Allison Leigh - Married To A Stranger

“More than halfway to Paris.”

Her shoulders seemed to sag. “I drank too much,” she murmured. “I’ve never—Oh, God. What have we done?”

Tris would have been amused at the panic rounding her violet eyes if he hadn’t been wondering the same thing. He rarely acted impulsively. And even his actions over the last few days had been fairly deliberate. He trusted his instincts, listened to his gut because it rarely failed him.

But now, sitting here in this private jet equipped with every comfort known to man, from a whirlpool tub and a down-covered bed, to a fully equipped kitchen, to an array of computerized equipment that could run a small country if need be, his instincts had fully deserted him.

All because of this violet-eyed temptress.

“What have we done?” he repeated. He’d taken the easiest path of solving her problem. “We’ve stopped the gossip about us, effectively removing any reason for you to lose your teaching job.”

That’s all they’d done.

The irony burned. He’d started out thinking he’d like to taste her soft-looking lips. That was all.

He still hadn’t kissed her. Not really. That quick, off-centered glancing of lips earlier that day didn’t count.

He hadn’t gotten a kiss. He hadn’t “gotten” anything that everybody in town and beyond seemed to think he’d been “getting.” It was almost laughable.

Tris picked up her eyeglasses and leaned forward, handing them to her. But in the end, nothing about this situation was laughable.

Particularly the fact that the young woman slipping the gold-rimmed glasses on her nose had—less than twelve hours ago, stood where he’d long ago vowed never to stand—in front of a minister, promising to “love, honor and cherish.”

He hadn’t gotten a kiss.

He’d gotten a wife.

Eight days earlier.

“I think that’s plenty, darlin’. If you don’t mind.” Hope Leoni blinked, dragged her eyes from the deep blue gaze of the man sitting at the counter across from her. And realized she was pouring coffee all across the counter.

Well, not precisely across the counter. But it was overflowing the thick white coffee cup, the utilitarian saucer beneath it, quickly pooling around the base. Worse, it flowed into a rich brown river that ran straight to the edge of the counter and into the smoky gray sweater the man wore, creating a large spot where he’d been leaning against the counter edge. Now he sat back with a muffled comment.

Her cheeks burned and she hastily set down the glass coffee carafe and grabbed a cloth from behind the counter, mopping up her mess. “I’m so sorry.” She mopped, sopped, wiped and tried not to stare when, with a spare movement, he yanked the sweater over his head and tossed it onto the stool beside him. She dragged her attention from the plain white T-shirt that remained, hugging his broad shoulders, only to realize she was equally distracted by the thick gold hair that tumbled over his forehead. “I don’t know what I was thinking—”

He, the man…the blond god with a face that could make angels weep…put one hand over hers, stopping her motions. “No sweat, darlin’.”

She didn’t know which made her blood flow faster until it zipped along her veins with a fevered frenzy—the touch of his hand atop hers, or the casual endearment murmured in his low voice. The schoolgirl fantasies in which he’d been the star seemed as recent as yesterday. “I, uh, I’m not usually so clumsy. I can’t believe I—”

“Hey.” His long, long fingers encircled hers. Slid around her hand, beneath it; square, warm palm meeting hers. Warm. Dry. Hard.

Every sound faded—the dog that had been barking half the morning from where it was tied up outside the sheriff’s office a few doors down, the tractor mower that somebody was running over at the high school, the music from the radio on the shelf in the corner.

All of that faded. She could hear her pulse, thundering in her ears. Could hear her breath, slowly easing past her lips. She could hear the soft chink of his gold wristwatch as it bumped the counter beneath their hands.

“Relax,” he said in that voice that hypnotized. “Nobody’s going to fire you over a little spilled coffee. Certainly not Ruby, who’s got a heart bigger than Wyoming.”

At the mention of Ruby, owner of Ruby’s Café and, more importantly, Hope’s grandmother, some of Hope’s scattered senses returned. She tugged her hand, relieved and disappointed all at once when their hands separated. She picked up the damp cloth, rubbing her palm against the wet, rough, terry cloth. “I’m well aware of Gram’s generosity.”

“Gram?”

Hope pulled her gaze from his mouth. From the way it tilted at the corner when he spoke as if he were perpetually amused. “Ah…Ruby. You know…she’s my grandmother. I’m Hope. Hope…Leoni.”

He nodded, giving her the impression that he was absorbing every nonsensical syllable she uttered. Which was, of course, ridiculous.

Men who looked like this man didn’t hang on every syllable of the very ordinary Hope Leoni. Only he was nodding, his eyes thoughtful. “That’s right,” he said. “Ruby did have a little granddaughter she was raising.”

“I didn’t think you’d remember that.” Again, she forced herself to look beyond the mesmerizing way his lips shaped his words—to take in the thick, burnished blond hair, the sapphire-colored eyes that even dark circles beneath couldn’t dim, the sharply angled jaw. The astounding width of his shoulders. “You, um, don’t visit Weaver very often.” Hope felt her cheeks heat all over again.

When he’d moved away from Wyoming, she truly had been Ruby’s “little” granddaughter. But that hadn’t kept her or any other girl growing up in Weaver from developing a crush on the Wyoming boy who’d made good.

“Well, I’m here now and it’s nice to meet you, officially, Hope Leoni. Tristan Clay.” He shifted and stuck out his hand, obviously waiting.

Hope swallowed, placing her hand in his. She was almost prepared for the jolt, but still her breath audibly caught and her cheeks burned. “You, too, Mr—ah, Clay.”

His smile widened gently but there was something daunting about his impossibly steady gaze, so intensely blue among thick lashes that were surprisingly dark for someone so blond and golden. “Tristan’ll do.”

She swallowed, far too aware that he still held her hand engulfed in his much larger one. “I suppose you’re here for your father’s wedding. The whole town is buzzing with excitement.”

Finally, finally, his lashes lowered. His thumb brushed across the back of her hand. “This town buzzes with excitement when the lone traffic signal turns red. Do you work here all the time, Hope?”

She knew she should pull away her hand. But his thumb made that gentle little swirl again and she couldn’t bring herself to move. “Yes,” she breathed. “No. I mean, I work here during the summer. When school starts, I’ll—”

His expression didn’t change. “School?”

“I teach at the elementary school. Kindergarten through third.”

“Lucky kids. Married? Engaged? Going steady?”

She swallowed, nearly choking. “No.”

Again that smooth, gentle swirl against her hand, the faint tilt at the corner of his mouth. “Why not?”

Her fingers curved. She tugged again and had the impression that he wanted to smile when she pushed her hands into the front pockets of her pink waitress uniform. “No particular reason,” she answered, hoping that her trembling nerves didn’t show in her voice as badly as she suspected. Except she’d have to be asked on a date again before she could worry about marriage proposals. “You?” His smile widened a bit, and he shook his head. Her cheeks flamed hotly. Of course, in a town as small as Weaver, news would have spread like wildfire if he had settled down with one woman.