The Groom's Revenge

Four

“Never?” Mollie gaped at the back of Gray’s head as she stood behind him the next evening. She’d closed her sho promptly at 6:00 p.m., then hurried upstairs. He’d spent the afternoon entering her previous year’s wholesale orders into “tracking program,” as he called it. “Gray McGuire, you have never in your life been on a picnic?”

“Not that I can recall.”

He was seated at the computer, watching the printer as cranked out sheet after sheet of graphs and charts. She looke over his shoulder at the monitor, where a colorful pie chart fille the screen.

“Maybe when I was too young to remember,” he added.

“That is un- American. Not even on the Fourth of July?”

“Not even.”

“We are filling that gap in your life experience tonight.”

“Okay.” He snagged the stack of papers from the printe “Take a look at these. As soon as I feed in the actual sale information, you’ll know exactly where your potential for los is. See here—”

Leaning around him, she reached for the papers just as he tipped his head back to say something. His head bumped against her sternum, right between her breasts. She didn’t move. Neither did he.

She matched her breathing to his, a rhythm that teased her with awareness of him as a man, a partner, a mate. She loved the weight of his head resting, almost nestling, between her breasts, making them swell and ache. Her nipples pressed into her bra. Down low, she felt her pulse pound.

Gray turned his head slightly, enough to feel the softness of her breast against his ear.

She stepped back, but the spell wasn’t broken for him. Need froze him in place.

“We won’t talk business until after dinner, okay? I’m going to change clothes, then fix our picnic. We’ll walk down to the park” Her voice faded as she moved away.

Her scent lingered. He wished he could pin it down, but it changed with her mood, her body temperature.

“I went to the grocery store before I opened up the shop,” she called out, jarring him out of his musings. “My refrigerator is overflowing with choices.”

“I brought wine,” he said. He typed a few keystrokes, sending the chart off the screen and bringing up a graph in its place. He waited until he heard her bedroom door shut before he took his hands off the keyboard. The back of his head still burned from the feel of her. Bells and whistles rang in his head, warning him of an impending crash of his logic system.

He checked his e-mail one last time. Another message from his stepfather, wondering when Gray would be resuming his responsibilities in California. The censure stung. He’d assumed his responsibilities early and well, had rarely taken a day off since he’d developed the computer operating system that had helped to revolutionize the fledgling home-computer industry.

Since then—a never-ending cycle of software to create, upgrades to design and the company to run since his stepfather had relinquished control to Gray years ago. The single-source business had mushroomed into a conglomerate under Gray’s risky push for growth. Some might even call it an empire He was grateful his stepfather had never figured out that Gray had taken such huge risks because he hadn’t created the company, therefore had nothing to lose.

He looked away from the screen, seeing nothing. He’d referred to James McGuire as his father since his mother’s marriage to the man almost twenty-five years ago. Had been ordered to, as if his real father had never walked the earth. His mother would not be pleased that Gray was thinking of James McGuire as his stepfather.

His mother, however, would not be pleased about a lot of things, particularly not Gray’s plans for justice. The past wasn’t only dead and buried to her, it didn’t exist. Life hadn’t begun for her until the day she’d become Mrs. James McGuire.

Life had yet to begin for Gray.

He shut down the computer without replying to the e-mail. It was Friday night. Date night. And Gray intended to enjoy it.

“Just because I haven’t been on a picnic doesn’t mean I don’t know how it works,” Gray said as he helped Mollie spread out a blanket that had probably been dragged along on a hundred picnics, given the tattered softness of the fabric. The evening was perfect, warm enough that Mollie wore shorts, and breezy enough to mold her blouse to her breasts.

“You eat fried chicken,” he continued, “potato salad and pickles, then watermelon for dessert. And you spit the seeds on the ground. Then you lie back on the blanket and groan about how much food you ate while you watch the fireworks.”

“You helped me pack the basket, so you know you got the food all wrong. And if you spit watermelon seeds on the ground, they sprout. It’s annoying.”

“But fireworks,” he said. “There have to be fireworks”

“If you want ’em, you’ll have to provide ’em.”

She bent to straighten a corner of the blanket, her legs pale and smooth, her rear an appealing focal point. Fireworks, indeed, but in the form of one Mollie Shaw, human sparkler.

They created sandwiches of fresh bakery bread, smoked turkey, two kinds of cheeses and a dark, tangy mustard. Other containers yielded pasta salad, fresh and marinated vegetables, and watermelon, already cut into bite-size pieces Then rich, chocolaty brownies, so moist and gooey they had to lick the chocolate off their fingers. And the California white zinfandel wine they drank managed to complement all the different flavors.

Mollie lay flat on her back. “I’m so full,” she groaned She’d nursed one glass of wine throughout the meal, having no intention of being tipsy again. He probably already thought she was too young for him, if his indulgent smile was any indication. Of some consolation was the fact he seemed to be losing some of his seriousness. Neither of them spoke of their e-mail exchange the night before, when they’d written things to each other that they never would have said aloud. She wished she’d known how to print them off and save them.

She glanced toward Gray as he rested his back against a tree and watched some children play nearby, hollering and laughing, bringing a smile to his face. She wondered how rare it was for him to relax. He took a sip of wine, then stretched his arm across his upraised knee, letting the half-full wineglass dangle from his fingers. His eyes closed.

Mollie closed hers, as well, feeling the warm evening drift over her.

“You’re easy to be with,” he said after a while.

She stirred, rolling to her side and propping her head on her hand. His words answered a question she’d been pondering—why did a man with his many responsibilities have so much time to spend with her? Answer? Because she didn’t demand anything from him.

“I suppose people always want something from you.”

“Pretty much.”

“Ever thought about changing your life?”

It took him a few seconds to answer. “Now and then.”

“What brings you to the Twin Cities?”

“I’m considering acquiring a company here.”

“Acquiring, as in buying it? Or taking over?” She regretted asking the questions, because he lost his contented look.

“Whatever works.”

“Yet you have time to teach me computers.”

“Not a hardship, I assure you,” he said He slid down to stretch out beside her, facing her. “You’re the best kind of student”

“What kind is that?”

“Balky.”

“Me? Why, Mr. McGuire, I’m the easiest-going woman you’d ever hope to meet.”

“Balky,” he repeated, matter of fact

“Well, you’re pushy.”