Once Upon a Honeymoon (Harlequin American Romance) Page 6

  “You can’t leave me!” the woman wailed.

  Bridget had seen enough. She had half a mind to rap loudly on the front door and announce that she would be happy to drive Miss Ski Pants off a cliff somewhere, but she refrained. If the blonde was that good at inventing excuses, a cranky woman at the front door would be small potatoes.

  No, she preferred to sneak up on them, from inside the cabin.

  Grabbing her stuff, she hightailed it around to the back of the place, which was larger and more spread out than she would’ve suspected from the front. A long deck ran the length of the second level, and a shorter, wider one, complete with hot tub, spanned the ground floor. Practically the whole back side of the cabin was glass—there were windows everywhere.

  Skirting the spa, she headed for the back door. Locked. Charming. Who locked the back door of a mountain cabin in the middle of nowhere?

  Next, Bridget tried the nearest window, one that ran along the outside wall fairly low to the ground. Thankfully, it had been left partially open, too, just like the one in front. It seemed Tripp had a taste for fresh air. With Miss Ski Pants breathing down his neck, Bridget didn’t blame him.

  Once she had the window pushed open, it was easy work to hoist herself over the low sill and into the cabin. “If you can do it to make my Thanksgiving dinner, I can do it to save your skin from being mounted on Miss Ski Pants’ trophy wall,” she said. And then she glanced around at her surroundings.

  A bedroom. Tripp’s bedroom, from the looks of it.

  Bridget straightened. She swallowed. Tripp’s bedroom. The images that conjured up were enough to stop her dead in her tracks.

  She recognized the clothes tossed casually on the bed, and she could still smell his distinctive scent, lingering faintly on his shirts and his robe. Her brain fed her an image of Tripp peeling off that shirt, carelessly casting aside that robe, baring his beautiful, bronze skin to her hungry eyes.

  And it didn’t take much to envision him, half-naked, sleepy, wound up in the creamy white sheets on that old brass bed.

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  She sat down on the bed, clutching the silky robe, pulling it up to rub the sleeve against her cheek. Tripp’s bedroom. How many years had it been since she’d set foot in Tripp’s bedroom?

  And why did she have the insane desire to just snuggle right in and never leave?

  But there was a loud squeal from the other side of the cabin, and she knew she had to shake off all those lascivious, inappropriate feelings. She had to help Tripp, not moon over his clothing.

  But at least it furnished an idea. Stripping down to her skivvies, she tousled her hair, shrugged into his robe and threw some of her own clothes around the room. She even left her hairbrush on the dresser, and dangled a slinky nightgown she couldn’t believe she’d brought with her across the end of the bed.

  And then she took a deep breath and wondered if she really had the guts to pull this off.

  “Hell, yes,” she said out loud. It was for Tripp, after all. For his own good.

  After a quick glance to make sure Tripp’s bathrobe was positioned properly, exposing enough of her skin, Bridget sauntered down the hallway toward the living room. She didn’t bother to be quiet, but the loud voices from the living room convinced her nobody knew she was coming, anyway.

  And when she passed the kitchen, she got an even better idea. With a smile, she grabbed a bottle of already opened wine off the counter, and took a big sip. Fortified. With the bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other, she was ready to make her grand entrance.

  “Darling?” she called out, trailing the bottom of his robe behind her as she peeked around the corner into the living room. She gave them a little leg first, and then popped into full view.

  Tripp and the blonde both froze.

  Miss Ski Pants found her voice first. “Who are you?” she sniffed.

  “You mean he didn’t tell you?” Bridget asked in her sultriest voice. Up until this exact moment, she hadn’t really been aware she had a sultry voice, but she did her best.

  “Tell me what?”

  “About me, of course.” Tripp was still standing there, openmouthed, as Bridget sidled right over and handed him a glass. “I got tired of waiting, darling. I thought you were never coming back to bed.”

  It was a gamble, of course. There were lots of ways the blonde could figure out that Bridget was lying. But somehow, Bridget didn’t think the woman was a rocket scientist.

  “Sweetheart,” Tripp said, with a sexy little growl in his voice. He held the glass while she poured, and then silently saluted her. He was smiling, and she loved every minute of it. “I’ve been trying to get rid of her, darling. Believe me, I wanted to get back to you. It was just...awkward.”

  “Yeah, but...” Looking utterly confused, Miss Ski Pants flashed her gaze from face to face. “Yeah, but I thought it was all part of the game. Your mother said you liked really aggressive women, that no matter what, I shouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  “His mummy doesn’t always know what’s best for Tripp, does she?” Bridget whispered. His lazy smile widened.

  The blonde sputtered, “She said you might fight it, you know, as part of your little game, but that the surest way to your heart was to hang on and not let go. B-b-but, she didn’t say anything about some other woman. She said you had a major crush on me. So who is this?”

  Only the rigid set to Tripp’s jaw clued Bridget in to the tension he was really feeling. He kept staring down at her, doing a very good imitation of being absolutely dazzled by her nearness.

  And then he reached down, took away the wine and her glass and set them on a nearby table. Taking her hand in his, he brushed a small, soft kiss right into her palm.

  “My robe looks better on you.” And his blue eyes flickered over her, licking her with fire.

  God, she thought, this is sweet. She didn’t have to pretend at all. Standing there, basking in the warmth of his gaze, with Tripp treating her as if she were some kind of sex kitten, made her want to purr and sink into his arms.

  As she enjoyed these bizarre, amazing feelings, Tripp turned her hand over, and dropped another kiss right under Jay Philpott’s horrible engagement ring.

  And Bridget’s bravado began to falter. She remembered, all of a sudden, that she wasn’t a siren or a femme fatale. She was Egghead Emerick, and she would never pull this off. Never.

  “Who is this?” the other woman demanded again, stamping her little foot in frustration.

  Bridget flushed, more ill at ease and out of place than she’d ever been. Scrambling for an answer, she began, “I—I’m—”

  “My wife,” Tripp finished. His arm was strong and sure behind her, offering courage. “We’re newlyweds. We just got married—”

  “At the Cupid’s Arrow Chapel of Perpetual Motion,” Bridget said dimly. “We skied by.”

  Tripp’s beautiful blue eyes were dancing with mischief as he murmured, “That’s right,” and drew her closer.

  His fingers brushed her hair. His gaze held hers.

  And then he bent down and kissed her.

  Chapter Five

  He had kissed her before, once, on New Year’s Eve, with a friendly peck on the cheek, maybe even brushing past her lips. But that was nothing like this.

  Nothing like this.

  This was hot and hard and demanding, as if they really were newlyweds who couldn’t get enough, of each other. Her arms tightened around him, forcing her closer. He slanted his mouth across hers, her lips parting, deepening the kiss, delving into her luscious warmth.

  God, it was intoxicating. If he’d had his wits about him, he would’ve pulled back immediately, let her go, ended this craziness. But the moment his lips touched hers, the second her tongue danced past his, some irresistible impulse took over. As he bent her backward, as she wound her arms around him and pressed herself into his embrace, Tripp forgot about where he was and who she was. He gave himself up to the seductive, powerful fe
eling of kissing Bridget senseless.

  She tasted wonderful. She felt wonderful. Her hair and her skin were soft and smooth under his fingers, and he wanted to touch more of her, to unpeel that slinky, shadowy robe and see what she was hiding. In another minute, he’d push them both down onto the bearskin rug, and there would be nothing between them but a lot of bare skin.

  The incredible, overpowering need to make love to her—now—leapt to life from out of nowhere.

  But first... First, it was her mouth—her soft, hard, wet, deep, sweet, mysterious, greedy mouth—that drew his attention. Serious, reliable, dull? Ha! Kissing Bridget was like throwing gas on a raging fire.

  Without allowing himself to think, he dipped his tongue deeper, and slid his hands down to her hips, urging her closer, fitting her up against him.

  She moaned a little, clinging to him, and that sound rippled under his skin, making him feel even more restless and aroused, even more out of control.

  “Well, you don’t have to slobber all over her in front of me, even if she is your wife!”

  The screechy tones penetrated his misguided brain, and he felt Bridget stiffen in his arms.

  Good God. He was kissing Bridgie. More than kissing her, he was practically eating her alive, as if she were Little Red Riding Hood and he a grade-A wolf.

  What was wrong with him? This was Bridget. But it appeared Bridget had changed. And so had his reaction to her.

  “Sorry,” he murmured. He released her slowly, reluctantly. And then he traced the curve of her cheek with one finger, and gave her a soft half smile. He reminded himself that this was all part of a convenient plan to get rid of a bimbo. Nothing more. He willed his pulse back to a more normal level, and his body to relax and behave itself. He manufactured a superficial smile. “I forget myself when I’m with my wife.”

  Bridgie stepped back, looking a little dizzy, and she gulped audibly. Those words on his lips were as shocking to her as they were to him.

  “I can’t believe you’re already married,” the blonde fumed. “But then why was your mother pushing me so hard to come out here and get you?”

  “Well, you see—” Bridget began.

  “My mother doesn’t know,” Tripp said quickly. “We’ve kept it a secret.”

  He squeezed her hand, trying to let her know how much he appreciated her rescue attempt, and her willingness to create this ruse in the first place. But the moment his fingers touched hers, electricity arched between them, and he dropped her hand pronto. What the hell was going on?

  He knew why he’d kissed her like that—sort of, anyway. It just happened, that was all. But why had she kissed him back? Why had she put her heart and soul into it, scorching him like that?

  What a mess. What a way to say thank-you. What a way to screw up his friendship with Bridgie and send her racing back to Chicago.

  “A secret? But why?” A lightbulb lit up over the blonde’s head. “Wait, I’ve got it figured out. Mom doesn’t approve, right? And she won’t come across with the bucks. Everybody in Chicago knows you’re coming into major bucks when you get married.”

  The jumble of words passed him right by; Tripp heard what the woman was saying, but he didn’t quite take it in.

  “So, you gave up the money for true love, huh?” She made a snorting noise. “What a waste. Let me tell you, you were the hottest prospect on the market. Looks, money, the name—you had the whole package, hon. But you gave up the cash for love. Wow. What a come-down. And when word gets out you’re already taken, there is going to be hell to pay. Wait till I tell Sissy Worthington!”

  “Please do,” Tripp said quietly, as she gathered up her parka and made a quick run for the door.

  “I thought your car was broken,” Bridgie called after her, but they heard it roar to life outside the cabin, and then spin away down the road.

  And they were alone. He wasn’t prepared for this part, for the reckoning.

  Oh, God. He’d kissed her. He’d kissed her with such heat and hunger, the memory of it would be branded on his brain forever. Now what were they going to do?

  Knowing Bridgie, she’d probably slug him. His only hope of salvaging this for either of them was to make light of the whole thing before she had a chance to kill him.

  “Well,” Tripp murmured, “you’re very good at this undercover stuff, Bridgie. Maybe you have a future as a spy.”

  “I sincerely doubt it. I’ve never felt more ridiculous in my life.”

  His smoky gaze made a leisurely pass up and down her body. “Ridiculous? I don’t think so. It’s a new look for you, but it’s not bad. Not bad at all.”

  He could read it in her face; she suddenly became very aware that she wasn’t wearing a whole lot. As hot color suffused her face and throat, she pulled together the robe, clutching the fabric in clumsy hands.

  “I’m really sorry.” She cleared her throat awkwardly. “It was the only plan I could come up with.”

  He could see how uncomfortable she felt, and he went back to the familiar plan: tease it away. If he was joking, they’d both know how to deal with it. “And why are you sorry?” A grin curved his lips. “I enjoyed it. In fact, I thought it was a lot of fun.”

  “Sure. Loads of laughs.” Looking self-conscious, she folded back the cuffs on his robe. And then she seemed to reacquire the moxie she usually had. With one hand on her hip, she lifted her chin and dressed him down. “Pretty sad, Tripp. Making me fly all the way out here just to kick out one grade-D female. So why couldn’t you take care of it yourself?”

  Now this was a Bridgie he recognized. He shrugged. “I tried everything I could think of. When Nina—the one last night—ripped out my phone, I knew I was in trouble. If these were guys, I could just punch them. But what do you do with women?”

  “So who’s Nina? I take it she’s not the blonde. Thank goodness it was a different person, or my story never would’ve held water.” When he raised an eyebrow, she added, “About being here with you, in bed, I mean.”

  And then she realized what she’d said, and she blushed prettily, suffusing her cheeks with rosy color. Adorable. Tripp smiled. Absolutely adorable. He wondered if she blushed every time the word bed came up. And if she was actually in bed, her soft, supple body curled beneath him, how much of her would take on that rosy hue?

  Definitely worth thinking about. His mind was just about to wander even farther into treacherous waters, but he caught himself in the nick of time. What the hell was he doing, thinking Bridgie was adorable? One damn kiss, and all he could think about was jumping her bones. It was disgusting. It was a betrayal of their friendship.

  He clamped down hard to stop this nonsense in its tracks.

  Meanwhile, Bridgie went on, scrambling through some kind of explanation. “I mean, if Miss Ski Pants had been here overnight, she would’ve known you weren’t sleeping with me.”

  Sleeping with her. God, he wished she hadn’t said that.

  What was wrong with him?

  Taking a completely different tack, he asked dryly, “Miss Ski Pants, huh?”

  “Well, they were awfully tight. It was the most obvious thing about her.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Adorable again. But Bridget wasn’t paying attention to his overheated glances. Thank God.

  “So what was that about someone ripping out your phone?”

  “Nina Sherrard. We were in the same dancing class twenty years ago.” He shook his head. He didn’t want to think about the bimbos anymore, especially here, where his sanctuary had been invaded. It was galling. “I came here for peace and quiet, a chance to think about what to do about all this, and what happens? I’m not here five minutes before Nina Sherrard and her personal chef arrive, sent by my own mother.”

  “A chef?” Bridget echoed. “That’s a novel approach.”

  “It was ridiculous. He was out in the kitchen making flaming crepes, and Nina was unpacking china and silverware before I had a chance to say, ‘No thank you.’”

  Tripp reached
for the wineglass he’d set aside earlier, taking a long swallow. After a moment, he said, “I ate the dinner, I politely asked her to leave and she laughed at me. She told me she had Gypsy violinists coming down from Reno to serenade me. Serenade me, do you believe it? I feel like I’m in an old Doris Day movie, and I’m playing Doris Day,” he said in disbelief.

  Bridget laughed out loud. “Even at your worst, I don’t think anyone would mistake you for Doris Day.”

  “Yeah, well, I hope you’re right. When Nina went to let in the Gypsy violinists, I pushed her out the door and locked it.” Tripp smiled with satisfaction. “Hardly subtle, but it got the job done. And then I called you. But before I turned around, Nina had sneaked in through the kitchen door and was climbing all over me.”

  Bridget’s expression grew a bit darker. “That must have been the giggling I heard.”

  “Yeah. I hate gigglers. She ripped the phone out of the wall after I called you—do you believe it?” He was starting to get angry again; he could feel it rising. He hated the position he’d been put in, but even more, he hated his own inability to control these women. “I tossed her out again, and this time I locked all the doors so she couldn’t get back in. I thought maybe a wolf or a moose would get her. She pounded on the door for hours, but finally she went away. Maybe the Gypsies gave her a ride.”

  “Oh, Tripp!” she said in a disgusted tone. “I can’t believe you have to go through all this nonsense. Why can’t you just tell them you’re not interested?”

  “Don’t you think I’ve tried? I’ve said every mean, hostile thing I can think of. But they don’t go away. My mother has them all primed—they think I’m playing hard to get.” He winced. “It’s part of my charm.”

  “Uh-huh,” Bridget said doubtfully, as if she didn’t believe he had charm at all.

  “And I had no sooner gotten rid of Nina than this afternoon’s blonde showed up.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Thank God you got here when you did. She disabled my car!”

  “Tripp, I don’t mean to malign your appeal or anything. I mean, I think you’re...” She paused. After a moment, she said, “Of course I think you’re wonderful. But still, it’s not like you’re the last man on earth. I mean, they all act like you’ve got magic charms in your underwear or something. What is going on?”