staring at a wedding breakfast while her stomach churned and her mouth felt like it was full of cotton.
She walked up to the table, gathering her train around her. Silver domes were keeping the plates warm. Nothing about this beautiful table said one-night stand. It was her idea of a real wedding breakfast, every detail of it lovely, as if the man who’d ordered it had wanted her to have the best. She could be the pampered bride of the perfect man.
Tears stung her eyes.
She could be a sucker. Any man could play the prince for twenty-four hours. Her ex-husband had pulled it off for several months, actually, before the two years of misery had begun. This Vegas guy was being charming for one meal. Helen wasn’t going to get all mushy because some man she’d frolicked with in a king-size bed was being charming for one meal.
She ignored the sparkle of the ring on her finger as she grabbed a crystal goblet and chugged orange juice like it was water from a canteen during a twelve-mile road march.
Better. She plunked the empty goblet down and lifted a silver dome. The heavenly scent of bacon made her mouth water. She took one bite before reaching for the carafe of coffee. It would help her headache and keep her awake for the eighteen-hour drive that lay ahead of her. She held the strip of bacon between her teeth, so she could use two hands to pour.
“Good morning, beautiful.”
That deep bass—Helen whirled around, cup in one hand, carafe in the other, bacon dangling from her teeth.
Good God, he was gorgeous.
I slept with that?
Mr. Cross had short, thick, black hair, yet his eyes were an arresting, brilliant blue. He leaned more toward rugged than pretty, with the great bone structure that could sell expensive watches or yachts in a magazine for men who wanted to be more manly. But no—it wasn’t that rugged handsomeness that would make men want to be like him. It was the way he carried himself, the way he stood before her with only a towel wrapped around his waist, unselfconscious despite being half-naked, that really knocked her out. Confidence was sexy to her. A man with an athletic body and a handsome face who seemed in charge, in control—and comfortable to be so—was sexy as hell.
I slept with that!
Well, damn, she was impressed with herself.
He smiled at her, a real smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle and revealed some perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. Where had she found this man?
She didn’t realize she was smiling back as he walked across the room toward her—confidently, of course—until he took the dangling strip of bacon from her mouth. Her smile faded as she looked into those blue eyes. He was really looking at her. Only her. All his attention was on her.
“Good morning,” he said again. He tossed the bacon onto the table, slid his arms around her and kissed her.
She melted instantly, going completely boneless in some kind of Pavlovian response that required no conscious thought at all. The cup and saucer slid from her fingers to hit the floor with a crash, the carafe landed with a thud in the tangled train of sheets, but she wouldn’t fall, not as long as he held her in his strong arms. She made a little sound, a whimper of longing, a pant of excitement, and he broke off the kiss to cup the back of her head in his hand and whisper over her lips. “I thought I dreamed you. You’re real.”
They stared at each other a moment, then he was kissing her again and she couldn’t keep her eyes open. She couldn’t keep any thought in her head, except to know she could surrender, she could lose herself and let go, and she’d be safe and happy and a part of him. She was glad when his hands untucked the sheet, grateful when he nudged her back toward the couch, where they fell together as they pushed yards of sheets and one plush towel out of their way. She was greedy to touch him once more, to feel again all that strength and power and male grace. She wanted it all, forever.
Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?
I do.
His body filled hers completely, and the whole world became just the two of them and the way they felt, the way they made each other feel, the way they moved together. They whispered their amazement to each other in syllables that never became full words—ah, oh, ess—and in words that never became sentences—my, you, there. They climaxed together, then lay still, catching their breaths in silence.
I now pronounce you man and wife.
Mrs. Cross started to cry.
The woman beneath him started to
