License to Thrill

She blinked. “What?” she whispered.

“You heard me. Tell the poor guy you agreed to marry you’re sorry, but there’s been a change in plans.”

Hysterical laughter again threatened to erupt from Melanie’s throat. She thought of all the plans that had been made, the guests who had been invited, and realized she’d drop everything in a heartbeat if she thought for a minute that Marc loved her. But he’d already made it clear he didn’t and never would.

No, Marc’s appearance was just one more unfair occurrence in a day chock-full of them.

“Not on your life.” She surveyed him. She noticed the way he stood, all too handsome and deceptively relaxed, then watched the casual way he shifted his weight toward the bathroom door. Melanie’s gaze slid to the barrier, and her heart gave a triple beat.

“Melanie? Who’s out there with you? Is it Craig? Maybe he can help—”

Melanie dove for the mop handle. Before she could pull it free, Marc’s arms snaked around her waist. She gasped and thrust her elbow into his stomach with all the force she could muster, given her restricting apparel. She met with what felt like reinforced steel. While she’d gone a little soft around the middle, he’d gotten more than a bit harder.

“Come on, Mel, don’t make me go to Plan B,” he murmured.

Plan B? What was he talking about? And why did dread and anticipation spread through her at the humor in his voice? She stilled. “You can let go of me now,” she said with forced calm.

“Why? So you can try to let your mother out again? No way. I’ve been trying to get you alone all afternoon. Now that I’ve got you, I intend to do what I came for.” His breath stirred the hair over her right ear. She was powerless to stop an obvious shiver. “You are happy to see me.”

She tried to loosen his grasp, but again he tightened it.

“Come on, Marc, where am I going to go?” She wriggled against him, hating that he could read her reaction so well.

“Mmm.”

Melanie’s knees threatened to give out at the sound of his soft hum. His palms had flattened against her hips and now nudged up toward the underside of her breasts. She gasped, every traitorous part of her body craving that all too familiar touch.

Marc buried his face in her hair and breathed deeply. “God, I forgot what it was like to touch you.”

Need grew within her again, stronger this time. “Please let me go.” She hated the helpless quality of her voice and tried to insert some metal. “Or else I’ll do something you won’t find very pleasant.”

His chuckle stirred more than her hair. “You always were one for idle threats, weren’t you?”

Somehow she found the energy to do what she had to. Curling her fingers around one of the shoes, she swung it backward, heel first, hitting her intended target. Air rushed from Marc’s body. He stumbled back, releasing his hold on her and reaching for his crotch.

“How idle was that?” Melanie whispered. Clutching her shoes in one hand, she reached for the mop handle with her other.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Marc said.

Melanie’s stomach gave a small flip as she struggled to open the bathroom door. She nearly had the mop free when Marc drove it home.

“Why did I think this would be easy?” he murmured.

The world tilted beneath Melanie. By the time everything stopped spinning, she found herself draped over one of Marc’s wide shoulders, her shoes bouncing off the tiled floor. Her eyes were parallel with his jeans-clad rear end. And oh, what a rear end it was, too. Too bad she wasn’t in the mood to enjoy it at the moment.

What was she thinking? She didn’t want to enjoy anything about Marc. Not now. Not ever again. In two days she was getting married. And not to Marc. Because Marc had a bad habit of disappearing when she needed him most.

“I can’t believe you just did that!”

“Yeah, well, believe it,” he murmured. “I don’t care what they say, sometimes drastic measures are necessary.”

They? Who were they? God, she wished some of this mad situation would start making sense.

Marc suddenly stilled. “Everything’s fine, sir. You just go on about your business.”

Melanie peeked around his hips to see her uncle Fred worrying his tie in his hands. Bedford’s most prominent banker scurried toward the men’s room across the hall, not even attempting to help. Melanie suddenly wanted to cry.

A tentative knocking sounded on the ladies’ room door. “Melanie? Are you all right?”

Drawing in a fortifying breath, she said, “I’m fine, Mother.” Aside from feeling like a sack of flour. “Feel better now?” she asked him quietly.

“Much, thank you,” Marc said lightly. “Now, tell me how I go about making you see reason.”

“Reason? I’m not the one who just threw someone over her shoulder.”

She felt a hot hand on her ankle. She fidgeted and tried to see what he was doing.

“Hold still, or you’ll find a hand right where I’m sure you least want it,” he said. “Tell me, Mel, do you still take that neat little nickel-plated .25 everywhere you go?”

Melanie’s eyes widened as he cupped her right heel, then slowly slid his fingers up her calf, tickling the back of her knee. “Marc! Get your hands off me, you overgrown—”

His probing ceased just short of her panties. He stood silently for long moments. Melanie didn’t dare breathe. Awareness tingled everywhere his hand had touched, and even now neglected parts of herself pleaded for the pleasure they knew Marc could bring.

“Satisfied?” she croaked.

“Not nearly,” Marc said quietly. He moved his hand across her backside, eliciting a gasp, then slowly began down her other leg. “There she blows,” he said, pulling her .25 free from her thigh holster.

Melanie groaned and pushed against him in exasperation.

“Tell me, Mel, does your fiancé know what you hide under your skirt?” he asked, not removing his hand. Instead, he caressed the spot around her empty holster with feathery, fiery flicks of his callused thumb. She wriggled against him, threatening to topple herself to the floor. The way she figured it, anything was better than subjecting herself to Marc’s all-knowing touch.

“Put me down.”

His hand abruptly disappeared from her leg.

Rather than relief, Melanie felt nothing but disappointment. She held on for dear life as he bent to pick up her shoes.

“I will,” he said, the lazy teasing back in his voice. “Eventually.”

2

MARC TOOK IN everything and everyone in the parking lot in one glance. He hadn’t expected to spot Tom Hooker lurking in the shadows—the shooter who could even now have his gunsights set on Mel—but he hadn’t expected Hooker to escape custody the day before, either. No matter how overloaded his senses were with Mel’s nearness, he couldn’t forget that all evidence indicated Hooker was not only on a direct route to Mel, he was armed to the teeth, as well.

He picked up his pace.

Well, that hadn’t exactly gone as planned, had it? He shifted Mel’s weight more evenly over his shoulder, ignoring her attempts to get him to let her down. Ignoring, too, the warmth of having her body against his again, even given present circumstances. He strode toward his Jeep, parked in the far corner of the lot. The smell of new fabric mingled with Mel’s soft, subtle perfume. Linden flowers. That’s what he had always likened the scent to. She had always insisted it was jasmine. One of these days he’d take her to his family home in Manchester, Virginia, to show her the linden tree in the back yard. The tree’s brief but fragrant blossoms were the closest he’d ever gotten to any type of flower in the all-male household in which he’d been raised. Of course, while Mel shared his small town background, the only flowers likely to be found in her yard were of the rose variety.

“Where are you taking me?” Mel asked, wiggling to free herself from his hold.