Once Upon a Honeymoon (Harlequin American Romance)

  Once Upon a Honeymoon

  Julie Kistler

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter One

  There was a nude woman in his shower.

  A nude woman stranger in his shower. Or at least he didn’t think he recognized any of that obvious flesh.

  Frozen to the carpet between the bedroom and bath of his modest suburban Chicago town house, Tripp Ashby muttered to himself, “You’re dreaming.”

  After all, he’d only gotten out of bed thirty seconds ago. Of course he was dreaming. What living, breathing, warm-blooded American male wouldn’t dream of a mysterious woman popping up naked, dripping wet, in his shower?

  But if he was dreaming, shouldn’t he be turned on, excited, fantasizing? Well, he wasn’t. All that flesh, and he wasn’t interested in the least. All he could think of was finding a weapon or an escape route.

  He blinked and looked again. But, no, he hadn’t imagined her. He still had a very good view of pale pink skin—lots of it—only a little blurred by the frosted glass of the shower door.

  Long blond hair. Tall. Lots of curves.

  “Jeez,” he muttered, only now realizing that his eyes were glued to her body, his gaze zooming like radar through the glass.

  It wasn’t polite to stare, even if she didn’t seem to realize that she had company, even if she was showing off her birthday suit in his shower, happily splashing and soaping away.

  But who the hell was she? And how had she gotten in there? She would’ve had to jimmy a lock or two, and then tiptoe through his bedroom, within inches of his sleeping body, to get to the shower.

  Tripp raked a hand through short, sleek brown hair that was already moist from the steamy bathroom. He didn’t need this. It was difficult to think this early in the morning. But even when his brain was firing on all cylinders, he doubted he’d know how to behave when confronted with a nude bather who might be a burglar. Or maybe just a psycho.

  Was this an invitation to jump in with her? Or maybe a ploy, to divert him, while her burglar pals ripped off the whole apartment?

  As he turned toward the door, deciding retreat was the better part of valor under these circumstances, the shower door opened, and she stepped out—naked as the day she was born.

  “Hi,” she said breezily. “How are you, Tripp?”

  She knew his name. She knew him. His mind raced with questions, but it also automatically supplied the appropriate reply—appropriate for a tea party at his mother’s house, anyway. “Fine, thank you. And you?”

  “Oh, I’m great!” she returned, widening her smile. She flicked wet hair back over one shoulder, but still she lounged there, careless and unconcerned. “I just love the morning, don’t you? I’m always so perky early in the a.m.”

  Trying to avoid looking at what exactly might be perky, Tripp turned hastily, grabbing a large bath sheet. “Here,” he mumbled, holding it out in her general vicinity.

  “Okay. But you know, I really enjoy not wearing anything. I have a great bod, you know? And I feel like, what’s the big deal?” She began to rub herself down vigorously. “I mean, it’s nothing anybody hasn’t already seen. Except better. Right, Tripp?”

  He really didn’t like the sound of his name on her lips. “How did you get in here?”

  She giggled. “It was great. I called this locksmith guy and told him I locked myself out. No prob. I mean, geeky guys are always falling all over me. They’ll believe anything I tell them.”

  “Right.” Burglary, fraud, deceit...and conning a poor, harmless locksmith. And this bimbo was proud of it.

  “So then I just sort of sneaked past where you were sleeping.” She shrugged, offering him a smug smile. “You’re cute when you’re asleep. So I thought I’d surprise you when you woke up. And here I am!”

  “Lucky me,” he said, deadpan.

  He was used to women finding him attractive. Decent looks, a certain athletic prowess, and a family that traveled in the right circles guaranteed his popularity. He didn’t pretend to understand what the big deal was, but he’d been living with it long enough to accept it. Yes, women had always found him attractive. But no one had ever gone to this kind of extreme just to get near him.

  He opened the door into his bedroom wider, letting in a rush of cool air to clear his head. “Tell me, have we met?”

  “Sure.”

  “We have?”

  “Like, duh! Would I be here if we hadn’t?”

  “I don’t know,” he managed. “Would you?”

  “You remember!” she insisted. “It was the big hospital benefit at the Hilton. We danced.”

  He vaguely recalled the black-tie affair she was referring to, but that was as far as it went. “I don’t think so—”

  “Oh, come on. Of course you remember.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “We danced a tango, and you told me I had beautiful eyes.”

  I tell everyone they have beautiful eyes, he thought desperately. What could he possibly have done at that damn benefit to provoke this kind of crazy stunt?

  “Look at my eyes,” she coaxed. “Don’t you remember?”

  His gaze flashed up to her face, which he hadn’t really given much of a glance so far. He’d been occupied elsewhere. But, no, her features rang no bells.

  “Kynthia Chipton,” she said impatiently. Finally, almost angrily, she consented to cover herself with the towel, twisting it around her. “My parents are H. H. and Buff Chipton, as in, you know, the Chipton Bank in the Loop. And Mummy is on all the best boards. Surely you’ve heard of them.”

  “Of course,” he responded, even though he couldn’t remember. He had a very short-term memory where Chicago’s society folk were concerned. But... “Did you say your name was Kynthia?” How could he have forgotten someone whose name was Kynthia?

  “Uh-huh. It’s Greek. You do remember, don’t you?” she declared, peering up at him with vacant blue eyes that hid, he felt sure, an IQ no larger than her bust measurement.

  “But what are you doing here?”

  She smiled coyly. Or what someone named Kynthia’s version of coy looked like, at any rate. “I came to visit. To jog your memory.” She tapped a fingernail against his chest, playing with the V where his robe gapped open.

  Tripp caught her hand. He was right the first time—she was psychotic. So was it better to boot her out coldly, or be kind until the men in the white coats arrived?

  His normal reaction was kindness, but this time he chose cold. With her hand placed firmly away from him, he backed out into his bedroom, getting them both out of the steamy bathroom. “It’s time for you to leave, Kynthia. Where are your clothes?”

  “But, Tripp!” She pouted. The effort of it almost made her drop her towel. She flapped it coyly, obviously trying to flash him some skin. She must’ve forgotten he’d already had a good look at what she was offering, and made it as clear as he knew how that he wasn’t buying what she was selling.

  “I heard you were lonely, and...” Her words were as stilted as if she were reading aloud from a personal ad. “And ready to settle down into a meaningful relationship.”

  Tripp stopped dead in his tracks. “You heard what?”

  “That you were just dying to find a girlfriend. Well, really a wife.” S
he giggled. “That is just so cute, that a guy like you would be so shy when it comes to...well, you know, connecting. And I’m single again, and you’ve always been such a hunk. You know, drool city.” She giggled again. “So I thought...why not do us both a favor and give poor, lonely Tripp a dream come true?”

  “Oh my God,” he groaned. “Where did you hear this?”

  “Well, from Babs Newton-Parrish. It was at the club where I play racquetball. I was in the locker room, and I overheard Babs telling her sister, Muffin, and that cow Mary Eleanor Beekerman, that your mother had told her, hush-hush, that you were simply desperate to find—”

  “Desperate? My mother said I was desperate?” Kitty Belle Ashby. The world’s most difficult, manipulative mother. And she was all his.

  He should’ve known.

  If stories were going around that he was on the prowl for a “meaningful relationship,” Kitty Belle had to be at the bottom of it. She’d been trying to marry him off to anything that moved—or at least anything with the right pedigree—since he turned twenty-one. His mother said she wanted grandchildren. She said she wanted the right sort of bloodlines to carry on the almighty Ashby name. And Kynthia Chipton and her pals had exactly the sort of connections and cash Kitty Belle loved best.

  “So when I heard Babs going on and on about how she was going to act like your one-woman life preserver, to save you in your time of need, well, I knew I could get the jump on Babs.” Kynthia made a “hmph” noise. “After all, I’m much smarter than Babs Newton-Parrish.”

  From what he’d seen of Kynthia—and so far he’d seen plenty—that didn’t bode well for Babs. “Look, I’m sorry you’ve gone to all this trouble.” He scanned the floor of his bedroom, looking for her clothes. “But my mother is mistaken, and so is anyone who listened to her. I’m not looking for Ms. Right, okay? I’m not looking for anybody.”

  “But—” she began, as he took her elbow and steered her out into the hall.

  “Where are your clothes?” he asked again, making sure he said the words slowly and clearly.

  “What’s the rush?”

  “Here they are,” he said with relief, pointing her toward the heap of expensive sportswear tossed negligently on the love seat in his living room. “You can dress in the kitchen.”

  “In the kitchen?” she huffed.

  “Sorry.” He tossed her a silk blouse, the top item on the pile of clothes. “But I’ll be needing my bedroom and bathroom. I have to get going, or I’m going to be late to work. You can let yourself out, okay?”

  “Let myself out?”

  There was a definite echo in the living room. “So long,” he offered, already on his way back down the hall.

  “Well, no wonder you have trouble getting a girl,” she shouted after him. “You’re really rude.”

  He refrained from pointing out the relative rudeness of traipsing into someone else’s shower uninvited. As he cleared the bedroom door, he heard the front door slam, and he released a sigh of relief. “Good riddance,” he muttered under his breath.

  His only hope was that Kynthia was so annoyed, she would bad-mouth him back in the locker room and scare away Babs whoever and Mary Eleanor Beekerman.

  He still couldn’t quite believe that Kitty Belle had announced open season on her only child. Even for her, this was pushing the edge of the envelope.

  Maybe it was a mistake or a misunderstanding, he mused, as he blasted himself under the force of the shower that had so recently held Kynthia. Maybe Kitty Belle had made an innocent remark to somebody else’s mother, a remark that had picked up something in the translation. Maybe the worst was over.

  After all, even if Kynthia thought he was a great catch, the others would know better, wouldn’t they? Okay, so they thought he was cute—a hunk, as Kynthia put it. While flattering, as well as mildly annoying, it was hardly enough to get women running to the Marriage Mart.

  And as for his general eligibility, he didn’t think it was any great shakes.

  How could he be eligible when he had no money?

  Oh, the Ashby name was distinguished enough, and Kitty Belle certainly considered herself the cream of society. But everyone knew the Ashby wealth had gone with the wind a long time ago. More precisely, it had gone the way of the horse-drawn carriage.

  In its time—a slower, more gracious time—the posh Ashby Carriage Company had put plenty of coins in the family coffers. But ever since the advent of the automobile, ever since their luxurious horse-drawn carriages got run over in an onslaught of Fords and Buicks and even Volkswagens, the Ashby family had begun its slow decline.

  By the time Tripp hit adulthood, all the Ashbys had left was a town named after them, an almost-defunct business that put out a few high-class bicycles instead of carriages and a lot of pretense coming from Kitty Belle’s side of the house.

  But Tripp himself was living well below Kitty Belle’s standards. He attended only the benefits she forced him to, and he steered clear of the rest of that high-priced life-style. His own life was modest enough, he thought, with more than a touch of self-mockery. Who’d want him?

  For the first time in his life, it actually cheered him up to be poor. Shaking his head, Tripp jumped into his car and took off for the office. But his good mood didn’t last long. Not even long enough to push open the door.

  It was a small office in a small building, barely big enough to house him, his secretary and a small collection of antique sporting equipment on the walls as a dubious attempt at decoration. Mostly it was just a place to work out of, but no great meeting space. He could never recall having six people, let alone six women, waiting for him when he got to work.

  His business, called Touch the Sky, designed and marketed fiberglass poles intended for world-class pole vaulters, as well as a variety of other specialty sporting equipment. As a general rule, there weren’t a whole lot of women beating down the door to buy poles.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, but one glance at his secretary’s harried, sullen expression convinced him he was better off not knowing.

  “I’m first!” shouted a nubile redhead who looked vaguely familiar. She jumped to her feet and leapt out in front of the receptionist’s desk.

  “I was ahead of you,” another one interrupted, elbowing the first one aside. Wearing a fluffy fur coat and baring a lot of teeth in a determined smile, this one brought to mind a grizzly bear on the prowl for plump campers.

  “First?” cried an anorexic young thing with a severely asymmetrical haircut. “I’ll give you first!”

  And then they all started to fuss and whine, edging closer, pushing up to him, until it was all he could do to wedge himself around them and escape into the inner sanctum of his office.

  Tripp slammed the door shut between him and them. Debutantes on a rampage. It was terrifying.

  He could hear them scuffling and shouting out there, and somebody knocked hard on the door, but there was no way he was going to open it.

  As he stuck a chair under the door handle for good measure, and then retreated back around to his desk, he realized he had no idea what to do to extricate himself from this thorny situation. Not a clue. He’d played every sport in the book, in every kind of pressure-cooker situation, but this was worse than any of them—worse than trying to penetrate against the press, worse than trying to find your footing on a muddy track, worse than being slammed into the hardwood by a three-hundred-pound center.

  Tripp had no idea what to do. But then, there was no rule book for dealing with marriage-mad society women.

  One of his friends, a good ole boy named Deke, could’ve charmed them all right out of the office without batting an eye. Besides, Deke had bucks to burn, so maybe he could’ve waved a few greenbacks and led the women out by their rich little noses. But unfortunately, neither Deke nor his bank account was here to help out at the moment.

  Lost in his thoughts, Tripp jumped when the phone on his desk rang.

  He was almost afraid to pick it up. “Hello?” he a
sked tentatively. The noise in the background clued him in. It was Rosa, his secretary, calling from the outer office.

  “Good morning, sir,” she began, in a fakey sort of voice. “I was hoping you could help me with a problem I’m having.”

  “Don’t even ask, because I don’t know what to do with them,” he muttered. “I guess I could see them one at a time, try to reason with them...”

  “No way,” Rosa shot back quickly. She dropped her voice. “Are you nuts? You let any one of them in and the others will go ballistic. And I’ll be out here trying to fend them off.”

  “So you think I should I come out there?”

  “That’s even worse! They’ll tear you to pieces.”

  Tripp sighed. “What do you think they want, anyway?”

  “They’ve made that pretty clear. You.”

  A wanted man. It was ridiculous.

  “Do you know what started this?” she whispered. “What did you do? Take out a personal ad in the Society Register? ‘Hot to get hitched—call Tripp Ashby’?”

  “It’s all my mother’s fault,” Tripp said tersely. “And I’m going to kill her.”

  First Kynthia and now six more just like her. Rich, vain and vapid. It was ridiculous. Why would Kitty Belle pick these women? She couldn’t seriously think he’d go for any of them. Could she?

  The worst part was that, even if he got rid of this bunch, there was no guarantee there wouldn’t be six or seven more arriving on their heels. There was no telling how many eligible young women Kitty Belle had revved up.

  He groaned out loud.

  Meanwhile, he had a potential client—a slick, influential sports agent he occasionally golfed with—due to show up within the next half hour. If Tripp was lucky, this meeting would generate enough income to keep his business afloat for a few more months. But how could there even be a meeting when he had an office full of whining bimbos?

  If there was one thing that made him crazy, it was the threat of public embarrassment. And if superagent Marv Monroe caught sight of all those marriage-hungry women, Tripp wouldn’t be merely embarrassed. He would be humiliated.