A Bride by Christmas Read online

  “Mmm,” Luke said, “you smell so nice. What kind of perfume is that?”

  “Soap,” Maggie said.

  Luke chuckled and the sexy sound caused Maggie to shiver.

  “Are you cold?” Luke said, pulling her even closer.

  Maggie’s breasts were crushed to the hard wall of Luke’s chest in a sweet pain that made her acutely aware of her femininity in contrast to his blatant maleness. Heat swirled within her, finally pulsing low in her body.

  “No. I’m…I’m definitely not cold.”

  “You feel so good in my arms, Maggie. Perfect, absolutely perfect.”

  “Well…” Maggie started, then for the life of her couldn’t think of one intelligent thing to say.

  And the music played on.

  The crowd surrounding them disappeared, along with the buzz of conversation from those on the sidelines who weren’t dancing. The room itself no longer existed. It was just the two of them and the music, encased in a sensual mist.

  Ah, Maggie, Luke thought. He wanted this dance to last forever. Holding Maggie in his arms was heaven in its purest form. She fit against him as though she’d been custom-made. Well, that was actually true. Yes, custom-made just for him because she was his other half, and he loved her with an intensity that was beyond description.

  They were dancing like Cinderella and the prince at the ball, Luke mentally rambled on. But in that fairy tale it all fell apart at the stroke of midnight. That poor slob of a prince was left with empty arms and an aching heart, wondering if he’d ever see his newfound love again.

  Well, that wasn’t going to happen to Luke St. John, damn it. No way. Because he was going to come up with a rock-solid plan that would enable him to see Maggie on a regular basis without running the risk of her turning him down.

  But how in hell was he going to do that?

  Where was this genius-level plan going to come from? He’d searched his brain for it until he was exhausted, and it wasn’t there, he’d come up empty.

  Think, St. John. His entire future happiness depended on that unknown plan.

  The song ended.

  No, Luke thought frantically. Not yet.

  “Luke?” Maggie looked up at him as they stopped moving, realizing that he had not relinquished his hold on her one iota.

  “Yes?”

  “Could we dance to just one more song?”

  “Yes,” he said. They would dance to a lifetime of songs played just for them. “It will be my pleasure.”

  Another waltz began and they swayed to the lilting music.

  What on earth had possessed her to ask Luke to dance with her again? Maggie thought, feeling a flush of embarrassment warm her cheeks. How brazen was that, for Pete’s sake? Not only brazen but dumb, really dumb. She was supposed to be putting distance between them, not practically begging to be kept nestled close, so enticingly close, to his body.

  But he felt so good and smelled so good and he danced so smoothly she was transformed into Ginger Rogers. Oh, what harm could one more dance do? She’d never see Luke again after tonight, so why not have the memory of two fantasy-filled dances instead of just one? Sure, why not?

  It was sort of like the story of Cinderella, only this handsome prince wasn’t going to run all over the kingdom of Phoenix trying on a shoe to find her. No this was it, all there would be, and the very thought of that was so depressing it was enough to make her weep buckets.

  Soon—much, much too soon—the song ended. Maggie drew a steadying breath, then stepped back out of Luke’s arms.

  “Thank you,” she said, smiling slightly. “That was lovely. I… Well, I have things to check on regarding the cleanup crew and what have you so… It was nice meeting you, Luke. Goodbye.”

  “Good night, Maggie,” he said quietly.

  Maggie made her way through the crowd on the dance floor, and Luke watched her go before weaving through the guests to return to the head table. He sat down next to his father, a distinguished-looking man with a trim build and salt-and-pepper hair.

  “Everything went very well this evening, don’t you think?” Mason St. John said. “Your brother and Ginger must be pleased.”

  “Mmm.” Luke rocked his chair back on two legs and folded his arms over his chest.

  “Your mother is still out there dancing,” his father continued. “She’s having a marvelous time.”

  “Mmm.”

  “The wedding cake was the best I’ve ever tasted,” Mason said. “Some I’ve had over the years have been like sawdust with a plastic bride and groom on top.”

  “Mmm.”

  “I do believe you’ve met your match in Maggie Jenkins, son,” Mason said. “You have all the signs of a man who has had the pins knocked out from under him.”

  “Mmm,” Luke said, then blinked and thudded the chair back onto four legs. “What?”

  Mason chuckled. “I thought that might get your attention. I’ve been watching you, Luke. You’re a goner. I was beginning to believe there wasn’t a woman in Phoenix who could stake a claim on you, but Maggie Jenkins obviously has. What I don’t understand is why you look so gloomy.”

  “It’s very simple, Dad,” Luke said. “Maggie may plan fantastic weddings but she doesn’t want one for herself. She has no intention of marrying. I don’t know if you believe in love at first sight, but it has happened to me big-time. I am irrevocably in love with a woman who wants no part of ‘until death do us part.’”

  “Well, for the record,” Mason said, “I certainly do believe in love at first sight. I fell in love with your mother when we were in the seventh grade and one of the rubber bands from her braces flew off and smacked me right in the eye. As for your Maggie? It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that you need a plan.”

  “Oh, man,” Luke said, squeezing the bridge of his nose, “don’t say that word. I’ve worn out my brain already trying to come up with exactly that—a plan. And I’m running on empty.

  “Maggie isn’t going to go for the wine-and-dine routine. No way. She’d head for the hills before she got tangled up in anything that even hinted of courtship, a serious relationship. I can literally see, feel, the walls she’s built around herself.”

  “So chip away at them. That’s where the plan comes in,” Mason said. “Come on, Luke. You’re a St. John. We go for the gusto, we’re winners, we don’t even entertain the word defeat.”

  “In the courtroom,” Luke said. “Dealing with women is a whole different arena, Dad. It calls for understanding the female mind, and I’m not sure there’s a man on this planet who can do that.”

  “Good point. I certainly don’t know what makes those wonderful creatures tick, even after all these years,” Mason said, stroking his chin. “Well, now, this is going to be quite a challenge for you, isn’t it?”

  “The most important fight of my life,” Luke said. “I really, really need an idea.”

  “Yep,” Mason said, nodding. “Keep me posted on this, son.”

  “Yeah, okay. In the meantime, pass that champagne bottle down here, will you? Maybe there’s a magic answer waiting for me in the bubbly.”

  Mason laughed as he handed his son the bottle. “All that is in there is a hangover waiting to happen.”

  “Whatever,” Luke said, then filled his glass to the brim.

  Late the next morning Luke rolled onto his back in bed, opened his eyes and groaned. He closed his eyes again, pressed his hand to his throbbing forehead, then dropped his arms to the bed with a thud.

  He was a dying man, he thought, eyes still tightly closed. Some idiot was playing a bongo drum in this brain, every tooth in his mouth ached and even his hair hurt. To even hope to survive he’d have to cut off his head and grow a new one.

  “Ohhh, I hate champagne,” he said aloud, with another groan thrown in for good measure. “I’m never drinking that junk again. This is somehow all Maggie Jenkins’s fault, damn it.”

  Luke opened his eyes slowly, then eased upward and moved his feet cautiously to the floo
r. He propped his elbows on his knees and cradled his throbbing head in his hands.

  He couldn’t believe he’d done this, he thought miserably. He hadn’t gotten smashed since his freshman year in college many years ago. But there he’d sat, filling his glass with expensive champagne, chugging it down, filling it again and again and again.

  He vaguely remembered his father watching him and chuckling with maddening regularity, then finally extending his hand and asking for Luke’s car keys.

  So how had he gotten home? Oh, yeah, his dad had driven him with his mother following in their vehicle. Well, at least his SUV must be parked in the garage beneath the building. His mother had seemed to get a kick out of her oldest son’s condition, too, now that he thought about it. What rotten parents.

  At least Robert didn’t know what his big brother had done. Robert and Ginger had changed into their traveling clothes and with all the proper fuss had left the reception to catch the plane to their honeymoon in Greece.

  Their honeymoon. Because they had just gotten married. Mr. and Mrs. Robert St. John. Robert and Ginger were so happy it was nauseating. No, that wasn’t fair. He was sincerely pleased that Robert had found his happiness in ditzy Ginger. By this time next year they would no doubt have produced the first St. John grandchild. How crummy was that?

  “Knock it off,” Luke said, the sound of his own voice increasing the pain in his head.

  He was so jealous of Robert and Ginger, it was a crime. And envious of his parents and every other dewy-eyed in-love couple on the face of the earth.

  Well, watch out world, because Luke St. John was in love, too, and…and had gotten as drunk as a skunk because the woman of his heart wasn’t remotely close to being in love with him. What a bummer.

  Luke staggered to his feet, steadied, then shuffled into the bathroom, where he stood under a very hot shower for a very long time. He dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, consumed four cups of coffee with four matching aspirins and decided he might, just might, live.

  He wandered into the living room and slouched onto the large sofa, resting his head on the top and staring at the ceiling.

  How many people, he wondered, would decide to take the big step and get married after witnessing the faultless Barrington-St. John wedding Maggie had produced the night before? Would her phone be ringing off the hook Monday morning with newly engaged brides-to-be? That was sure what he would like to be doing come the first of the week—helping to plan the wedding of all weddings and…

  Luke sat bolt upward, then smacked one hand against his forehead as the sudden motion caused a lightning bolt to shoot through his head.

  There it is, he thought, his hear racing. Even through the last lingering fog of his hangover it was taking shape, coming together, clicking into place.

  The Plan.

  “Yes,” he said, punching one fist high in the air.

  Maggie spent Sunday catching up on Roses and Wishes paperwork, tackling a mound of laundry and cleaning her neglected apartment on the upper floor of the old house.

  That done, she shopped for groceries for her Mother Hubbard cupboards. She prepared a nice dinner for herself of baked chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy and a fruit salad, with the smug knowledge that the effort would provide enough leftovers for several days.

  What she did not do was think.

  Upon waking that morning she’d made a firm vow that she would not dwell on the subject of Luke St. John. Not relive the kiss at the altar during the rehearsal or the dances they’d shared.

  No remembrances would be allowed of the heated sensations that had consumed her when Luke’s lips had captured hers and while she had been held so tightly in his arms during the dreamy waltzes.

  She’d shoo away any images that threatened to creep into her mental vision of Luke’s deep brown eyes, his thick beckoning-to-her-fingers hair, his wide shoulders and those incredible strong but gentle hands of his.

  Through the entire day she concentrated on her chores and kept busy, busy, busy, becoming extremely proud of herself for her restraint and self-control.

  Luke and the success of the Barrington-St. John wedding were now old news, done, finished, kaput, and her thoughts were directed toward the start of the fresh week at Roses and Wishes. She focused on the hope that new business from all those cards she’d seen tucked away at the reception would cause the phone to ring off the hook.

  She mentally patted herself on the back for doing such a stellar job of keeping her vow. The day had gone exactly as she’d planned.

  But then she ran out of things to do.

  She had spit-shined the kitchen after dinner, taken a leisurely bubble bath in her super-duper tub, then settled onto the sofa in an old-fashioned, pale pink, soft cotton granny nightgown that was perfect for the warm summer night.

  Glancing at the little clock on the end table, she frowned when she saw that it was only a few minutes after eight o’clock. She was tired from her nonstop day but not sleepy enough to go to bed.

  “Television,” she said, snatching up the remote.

  She channel surfed three times, sighed, then turned off the TV realizing there was just nothing on that she wanted to watch.

  “Read a book,” she said, grabbing a paperback novel on the coffee table.

  After reading the same page four times and having no idea what it said, she plunked the book back onto the table and glared at it.

  She wiggled into a more comfortable position on the rather lumpy sofa, crossed her arms over her breasts and stared into space.

  And thought of Luke St. John.

  “This is dumb, dumb, dumb,” she said with a cluck of self-disgust.

  Well, she thought, maybe not. Perhaps she was approaching this all wrong. Granted, she’d kept Luke at bay during the hours of the day, but she couldn’t continue such a frenzied schedule or she’d collapse into an exhausted heap on the floor.

  So. New idea. She would indulge in dwelling on all that had transpired between her and Luke, would allow images of his masculine magnificence to consume her mind, would invite the womanly sensual sensations to once again swirl and churn and burn within her. Then she’d wrap all those things up like a precious treasure and tuck them away in a secret chamber of her heart and be done with them for all time. The end.

  “Very good,” she said with a decisive nod. “Go for it, Maggie.”

  And she did.

  And spent a long night tossing and turning in her bed, alternating between hot waves of overpowering desire and the chill of loneliness.

  Late the next morning Maggie sat in the office of Roses and Wishes and stared gloomily at the telephone, which had not rung once since she’d come downstairs.

  Well, that was fine, she rationalized. It didn’t mean she wasn’t going to garner any new business from the success of the Barrington-St. John wedding. She was being much too impatient, that’s all. Brides-to-be had to come back to earth from cloud nine and start thinking about what kind of wedding they wished to have. They’d mentally sift and sort, mull it over, then eventually call Roses and Wishes to set things in motion. Sure.

  Maggie left the office and went into the reception area, where she straightened albums that didn’t need straightening, dusted what wasn’t dusty. She switched two easy chairs to opposite sides of the love seat, then put them back where they’d been.

  With a sigh she trudged back into the office, sank onto the chair behind the desk and, for lack of anything better to do, doodled on a legal pad and munched on yogurt-covered almonds.

  She was tired, she mused, and that was Luke St. John’s fault. She’d given him several hours of her evening last night, but she’d certainly not invited him into her bed and the dreams she’d had when she’d finally managed to doze off. Pushy, rude man. He’d refused to stay beyond her bedroom door as ordered, darn it.

  The bell over the front door jingled, indicating someone had entered the house, and Maggie jumped to her feet, nearly tipping over the chair in the process.

  S
he told herself to get a professional grip, for heaven’s sake, took a steadying breath as she smoothed her pale blue top over the waistband of her white slacks and actually managed to walk to the main area in a fairly slow, ladylike manner.

  Then stopped dead and forgot to breathe.

  “Hello, Maggie,” Luke St. John said from where he stood just inside the door.

  This was absurd, Maggie thought, taking a gulp of much-needed air. Luke wasn’t really standing there looking incredibly gorgeous in jeans and an open-necked gray dress shirt. She’d conjured up his image from the wanton section of her brain that insisted on reliving all the sensationally sensuous… This was ridiculous.

  “Maggie?” Luke closed the distance between them and frowned. “Hello?”

  “You’re not here,” she said, flapping one hand in the air. “Poof. You’re gone.” She paused, waited, then tentatively pressed one fingertip to Luke’s imaginary chest, which was definitely hard as a rock. Her eyes widened as she stared up at him. “Oh, my gosh, you really are here. Why are you here?”

  Luke folded his arms across his chest and stared down at the floor, his shoulders shaking with muffled laughter.

  Oh, man, he thought, how he loved this woman. She was obviously jangled by his unexpected arrival at Roses and Wishes, and that was good news. Great news. If he hadn’t had an impact on Maggie, she wouldn’t give a damn if he suddenly popped into her place of business.

  She was flustered and didn’t know how to hide it, and that was so endearing. Maggie was genuine and honest. He wanted to take her into his arms and…

  “Mr. St. John?” Maggie said, planting her hands on her hips. “May I help you?”

  “I’m beyond help,” he said, meeting her gaze with merriment dancing in his brown eyes.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Never mind.” Luke forced a serious expression onto his face. “Yes, you may assist me, Ms. Jenkins. I am in desperate need of your expertise.”

  This was it, he thought, feeling a sudden trickle of sweat run down his chest. He was putting The Plan into motion. And it would work. It had to work.