Jan Hudson – Wild About A Texan (страница 2)

“What’s this?” Jackson asked, frowning.

“A message for you, sir.”

Jackson ripped open the envelope and squinted at the contents. The words danced and blurred; he cursed, crushed the paper in his fist and strode to the elevator.

He was going to D.C. even if he had to hire a bulldozer to get there.

One

This is a mistake, Olivia thought as she sat on the back pew of the Dallas church filled with white flowers and wedding guests.

She should never have let her friend Irish talk her into coming to her sister’s wedding. Weddings were a jinx. If she had simply driven straight to Austin and not stopped by Irish’s house, she wouldn’t have been in this predicament. But she had, and she was.

The moment she saw him waiting at the altar with his brother and the others, she’d known that she’d been lying to herself for the past year and a half. Her insides twisted and her throat tightened. The feelings were still there. Just the sight of him churned bittersweet longings deep within her.

Suddenly, the floral fragrance turned cloying, the crowd oppressive. Her survival instincts, honed from years of experience, screamed at her to flee.

Just as she started to rise, the music swelled and every eye turned toward the aisle. Too late. The first bridesmaid appeared in the archway.

Olivia felt her skin prickle, and she knew that he’d spotted her. She tried not to look at him, but her gaze lifted as if responding to a command, and their eyes met. For a moment they stared at each other. Her defenses crumbled; music and people disappeared; time was suspended.

Then he grinned and winked one wicked dark eye. Who else but Jackson Crow would flirt with a woman in the middle of a wedding? He would probably still be flirting with women at his own wedding.

Damn him. Damn his strength, and damn her weakness. And her stupidity for coming today. Another person might offer all sorts of excuses, but Olivia couldn’t hide behind the comfort of denial. She was a psychologist—or soon would be. Like the proverbial moth to a flame, she’d come to the wedding because she wanted to see Jackson again.

With tremendous effort, she forced herself to pay attention to the bride’s entrance, to the wedding ceremony. Eve Ellison, Irish’s younger sister, was exquisite in her simple satin and lace gown. Matt Crow, Jackson’s younger brother, looked at his bride with such tenderness that Olivia felt her eyes sting. Irish, radiant with the recent news of her pregnancy, was matron-of-honor, and Dr. Kyle Rutledge, her plastic surgeon husband, was a groomsman.

Despite her best efforts, Olivia heard little of the vows. Her attention vacillated between watching Jackson and glancing anxiously toward the exit. She didn’t want to disturb the ceremony by leaving, but she didn’t want to face Jackson either. As soon as the church cleared, she would sneak out a side door, take a taxi back to Irish and Kyle’s house, and—

Rats! She didn’t have a key to the house.

“You may kiss the bride.”

She glanced up from the tissue she had shredded in her lap to find the couple in an embrace and Jackson staring at her. She stuffed the shredded scraps into her purse and clutched the small bag with both hands.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Mr. and Mrs. Matthew Crow.”

The couple beamed; the crowd stood; laughter and applause broke out. The organ began to play, and the wedding party started down the aisle. As Jackson and Irish approached, Olivia studied one of the stained-glass windows and tried not to hyperventilate.

She waited until every single guest had cleared the pews, then hurried to a side door and flung it open.

There, leaning casually against a wall, stood Jackson Crow.

“Going somewhere, darlin’?”

“I—I’m looking for the ladies’ room.”

Looking amused, he stepped to one side, revealing the sign on the door behind him. “There it is. I’ll wait for you.”

“No need,” she said with forced gaiety. “I know that you have best-man duties, photographs and such.”

“I’ll wait.”

Once inside, she delayed as long as she could, using cold compresses on her face, then reapplying the lipstick she’d nibbled away during the service. Finally, with no other reasonable options, she straightened her shoulders and opened the door.

A lazy smile broke over his face as his gaze scanned her. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. Do you know how long and hard I looked for you after you left Akron in such an all-fired hurry? Where’d you get off to?”

“I went home to Washington.”

“I mean after that. I was in D.C. by midnight, and you’d already hightailed it for parts unknown. I did everything but call out the hounds to find you.”

“I went to visit a friend in Colorado—not that it’s any of your concern.”

“Damn right it’s my concern. After that night—”

“I’d rather forget that weekend, Jackson. I…I don’t know what possessed me to— Well, I’m ordinarily much more sensible. It must have been the champagne. I’m not much of a drinker, and—” Realizing that she was blathering and that he was amused at her discomfort, she stopped and drew a deep breath. “I would appreciate it if you would be a gentleman and forget that night ever happened.”

A slow grin lifted one corner of his sensual mouth, a mouth that had haunted her for months after their encounter. She still remembered the taste of it, the feel of it on—

“Not likely, darlin’,” he said in a slow drawl as he ran a knuckle along her jawline. “Even though my mama did her best to raise a gentleman, nothing’s wrong with my memory.”

Her spine started to unravel, then Olivia caught herself and stiffened her resolve. She wasn’t going to fall into his trap again. There wasn’t room for a man in her plans. Certainly not a man like Jackson. If she hadn’t been so terrified when she’d spied her ex-husband across the dance floor, she would never have left with Jackson that night. But she’d been so shocked to realize that Thomas had found her that she’d acted impulsively, thinking only of escape and of Jackson as a heaven-sent protector.

“You might as well forget it,” she snapped. “There will never be a repeat performance. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” She tried to push past him, but he blocked her way.

“Not so fast,” he said, pinning her between his arms and the wall. “Now that I’ve found you again, darlin’, I’m not about to let you get away this time.”

A door opened down the hall, and Jackson’s grandfather stuck his head out. “Jackson—” He gave a little hoot. “Might have known you’d have a pretty woman cornered somewhere. ’Scuse me, ma’am, but, Jackson, you’d better get in there or your mama’s gonna skin you alive.”

“I’ll be there in a minute, Grandpa Pete.”

“Please go ahead,” Olivia said.

“I’m afraid if I leave you might cut and run.”

Jackson’s grandfather, known to everyone as Cherokee Pete, ambled toward them. Well into his eighties, he was still ramrod straight, and merriment danced in his dark eyes. With his long gray braids, he reminded Olivia of Willie Nelson in a tuxedo.

“Well, as I live and breathe,” Pete said, “if it isn’t Olivia Emory. How are you, young lady?”

She smiled and held out her hand. “It’s Olivia Moore now, and I’m fine, Mr. Beamon.”

“Moore?” Jackson said sharply. “Are you married?”

“None of that Mr. Beamon stuff,” Pete said, both he and Olivia ignoring Jackson’s question. “Despite this monkey suit, I’m still just plain Cherokee Pete. Get along, Jackson. I’ll take care of Olivia until you’re through with the picture taking.”

Jackson didn’t budge. “Are you married?”

She started to lie. Lying would have solved a multitude of problems, but something in his tone wrung the truth from her. She sighed and shook her head.

“Then why the name change?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time.”

“No, you ain’t,” Pete said. “Jackson, get going. You can jaw about this later.” After Pete shooed his grandson away, he tucked Olivia’s arm through his. “Little lady, how about you and me mosey on over to the reception? There’s plenty of room in that fancy limousine out front, and I’ll be the envy of every man in the room if I show up with such a beautiful woman on my arm. You wouldn’t deprive me of that pleasure, now would you?” He patted her hand and smiled in a manner so charming and infectious that she couldn’t help but return it.

“You’re a shameless flirt, Pete Beamon. Now I know where your grandsons get their charm.”

His grin widened and he winked. “Taught ’em everything they know. Come along, Miss Olivia. On the way to that highfalutin restaurant they reserved, you can tell me why your name is Moore now. I’m a mite curious myself. So you didn’t get remarried?”

“Not likely. Even though I’ve been divorced for three years, I just decided to take back my maiden name.” That wasn’t precisely the truth, but she’d decided that it was the simplest explanation. Actually, Moore was a name she’d picked from a phone book in Durango.

Pete nodded. “Decided to scrap the name of the sorry scoundrel you got shed of.”

“How did you know my ex-husband was a sorry scoundrel?”

“Just stands to reason. If he amounted to anything, you’d still be married to him. If you ask me, he was a blamed fool to let go of a woman like you.”