A Weaver Wedding Read online

  He signed out, and was ready to close the computer down again when his fingers paused over the keyboard. Even though he knew the one message he wanted to see wouldn’t be there, he logged in to an equally convoluted server and checked his e-mails.

  Offers to improve his sexual prowess. Pleas to send money to aid foreign royalty suddenly thrown into impoverished circumstances. Junk mail galore.

  But no message from Ryan.

  He closed down the computer again and leaned wearily against the couch.

  The one thing he’d wanted to accomplish as an agent for Hollins-Winword was to prove that his cousin was alive.

  But now that he’d done so, there wasn’t one damn thing he could do about it but keep the truth from everyone else.

  Chapter Six

  Despite her fear that she wouldn’t sleep a wink with Axel under her roof, Tara did.

  The second her head hit the pillow, she was out and she didn’t wake up again until sunlight seeped through her bedroom window.

  She pulled the robe on over her pajamas and when she didn’t hear any noise coming from the living area, she crept to the bathroom, closing the door with care before opening the squeaky medicine cabinet to get her toothbrush.

  The large bottle of prenatal vitamins sitting on the second shelf greeted her.

  She snatched the bottle off the shelf and shoved it in the side pocket of her robe. As she finished brushing her teeth, she didn’t look at herself in the mirror, afraid guilt would look back at her.

  Then she flipped on the shower over the claw-footed tub and waited the usual eternity for the water to warm.

  Having Axel under her roof felt much too intimate, and they weren’t even being intimate. Not now. Not anymore.

  The memory of that weekend, however, was as hauntingly brilliant as if it had been yesterday.

  She shrugged off her robe and pajamas and stepped into the tub, turning her face directly into the shower spray as if it could flood the thoughts into nonexistence.

  On that score, the water failed miserably.

  She emerged a short time later squeaky clean, but no less disturbed. She dragged a comb through her hair, pulled on her robe again and cautiously stepped out into the hall.

  “Good morning.”

  She nearly jumped out of her skin at Axel’s deep voice. “I thought you were still sleeping.” Instead, he was sitting at the small table in her kitchen where he had a direct line of vision down the hallway to the bathroom.

  “Been awake awhile. I brought in your newspaper. It snowed during the night.”

  She glanced toward the window behind him, but naturally, the shutters were drawn closed.

  He lifted the off-white mug from the table where it was sitting next to a laptop computer and the Sunday paper. “You’re out of coffee.”

  He looked disgustingly awake for a man who’d slept on a couch that was at least a foot too short for him. The only concession she could see to the night that had passed was the shadow blurring his hard jaw and the chambray shirt that he’d pulled on but hadn’t buttoned.

  “I told you. I stopped drinking it.” She was abrupt. More from the effort of not staring at the slice of hard chest revealed by his loose shirt than from her present coffee embargo. She’d had to get rid of all coffee from her house just to keep from drinking the stuff that her obstetrician had cautioned against.

  Secrets were a pain in the rear. They always had been and she’d never been good at keeping them. Something her father had pointed out whenever she’d let slip that he worked for the CIA.

  “Then why keep the fancy coffeemaker?”

  “It was a gift from Sloan,” she said truthfully. He’d given her the machine when they’d bought the brownstone in Chicago. “If you want coffee we’ll have to pick up some. It won’t bother me.” She had some willpower, after all.

  Her gaze drifted back to his chest with its soft whorl of hair that was darker than the thick hair springing back untidily from his forehead. Her mouth was very nearly watering—something she would have rather blamed on their talk about coffee. She turned and headed toward her bedroom.

  The bottle of vitamins in her pocket rattled and she nearly cringed, closing herself quickly in her room to exchange the robe for a pair of jeans she could no longer fasten at the waist, and a fleecy tunic that successfully hid that fact.

  She would have liked to have hidden longer in her room, but she refused to behave like a coward. She was over the man.

  She’d ignore the pounding in her heart and the current in her nerves. Pretend none of it existed, and before long, pretense would become reality.

  She had ample reason for wanting that reality.

  Axel Clay was the most unsuitable man she could have chosen. He’d walked away from her without a backward glance and was only here now because of his job. A job whose danger and secrets she wanted to keep far, far away from her child.

  Growing up with a father whose life revolved around secrets was no life for anyone.

  So she left the bedroom, going straight to the front window where she slanted the shutters enough to look outside, not caring whether he’d chastise her or not. Fresh snow blanketed the ground.

  She went to the coat closet and pulled out a red knit cap to cover her damp hair. A little snow shoveling would do her good.

  “Had you figured for the type who stuck to the Sundaybest rule.” Axel was still sitting at the table. “I was even going to polish up my dress boots for the occasion.”

  “I’m not going to church today.”

  His eyebrows rose. “You go to church every Sunday.”

  Did he know that because of the logbook, or because he remembered her telling him that when they’d been lying in that motel room while they fed each other cold pepperoni pizza? “I’m not going today.”

  “Why?”

  She pulled out her parka and shoved her arms through the sleeves. “Because I assume you’d insist on accompanying me. And I’m not up to sitting through a worship service where we’d be pretending to be involved.” She yanked up the zipper.

  “Okay. But people might assume that we’re here doing something else more…entertaining. All that folderol yesterday at the gym aside, today is Valentine’s Day.”

  She went hot and couldn’t blame it all on the parka. “Fine.” She pulled the zipper right back down. “I’ll go get dressed.” She marched right back down the hall and slammed the bedroom door behind her.

  She pressed her palm against her pounding heart. So much for pretending she didn’t care.

  She changed clothes again, slipping into a red pantsuit with a loosely swinging jacket that nearly reached her thighs. She ran the blow dryer over her hair, dashed on a little mascara and lip gloss and went back out to the kitchen. “Well?” she asked when she found him still sitting at the table. “Are we going, or not?”

  “Going.” He closed the computer on whatever he was doing and rose. His shirttails flapped apart as he stood, baring even more of his chest and a hard, ridged abdomen. “Give me five minutes.”

  He moved past her to head down the hall to the bathroom. Within seconds, she could hear the pipes rumbling as he turned on the shower.

  She would have to turn her eyelids inside out to erase the images her memory painted there.

  Instead, she gulped down a quick glass of milk and was glancing through the Sunday paper when he emerged. His hair was water-dark and slicked back from the strong lines of his face. He had a towel slung around his neck. Water droplets were sparkling on his shoulders, slipping down his spine toward the denim at his waist. He bent over to rummage in the duffel bag that was still sitting on the floor by the couch.

  He pulled out a shirt and held it to his nose. Made a face and wadded it back up, shoving it right back into the bag. “We’ll be going out to the Double-C later this afternoon for Sunday dinner. There’ll be a mountain of food. Always is no matter how much of the family shows. So, if there is anything you want to get done before we drive out there, let
me know now.” He extracted a thick, ivory sweater and shook it out. “We’ll take care of it after church.”

  “Sunday dinner?” Her voice was faint. “I don’t think so. If you need to go, then go, but I’ll stay here.”

  He rose again, dropping the sweater on the couch before he dashed the towel over his shoulders and chest with no hint, whatsoever, of self-consciousness.

  And why would there be? The man was built better than a Greek god, for pity’s sake.

  “Is there something about ‘24/7’ that you don’t understand?” He tugged a white T-shirt over his head, then reached for the sweater.

  “Why would you want me—and all the danger supposedly surrounding me—around your family?”

  “There’s not much of a safer place than being around my family. I have to go. Which means you have to go, too, interested or not.”

  Her jaw set. “I don’t have to do anything,” she reminded him.

  He sighed noisily. “Right. But you will because somewhere in that pretty, stubborn head of yours is a wide streak of common sense. If there weren’t, we wouldn’t even be here having this discussion. You’d have told me to take a flying leap even after you heard from Sloan. You’d have told me that you could handle whatever life—and your brother’s case—threw at you.”

  Her chest felt tight. “But I don’t want to go!”

  “Why not? You told me that you dreamed, one day, of having a family to gather around for good old-fashioned family dinners.”

  “I don’t want to talk about what happened—what we said—in Braden!”

  His eyes narrowed, studying. “It’s just a Sunday dinner. Nothing to get your drawers in a knot over.”

  “When this is all over with, I still have to live and work in this town. I’d just as soon not give your family cause to hold anything against me.”

  “I’m not planning to sit down over roasted chicken and mashed potatoes and announce that I’m insanely in love with you. I’m not planning to say anything. It’s just a meal and it’s hardly been restricted to family and beloved, so relax.” His head slanted slightly and it felt as if his brown gaze was peering right inside her. “And you said living in Weaver was temporary. Once this is over, you don’t have to live and work here at all. So what does it matter to you what people think?”

  It mattered because the people he was talking about—his family, all of the Clay family—had never been anything but nice to her.

  It mattered, because the people he was talking about were their baby’s family.

  The underlying layer of nausea that had been her nearly constant companion every morning for months rippled in warning.

  “Fine,” she capitulated abruptly. “Warm up the truck.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Now what’s wrong?”

  She wanted him out of the house because she was afraid she was going to lose her cookies, despite her empty stomach. “Nothing. I’m just hungry. I’m going to grab a slice of bread.” She headed into the kitchen, not waiting for him to respond.

  Thankfully, a moment later, she heard the front door open and close. She bent forward, leaning her forehead right against the butcher block and closed her eyes, willing away the nausea.

  The last few weeks had been so much better. Her morning sickness had remained in the background. Hovering, yes, but not taking over the way it had at first.

  No such luck this morning.

  The bread had been a pretense, and she made a dash for the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her, thanking heaven that Axel was outside at least, so he wouldn’t hear her retching.

  By the time he came back inside, she was pulling on her coat, feeling immeasurably better, but no happier about the day’s planned activity.

  Outside, he’d backed his truck into the driveway. The passenger door was already open and she couldn’t help but be aware of the way he walked on the outside of her, keeping himself between her and the street.

  She didn’t speak again until they pulled into the crowded parking lot of the small community church. She recognized nearly everyone who was heading into the sanctuary through the double doors that were thrown wide open despite the winter weather. “What, um, what time do we have to be there this afternoon?”

  “Around two. Three.” He didn’t sound any more enthusiastic than she felt. He parked against the curb near the exit. Where he couldn’t get blocked in.

  Her father had always done the same thing.

  She pushed open the truck door and slid out. He stuck to her side like glue, and when they reached the line of people entering the sanctuary, he folded her hand in his and cheerfully returned the various greetings and speculative looks they received.

  She wanted to kick him.

  They sat in the rear of the church, primarily because that was the only place there was space, given their last-minute arrival. She could see a few of his family members seated closer to the front. He let go of her hand only long enough to pull a hymnal from the rack in front of him and when more people slid into the pew beside them, he scooted even closer, until she could feel nearly the entire length of him burning down her side.

  It was such a preoccupation that she didn’t hear a word of Reverend Stone’s sermon, and before she knew it, they were singing the last hymn, and people were filing out of the church, heading for the coffee that filled the church with its seductive fragrance.

  All too quickly, they were spotted by Axel’s family, and though she longed for escape, she could see there would be none. Not for a while.

  Axel’s father, Jefferson, was the first to reach them. “Too long, boy,” she heard him murmur as he clapped his son on the back and then pulled back, taking measure.

  Seeing father and son together, the resemblance between the two was even more striking than Tara had realized. The only difference, as far as she could tell, was that the elder Clay’s eyes were a brilliant, penetrating blue and his darkblond hair—scattered with only a small amount of silver—was about six inches longer, and contained in a thick ponytail.

  If she’d ever wondered how well Axel would age, she was looking at a spectacular picture of it.

  “Tara.” Axel’s father turned toward her and she felt the full blast of those all-seeing eyes. “It’s good to see you.”

  “And you.” She managed what she hoped was a friendly smile, considering that she was practically shaking in her shoes. Not because she was afraid of him. Or of any of the other Clays who were closing in around them, taking up all the space in the aisle between the pews. But because of everything else. Her secret.

  “Hello again, dear.” Emily Clay squeezed her hand on the way to shouldering between her husband and her son. She reached up and clasped her hands on Axel’s cheeks, drawing his face down for a kiss. “You are a sight for sore eyes. It’s about time we manage to pin you in place for a few minutes!”

  If she hadn’t been watching closely, Tara would have missed the expression that flickered across Axel’s face.

  Almost like pain.

  For a moment, she managed to forget her own tangled emotions and narrowly prevented her hand from lifting to rest on his back.

  Fortunately, nobody else noticed her halted movement as the mass of people who were plainly delighted to see him grew around them.

  If she’d had any plans of sliding out of the melee, he quashed them by closing his hand around hers.

  So she stood there and smiled until her cheeks ached, turned down the offers of coffee and cookies that kept coming her way and nodded that, yes, they would be at Sunday dinner; until finally Jefferson and Emily headed out, and the onslaught turned down to a trickle. Tara was so relieved when Axel finally pulled her out of the church and hustled her to the truck that she didn’t immediately notice that he seemed in as much of a rush to leave as she was.

  “You’re in a hurry.”

  “Better not be out in the open for too long.”

  She swallowed. How on earth could she have let herself forget for even one second what his
purpose was?

  She looked out the side window and blinked back the stinging behind her eyes. “I need to go by the shop and take care of a few things. Doing the booth at the festival threw off my usual schedule.”

  “And you’re all about being orderly and scheduled.”

  “Not everything can be like that duffel bag of yours back at the house. Chaos isn’t for everyone.”

  He looked vaguely amused. “Lately, I haven’t been anywhere conducive to doing laundry. Maybe my boxers usually have military creases.”

  She immediately recalled the soft, snug, grey boxers that he’d been wearing beneath his jeans that first night in Braden. Boxers that he hadn’t worn for all that long once they’d entered the motel room.

  She damned the warmth that rose in her face.

  “I have a perfectly good washer and dryer in my basement at home that you’re welcome to use. But I’m not tossing your whites in with mine. You can take care of your laundry yourself.”

  His lips quirked. “Gets under your skin, does it? The idea of your unmentionables swirling around against mine?”

  She crossed her arms, looking back out the window again as they traveled the short distance to her shop. He was trying to get under her skin and she had no intention of letting him know he was even remotely successful.

  She had to keep a distance between them. Period.

  “What gets under my skin is a man automatically assuming that laundry and cooking and housework are only the responsibility of a woman.”

  He turned into the alley behind her shop without prompting. “So along with the no-cooking rule, your dad never picked up a dust rag or knew when to add bleach to a load of whites, either,” he assessed. “And once again, you can try painting me with that particular brush, but it’s not going to stick.” His short laugh curled around her. “Well, maybe a little. I’d rather send the laundry to the cleaners. Money well spent, I’ve always thought. Particularly since I never mastered that military crease.”

  Despite herself, she could feel a smile wanting to form. “If there’s a military crease in any single thing you wear, I’ll eat my hat.”