Kathie DeNosky - Did You Say Married?!

“Me, neither.” Chance massaged his temples. “The last thing I remember I was talking to some reporter from the Rodeo Review about Gray Ghost being named Bucking Bull of the Year. Somebody shoved another glass of champagne into my hand and…” Trying to think, he paused. “After that I draw a blank.”

When Kristen sniffed again, Chance glanced up. He hoped like hell she didn’t turn on the waterworks. Teary females made him about as nervous as a bull calf at castrating time.

“You’re not going to cry, are you?”

She gave him a look that sent the room temperature down by at least ten degrees. “I have a cold.”

Return of Ms. Deep Freeze, Chance thought ruefully. He watched her gather the rest of her clothes, then walk into the bathroom and shut the door with a resounding thud. The sound made his head throb. He tried not to think at all while he waited for the pain to subside. There would be plenty of time on the long drive home to analyze the contrast between the sultry fantasy of night and the chilling reality of morning.

In what seemed record time, Kristen emerged from the bathroom fully dressed.

Her clothes were as elegant as ever, her auburn hair styled to perfection and her posture regally perfect. But no matter what she wore or how she carried herself, she couldn’t erase that well-loved look. Eyes softened by fulfilled desire and the tiny love mark on the side of her elegant neck couldn’t lie.

Satisfaction and a tinge of regret coursed through Chance. He was responsible for her look of fulfillment. He just wished like hell he could remember more of what they’d shared.

“Are we in the Mirage?” Kristen asked, walking to the door.

“MGM Grand.” Careful to hold the blanket in place, Chance rose from the bed. “I’m not sure what morning-after protocol applies in this situation, but—”

“It’s obvious neither one of us remembers how we got to this point,” Kristen interrupted. She opened the door. “I think the less said about the matter, the better off we’ll both be. Goodbye, Mr. Warren.”

Chance watched the door close with a quiet click. He felt as if he’d just been dismissed as a minor inconvenience, a mistake that could be quickly and completely forgotten.

“Well, what the hell did you expect, Warren?” he muttered, throwing the blanket aside and heading for the shower. “The lady got tipsy and fell out of her ivory tower for a night. What made you think she wouldn’t break her pretty little neck climbing back up there in the light of day?”

Half an hour later, Chance put his tux in a garment bag, stuffed the rest of his clothes into his duffel, then checked his camera case to make sure the exposed rolls of film hadn’t been misplaced. He couldn’t wait to get on the road. It had been more than two weeks since he’d seen his niece and nephew, and with Halloween only a week away, he wanted to fulfill his promise of helping them carve a pumpkin.

As he turned to gather his wallet and loose change from the dresser, a nagging sensation deep in his gut unsettled him. He had the distinct impression he’d forgotten something very important. But he’d checked the room twice, and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what it might be.

When he patted his front jeans pockets, his gaze zeroed in on the garment bag hanging in the closet and a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. He must have left the polished plume agate he always carried in his tux. He’d found the unusual little stone in West Texas about five years ago and he’d had good luck ever since. No way would he set foot outside the hotel room without it.

Confident that he’d solved the mystery, he slid the zipper down and searched the jacket. When he removed the stone, a parchment envelope fluttered to the floor. Bending to retrieve it, he pocketed his lucky agate, then removed the official-looking document from the envelope and scanned the information.

As he stared in disbelief, his heart pounded hard against his rib cage. Certain key elements jumped off the page at him.

Chance T. Warren.

Kristen M. Lassiter.

United in Holy Matrimony.

“What the hell?”

Shaking his head, Chance walked to the phone and dialed the number of the chapel listed on the back of the envelope. A woman identifying herself as Shirley answered on the second ring. “I’d like to check on a marriage ceremony performed last night,” he said.

“Names, please?”

“Warren and Lassiter.”

He waited while Shirley put him on hold. This phony certificate had to be some kind of practical joke. His head wrangler, Zach Davis, and some of Chance’s other friends had probably gotten together and set up the whole thing.

He grinned when he thought of evening the score. He’d get some little gal at the Bucket of Suds to—

“Is this Mr. Warren?”

The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up. He hadn’t identified himself as the Warren half of the couple. There was only one way the woman would know. “Yes.”

“Congratulations and thank you for choosing our chapel, Mr. Warren,” Shirley said, her voice way too cheerful to suit him.

Chance opened his mouth, but at the moment, words were beyond his capabilities. A strangled sound escaped from deep in his throat.

“Mr. Warren? Are you all right?”

Hell, no!

“Uh…er, yes,” he finally managed to say, his voice cracking like that of a boy who’d just entered puberty.

“I’m very glad you called.” The woman giggled. “It seems you and your bride were in such a hurry to start your life together, you forgot to take your wedding video. Would you like it sent to your hotel?”

“I’ll…uh…that would be fine.” Dazed, he told Shirley to send it to the Mirage—the hotel Kristen had mentioned—then hung up.

The sound of the broken connection galvanized him into action, and grabbing his bags, Chance headed for the door. He had to talk to Kristen. If her speedy escape from his room had been any indication, she wouldn’t hang around Vegas and risk running into him again. Besides, some things just couldn’t be discussed over the phone. He’d stake his reputation that she knew even less about their nuptials than he did.

Kristen’s hand shook and she tried for the third time to fit the key card into the slot on her hotel room door. “Come on. Open up.”

When the lock finally cooperated, she hurried inside and, removing her clothes as she crossed the room, made a beeline for the shower.

Turning on the water, she moaned. “How could you sleep with the man, Kristen?”

Beneath the warm spray, she finally let the sophisticated facade melt away and the tears flow. Humiliation and regret caused twin rivulets to mingle with the water streaming down her cheeks.

One minute she’d been at the banquet thinking how her decision not to marry Spencer Dirkson would upset her father. The next she’d awakened in the arms of the very man Mike—she hadn’t called him “Dad” in years—had warned her to steer clear of. A man he didn’t even want her speaking to. Ever.

Kristen’s chest tightened when she thought of Mike Lassiter. For once in her life, she’d like to do something to win her father’s love and approval, to be more than a major disappointment to him. But a stupid stunt like she’d pulled last night would only serve to widen the gulf between them.

Sobs racked her body, and when a wave of dizziness made her sway, she leaned her head against the tiled wall. She felt terrible. And not just emotionally.

Instead of washing away her remorse, crying only aggravated the head cold she’d fought for the past week. Now she had another sinus headache to contend with, as well as the embarrassment of spending the night with a virtual stranger.

Toweling herself dry, she threw on the hotel’s complimentary bathrobe, then rummaged through her cosmetics case for the capsules her doctor had prescribed. What had she done with them? She’d taken one last night before going to the banquet….