Society Bride. Elizabeth Bevarly

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      He smiled at Renee and lifted his half-full glass of champagne in a toast before moving it to his lips for a celebratory sip. As he lowered it, he realized she had nothing with which to welcome in the new year, so he extended the glass toward her in a silent offer.

      After a moment’s hesitation and a brief shrug, she accepted it, tipping it toward her mouth—that red, ripe, luscious mouth—to enjoy a taste of the wine. After a single quick sip, she lifted it a second time, filling her mouth more generously. When she held the glass out to Garrett, he noted a perfect crescent-shaped stain of red on the rim where her lips had been. And deep down inside him, something tightened, raw and fierce.

      “Happy New Year, Renee,” he said quietly, smiling as he took the glass from her fingers.

      She smiled back. “Happy New Year, Garrett.”

      And then, because she seemed to expect more—or, perhaps, because he wanted more—he dipped his head and touched his lips to hers.

      Just like that.

      One little kiss, he told himself. Just a brief brush of his mouth over hers, to see if her lips were as soft and warm as they appeared to be. But, too late, he realized a single, idle caress was in no way enough to satisfy what suddenly became a deep hunger for the closeness of another human being. So instead of pulling away, Garrett took a step toward her, circling one arm around her waist to draw her closer still, at once fearful and hopeful that she would push him away.

      But she didn’t push him away.

      Although she pulled her head back for a moment, fixing her gaze on his in a silent question, she neither said nor did anything to discourage him. On the contrary, she opened one hand over his chest and curled her fingers into his lapel, as if she wanted to pull him closer. So Garrett lowered his head to kiss her once more. He brushed his mouth lightly over hers once, twice, three times, breathless, brief little kisses that meant nothing, nothing at all.

      Not until Renee kissed him back.

      Kissed him back with a tentative, teasing touch that unleashed something deep down inside him that galloped quickly to the surface and made him hungry for more. So, without thinking about what he was doing, Garrett tightened his hold on Renee and pressed his mouth more possessively over hers, covering it, filling it, plundering it.

      For a moment, she went limp in his arms, completely surrendering to his raw invasion. Then, just when he thought she would join in the fun, she jerked her mouth from his and hastily pushed him away. “I have to go,” she said raggedly, avoiding his eyes. “I’ve been gone a long time. My father must be waiting for me, worried about me.” And then, without a further word—or even a glance over her shoulder—she was gone.

      As he watched her disappear through the sliding glass doors on the other side of the terrace, Garrett stood silent amid a swirl of snow, wondering what the hell had just happened.

      Helplessly, he lifted a hand to his mouth and brushed his fingertips lightly over the lips Renee Riley had warmed with her mouth. Then he gazed at the perfect red stain of lipstick on his champagne flute. Without questioning his motives—or his sanity, for that matter—he turned the glass to place his own mouth over exactly that same spot and downed the rest of its contents in one long swallow.

      And he decided that, as new years went, this one wasn’t starting off well at all.

      Two

      The first week in April found Renee Riley feeling confused, agitated, anxious and seriously questioning her choice of a wedding dress. Because the one she’d selected for her impending—or rather upcoming, she hastily corrected herself—wedding to Lyle Norton suddenly seemed somewhat…inappropriate.

      It had been created from roughly a bazillion yards of delicate white lace and was decorated with hundreds of seed pearls and scores of tiny white satin roses. Its train went on for all eternity, making it the perfect dress for a bride who was giddy with joy and anticipation at the prospect of joining herself to a man with whom she was deeply and irrevocably in love.

      In other words, it wasn’t Renee’s cup of tea at all.

      She sighed heavily as she gazed at her reflection in the cheval mirror that mocked her from the corner of her bedroom. For perhaps the twentieth time since she’d picked up the dress from the seamstress that morning, she held it up before her and swallowed hard against the nausea that rolled through her stomach. Her wedding was barely a week away, and Renee still couldn’t quite remember how she’d agreed to the arrangement. Especially since it had been barely three months since Lyle—at least she had managed to finally stop calling him Mr. Norton—had approached her father about the merger.

      Union, she corrected herself. What she and Lyle were undertaking was a union, not a merger. And her wedding was upcoming, not impending. Goodness, she was going to have to work on her semantics if she had any hope of making this farce—or rather, endeavor—succeed.

      Her groom, naturally, was experiencing none of her misgivings. Of course, he’d been so busy with work lately that he’d scarcely been around for any of the wedding preparations. Nevertheless, he was delighted at the prospect of his and Renee’s impending—upcoming, she reminded herself again—nuptials.

      She expelled another heavy sigh as she folded the dress in half, held it away and gazed at her reflection without the garment. She looked pale with fatigue. She looked worried. She looked scared. Doubtless because she was all of those things.

      So much for her father’s suggestion that she and Lyle make it a long engagement so she could get to know her prospective husband better. Somehow—Renee was still at a loss as to quite how—Lyle had talked her into scheduling the wedding for the second weekend in April. It was, he’d told her, the best time for him, businesswise, because the rest of his year was booked solid with professional obligations. But Renee had hardly seen him during those three all-too-brief months, because that time had been booked solid with professional obligations, too.

      And even on those few occasions when they had managed to find time together, Lyle was frequently called away early to attend to—what else?—professional obligations. As a result, she’d found herself feeling about as familiar and as comfortable with her husband-to-be as she would feel explaining the particulars of quantum physics.

      She was also having serious second thoughts about this whole fiasco—or rather, marriage. Yes, she and Lyle did get along fine, even if they had yet to share much more than a few less-than-explosive kisses. And yes, her father was delighted at the prospect of hanging on to Riley Communications, Inc. And yes, Renee’s future did look bright and promising to any casual observer, even if, to her, it was a tad lacking in, oh…life.

      She should be happy, she told herself. She was engaged to a handsome, successful man who seemed to care for her, even if he wasn’t exactly the passionate, cherish-is-the-word sort of mate that most women—other women, women who weren’t Renee Riley—dreamed about.

      She and Lyle were compatible, she reminded herself. They’d agreed on nearly everything they’d discussed—though they had yet to discuss much at any great depth. Still, they were able to carry on conversations that, if not exactly impassioned and important, were lively and interesting. Well, sort of lively, anyway. Sort of interesting.

      And who needed romance, huh? Not her. No way. Why spend the rest of her life searching for something that probably didn’t exist anyway, and even if it did exist, probably didn’t live up to what everybody made it out to be.

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