A Wedding for Christmas Read online

  “No shit, Messer.” Ryder rolled off her, leaving Katie feeling strangely adrift.

  “You thought I was a stalker?”

  “My bad,” the guy called Messer said.

  “You okay?” Ryder asked, putting out a hand to help her up.

  She stared at that big hand, afraid to touch it. Afraid of the fire he sparked inside her.

  He didn’t wait for her to make a decision, just grabbed her hand and hauled her to her feet. Macho Alpha Dude. Not much had changed in twelve years except he was bolder, brasher, more in charge and in-your-face.

  And handsomer than ever.

  She should have expected that.

  “We have to get that stuff off your chest,” he declared, still holding on to her hand. “Messer, you’re on Ketchum. Call Davis in early as your backup. I’m taking Miss . . .” He shifted his gaze back to Katie, raised her left hand to examine it. “No ring. Is it still Miss?”

  “Yes,” she said, because she was so stunned she didn’t know what else to say.

  Ryder shifted his attention to The Rock look-alike. “I’m going to attend to Miss Cheek’s wasabi problem, and then make sure she gets home safely.”

  “You know her?” Messer asked.

  Instead of answering, Ryder snapped his fingers. “Ketchum. Go to it. There’s a stalker after him.”

  “Will you be back before your shift is over?” Messer asked, pulling out his cell phone, presumably to call Ryder’s replacement.

  “No.” Ryder leveled a long, speculative look at Katie. She shivered from head to toe. What did that look mean? “I’m done for the night. Come with me,” Ryder said to Katie and hauled her toward the bathroom door marked “Women.”

  He kicked open the door. “Anyone in here? Everybody out. Security.”

  No one answered. No sound from any of the stalls.

  “Looks like we’re good to go.” He hustled her inside, and then paused to lean half his body out the door to holler at Messer. “Clear the area except for Ketchum and his entourage, and block off the second floor.”

  “Yes, dick-tator,” Messer called back.

  “Now,” Ryder said, turning his attention to Katie. “Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart.”

  Sweetheart.

  The fifteen-year-old in her thrilled to the term of endearment, while the almost twenty-seven-year-old resisted. “No,” she said.

  “No?” He sounded amused.

  “You don’t get to do that.”

  “Do what?” He maneuvered her over to the sink, turned on the cold tap, reached for a paper towel.

  “Call me sweetheart. You haven’t seen me for twelve years. I’m not your sweetheart. Never have been. Never will be.”

  “Oh.” He grinned like he was on a fishing trip and had just hauled in a prize specimen.

  “Oh?” She sank her hands on her hips. The burning at her chest had ebbed into numbness. “What does that mean?”

  “You’ve gotten bolder. And pricklier.”

  “Yes, well, things change.”

  “I like it.” He winked. “Now hold still.”

  “Messer was right. You are a dictator.”

  “Sweetheart, I’m just trying to take care of you.”

  “Not your place,” she said, snatching the paper towel from his hand. Not because she didn’t want him to dab the soothing water on her excoriated skin, but precisely because she did.

  “Independent streak too. Gotta tell you, Miss Priss, I’m really into this new you.”

  Miss Priss. The old nickname he’d given her. He’d remembered.

  “I’m not new. I just grew up.”

  “Yes.” His eyes lit up with appreciation as he watched her scoop wasabi from her cleavage. “Yes, you did.”

  The rough paper towel scratched against her sore skin, and Katie hissed in her breath. She leaned forward over the sink, splashed cooling water over her chest and neck. Ah, much better. She thoroughly cleaned herself off, and then straightened to reach for another paper towel, but Ryder was already holding one out for her.

  “Thanks,” she said grudgingly.

  “Welcome.” His roguish grin was incorrigible.

  She gently patted her skin dry, but it was only when she’d finished up and caught Ryder staring at her that she realized she’d gotten her dress damp, and her puckered nipples were clearly visible through the wet fabric of her clothes.

  Dammit.

  “Do you remember the time you kissed me?” he asked.

  Double dammit.

  How could she ever forget that? It had been a defining moment in her life. The very next day Ryder had joined the army, getting as far away from her as he could get.

  “Nope,” she said.

  “Sure you do. It was—”

  “You rejected me.”

  “Hell yes, I rejected you. You were fifteen and it was your first kiss and you were my best friend’s little sister and I was living in your parents’ house. What would you have me do, woman?”

  Woman. Why did that one word sound so sexy coming from him?

  “One of my most embarrassing moments,” she said. “I felt ugly and stupid and ashamed.”

  He stabbed his fingers in his hair, blew out his breath through puffed cheeks. “You had nothing to be ashamed of.”

  She chuckled nervously, not brave enough to meet his eyes. “I was fifteen, who knows what the hell I was thinking? I’m sure I had some silly romantic notion that you would kiss me back, sweep me up in your arms, carrying me to your white charger, and we would gallop off into the sunset.”

  “That’s exactly what I wanted to do with you, and more . . .” His eyes strayed over her body. “So damn much more. But you were my best friend’s little sister. Still are, for that matter.”

  “Do shut up, Ryder,” she said, because her entire body was lit up like the proverbial Christmas tree. “If you’ll step aside, I’ll be on my way.”

  “I’m not letting you go off like this. You need ointment for that burn.”

  “I can stop at a drugstore. Surprise! I know how to do that.”

  A bullish look came over his face, and she remembered he was a Taurus. Stubborn as the day was long. “I’m driving you home. No arguments. This is not the safest part of town for you to be driving in late at night.”

  Honestly, she was a bit relieved to have him offer. The high heels were killing her feet, and her wet dress drew attention to her nipples, and she didn’t want to whine, but the wasabi burns were pretty uncomfortable. How did people eat stuff that hot? Plus she’d had that half glass of wine and not enough time for it to wear off before she got behind the wheel.

  “Where are you staying?” he asked.

  “Malibu.”

  He shook his head. “That’s too far. My apartment is only a few blocks away in the heart of downtown. I’ve got ointment, and Benadryl. I’ll fix you up, and you can sleep on my couch.”

  “I’m not waking up to Christmas Eve morning with you.”

  “Duh.” He blinked sheepishly. “I’m being an idiot. You’ve got someone else.”

  No. No. She did not. But she didn’t tell him that.

  “You still have that boyfriend?” he asked.

  “What boyfriend?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Joe mentioned once that you had a boyfriend you were living with in a yurt. That doesn’t sound much like you.”

  “Fiancé,” she said. “Matt was my fiancé and he died. Last year.”

  “Shit, Katie. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault.”

  He winced. “I hate that I didn’t know. I could have sent my condolences.”

  “Why would you? It’s not like we kept in touch or anything.”

  “No,” he said. “But I care about what happens to you.”

  His words squeezed her lungs, caused her blood to warm and her heart to pump wildly. Ryder cared?

  He’s just being polite. Don’t read anything into it.

  Ryder snapped his fingers.
“Hey, wait a minute. It’s Christmas. Why aren’t you home in Twilight?”

  She waved a hand. “Long boring story. Short version, I needed a break from excessive Christmas celebration and I swapped places with a friend for the holidays.”

  “Like in that movie with Cameron Diaz?”

  “Yes, like that.”

  “Switching things up. Good place to start. You can elaborate on the way to my place.” Before she could think of a good reason why not, he took her hand.

  Holy Santa Claus! Ryder Southerland was holding her hand! It felt so good that she didn’t resist.

  He led her down the stairs and out a side exit to where a big black Harley was parked.

  “You still have the Harley?” she asked, pulling her hand away from his and cradling her arm against her side out of his reach.

  “Only vehicle I’ve ever owned.” He puffed his chest out with pride, ran a hand over the smooth chrome.

  “Of course,” she said. “What else would a lone wolf drive? But I’m putting my foot down. I’m not getting on that machine in a dress. I’ll go to your apartment only for medical attention, but we’re taking my BMW.”

  “My, my. A place in Malibu. A BMW. Miss Priss has certainly come up in the world.” His tone was both sarcastic, and amused.

  “It’s not my place or my car,” she reminded him.

  “Doesn’t matter, you’re living the life.”

  She wasn’t sure what he meant by that. She pulled the car keys from her purse, dangled them from her index finger. “Let’s go.”

  “Fine,” he said, snatching the keys from her hand. “We’ll take your wheels. But I’m driving.”

  Chapter 3

  It started off innocently enough.

  Okay, scratch that. Anyone who’d believe that line of bull was dumb enough to buy a bridge in Brooklyn, sight unseen.

  Truth?

  The minute they walked into Ryder’s apartment in downtown Los Angeles, Katie knew she was not going to resist if he made a move on her. She, however, would not make a move on him. The last time she’d done so, things had not turned out so well.

  There was no denying the pulsing sexual tension throbbing between them. Every time he looked at her, she could feel her cells tingle and vibrate. Damn, but she wanted him.

  To distract herself, she glanced around the apartment.

  The decor was modern, masculine, steel and metal, silver and chrome. But there were no pictures on the walls. No throw pillows on the couch. Not even a television set. Ultra-minimalist to the point of monkish.

  She should have liked it. The effect was a tidy, efficient, no-nonsense style, but there was too much emptiness. Cold. Distant. Untouchable.

  This was how Ryder lived his life?

  A sharp spike of sorrow pricked her, but the sensation staggered away when he took her hand and led her toward his bedroom. A fine punch of fear/excitement combo and a galloping pulse vanquished the sadness.

  She balked at the bedroom door, digging in her heels.

  “It’s just a bedroom, Katie,” he said. “We have to pass through it to get to the bathroom where my first aid supplies are. I’m not going to force myself on you if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

  “I didn’t think that.”

  “Would you feel more comfortable waiting in the living room?” He let go of her hand.

  “That’s not it.”

  “What is it?” He cocked his head and studied her intently.

  Would he be surprised to discover the nice girl he called Miss Priss wanted a hot, hard fling?

  She couldn’t believe it herself, but the more she looked at him, the more she thought, Oh yeah. She could go there, and no one would ever have to know. It was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to have sex with her fantasy man.

  Wasn’t that the real reason she’d agreed to come to his apartment with him?

  So why was she balking at the door?

  Why? Because the fantasy of him was one thing, reality was quite another. What if the reality didn’t live up to the fantasy? It would ruin a perfectly good daydream.

  Take a chance. Risk it. Just do it.

  She’d always been such a rule follower. The good girl. Well, except for the time she’d thrown herself at him. That had been out of character, and it had formed her future relationship with men. After his rejection, she made sure never to take the lead in any of her relationships.

  “Have a seat.” He nodded at a plush leather chair positioned across from his California king–sized bed. “Or not. Suit yourself.”

  He disappeared into the en suite bathroom, and she scurried to the leather chair, sank down into the plump cushion.

  The room smelled of him. Masculine. Sandalwood. Rich.

  She glanced around. It was another pristine clean, minimalist room. A bed. A chair. The dresser. A clock. A desk with a laptop computer and a satellite radio. That was it. She thought, That bed needs mussing. I should so muss that bed with him.

  Nervous with the silence, she leaned over and flicked on the radio. “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” trickled out.

  Ryder came back into the room, sunburn ointment in one hand, a medical glove on the other.

  An electrical thrill ran through her—charged and erotic.

  He sank down on his knees in front of her, uncapped the ointment, spread a little bit on his gloved hand, and leaned forward to rub the salve gently over her tender skin.

  His touch rocked her.

  “How’s it look?” she asked to keep from thinking about just how much he affected her.

  “Like a bad sunburn. I didn’t know wasabi could do this.”

  “I might be allergic,” she said. “I’m allergic to horseradish.”

  “Then why were you eating wasabi?”

  “I wasn’t.” She waved a hand. “It’s a long story.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” His husky voice sent a wave of goose bumps undulating over her skin.

  Was than an invitation? She studied the top of his head as he bent over her breasts and wondered what a random stranger would think about this scene if they were to walk in right now. Say a maid, maybe?

  “You don’t have a maid, do you?”

  “I do, but I’m pretty sure Carmen is not going to pop in unannounced at nine p.m. on the eve of Christmas Eve.”

  “She might be very conscientious. Your place is very clean.”

  “She’s not that conscientious.”

  “How did you know I was worrying about someone coming in on us?”

  “Because I know you. You care too much about what other people think.”

  “That was twelve years ago. You don’t know me now. I might have changed. I might be a completely different person.”

  He rocked back on his heels, studied her with amusement she found irritating. “Are you?” he asked. “A completely different person?”

  “No,” she mumbled. “I still care too much about what people think.”

  “Why were you at the party alone tonight? That’s a bold move for a gal who cares too much what people think about her.” Nonchalantly, he recapped the ointment, and stripped off the glove inside-out with a swift, practiced movement.

  “More of that long story. Let’s not get into it. Let’s just call it fate.”

  “I like that.” His eyes twinkled.

  She sucked in a breath. Her chest jutted up against his palm. He took one look into her eyes and she took one look into his.

  Snap. Crackle.

  Sparks!

  There was nothing clean or simple or organized or tidy about what she was feeling now. She felt messy and wild and out of control. Hormone pandemonium. Pushing her forward headlong.

  Muss. Fuss. Chaos. Oh my.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen anything that looks as good as you,” he said.

  “Even with these wounds?” She waved at her reddened chest glossy with the sheen of ointment.

  “I was in the army, I’m attracted to wounds.”

&nb
sp; “Which explains a lot about you,” she said, her temperature scaling to heights she’d not felt outside the throes of a fever.

  “Katie,” he croaked.

  “Ryder.” She exhaled his name on a sigh.

  Their gazes fused. He moistened his lips. Her body moistened in secret places.

  He held his arms wide.

  She fell into them, scooting off the chair to join him on his knees on the floor, threaded her arms around his neck, tugged his head down, and pressed her lips against his.

  Shocked by her impulsiveness, she immediately drew back. Had she gone too far?

  He didn’t take his mouth from hers, but his body tensed, and she sensed his mind retreating, backing up, reevaluating. Second-guessing himself or her or both?

  “What?” she whispered. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “Just trying to figure out if I’m dead or dreaming.”

  “Neither.” She breathed.

  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  “I don’t believe that for a second. You’re not afraid of anything, Ryder Southerland.”

  “You are so wrong about that. You’ve got me quaking in my boots, Miss Priss.”

  “Why? What’s so scary about me?”

  “How damn much I want you.”

  “We can fix that,” she said, and kissed him again.

  He made a rough, masculine noise of frustration, yanked her up tight against him. “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “No going back.”

  “I don’t want to go back.” She bit his bottom lip, not hard, but firm enough to let him know she meant business.

  He growled and she felt the sound vibrate out of his chest and into her, a deeply primal sound of want and need. It was a dark sound. A feral sound. A sound that lit her up like a circuit board.

  “More,” he said.

  Well, she didn’t need to be asked twice. She parted her teeth, kissed him deeper, slipped her tongue over his, pressed closer, ground her pelvis against his erection, heard him groan.

  Good Christmas, but she was turned on.

  His hands went around her waist, his palms spreading down and out to cup her fanny and tug her closer until there wasn’t a whisper of space between their bodies.

  She could feel his wildness, the bad boy of Twilight, Texas.