Married by Accident Read online

  “It is,” Annie said. “And his middle name will be Brady, the same as Dad’s middle name. We can call him that. Brady. What do you think?”

  Cole nodded. “Brady it is.”

  Annie closed her eyes, sank back to the pillows. “Good.” Her lashes fluttered open again. “Now, hold your new nephew.”

  Melinda carried the baby to his uncle and passed him over, ignoring the sharp pang of loss as the warm bundle left her arms.

  Cole looked down at the baby. “Well, hello there, Brady.”

  The baby made a tiny, gurgling sound that really did seem like a response. Annie grinned and both Cole and Melinda chuckled.

  Then Cole turned to Melinda. “I think maybe we’d better find a phone and call a tow service. See if we can get that car of yours towed tonight.”

  He was right, of course. Annie was exhausted and it was time to go. Still, her foolish heart kept urging her to stay. After all they’d been through together since Cole’s pickup came flying out of nowhere and collided with her BMW, Melinda felt somehow bound to Annie and Brady—and to Cole, as well.

  But her watch told her it was one in the morning—twelve hours since the accident that had thrown them all together. One o’clock. Time to get back to her own life and let these three get back to theirs.

  “I can call a cab,” she said.

  Cole looked weary. “By now, you oughtta know better than to start that stuff again.”

  “But—”

  “Melinda,” Annie said. “You know how he is. He will get you where you need to go—whether you want him to or not.”

  Melinda scrunched up her nose. “Oh, all right I guess you’re determined to rescue me, even if I am fully capable of taking care of myself.”

  His eyes gleamed at her. “You got it right there.” He moved over next to Annie, on the side opposite the curtain, between her bed and the plastic-sided hospital bassinet. Gently he lowered her son into her arms. “I’ll be back before noon.”

  “Call me first,” she said. “I’ll need a few things. My keys are in my purse and it’s—”

  “Still in the truck. I know.”

  “I had a little suitcase all ready, it’s in the closet by the—”

  “I’ll call you. You can tell me then what to bring, not to mention where to find it.” He leaned close, brushed a kiss against her hair.

  She couldn’t suppress a yawn. “Okay. Sounds good.” She looked at Melinda fondly. “It’s so crazy. Yesterday, I didn’t know you. And now I feel like I’ve finally got a best friend. You’ll come again, please? When you can?”

  Melinda couldn’t have said no if she’d wanted to—which she didn’t. “I’ll stop by this afternoon sometime. How’s that?”

  “Great. Oh, Lordy. I never even asked how your appointment turned out.”

  Cole and Melinda shared a glance, then Melinda said, “It was not a success.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Annie said. “And on top of that, there’s your poor car...”

  “Don’t be sorry. The day was far from a total loss. I met you and Cole. And Brady got here all safe and sound.”

  “Yeah.” Annie yawned again. “Altogether, it was a slam-bangin’ wonderful red-letter day.”

  Cole left his sister’s side to take Melinda’s arm. At his touch, a little dart of joyful awareness seemed to zing up through her shoulder and straight to her heart.

  I did not feel that, she said to herself.

  Cole said, “Good night, Annie.”

  Annie yawned for the third time. “’Night. Call me.”

  “I will.”

  Melinda called Triple-A from the hospital before they left. She gave directions to her car and the voice on the other end of the line assured her that a tow truck would meet her there. Then she and Cole climbed into his pickup and drove through the dark streets to the site of the accident.

  The BMW sat, wrecked but otherwise undisturbed, right where Melinda had left it. It took the tow truck a while to arrive. When it finally did, Melinda gave the driver her Triple-A card and he began filling out a form on a clipboard.

  Cole said, “Let me take you on home.”

  It really wasn’t necessary. She could go with the tow truck. But Cole suggested, “Maybe we could get something to eat on the way.”

  She realized she was starving. She hadn’t eaten a thing since the bagel and coffee she’d bolted down at breakfast the day before. “All right.”

  She asked the tow truck driver if he could just leave her car in her driveway. Then she could call her insurance company, get an adjuster out to take a look at it and decide what to do next. The driver said that would be no problem at all.

  They found an all-night coffee shop on Sunset. Melinda had decaf, a waffle and two eggs. Cole ordered a chili omelet with toast and bacon, a rib-eye steak on the side, a large milk and two baking powder biscuits.

  “Gotta keep my strength up,” he said wryly, as the waitress set the huge meal in front of him. He picked up his fork and set to work on the food.

  Melinda did the same. The meal was pretty much a silent one. But it was a comfortable silence, the kind that might be shared by two very dear friends.

  It was four in the morning when they reached Melinda’s three-bedroom house deep in the canyons above Sunset Boulevard. Cole pulled the pickup into the driveway, next to the BMW with its caved-in wheels and sprung trunk.

  She turned to him, planning to thank him again and tell him good night.

  But somehow, that didn’t seem right. Or maybe she simply did not want to let him go yet. Maybe she just wasn’t ready to admit that this bizarrely magical night had finally come to an end.

  He draped one arm on the steering wheel and looked at her. The dashboard lights shone on his strong jaw, casting a tempting shadow across the cleft in his chin. His eyes seemed to say things she knew she shouldn’t let herself hear.

  “Do you want to come in?” The question was out before she realized she would ask it. “For a last cup of coffee?” Something neither of them needed in the least.

  “Yeah, I’d like that.”

  He reached for his hat, which he’d set on the seat between them—and then didn’t pick it up after all. They leaned on their doors in unison and got out.

  She came around the front of the pickup to join him, aware of the call of some bird she couldn’t see a few yards away, singing its lonely song under cover of the final darkness before dawn.

  Melinda led the way, up the concrete walk, poignantly conscious of the warmth of the night, of the nearby eucalyptus trees rustling in the soft breeze, their scent pungent and dusty, slightly feral. Of the lonely bird singing.

  Her house was one-story, sided in wood stained a deep brown, the roof shingled in dark gray. She’d bought it two months ago, when she’d first come to L.A. in search of a fresh start. She had liked its simplicity, admired the way it blended into the dry, semitropical terrain around it.

  The twin porch lanterns, which worked on a timer, cast twin pools of golden light on the front step. On either side of the step, birds of paradise grew, their exotic flowers rising up, crested in orange and purple, above fanning nests of high green leaves.

  Melinda unlocked the door.

  From behind her, Cole said, “Hey. We’re forgetting all your boxes.” So she stepped into the tiled entranceway just long enough to punch out the code that turned off the alarm. Then they went back out together, to the rear of the truck. It took them two trips to bring in the boxes, which they stacked neatly inside the front door.

  At last, turning on lights as she went, she led him into the giant, airy room that made up the heart of the house. He headed straight to the sliding glass doors that opened onto a high deck and the wooded canyon below. There, he stopped and stared out at the darkness, toward the few lights left on in the houses across the ravine.

  Melinda hesitated a moment, her gaze on his broad back, wondering why he seemed so pensive suddenly, thinking that perhaps she ought to say something.

&n
bsp; But nothing came easily to mind. So she turned and went around the long counter bar that separated the kitchen area from the living room. She took coffee beans from the cupboard and poured some in the grinder. The whirring scream when she flicked on the machine seemed terribly loud, especially when measured against the silence of the man in worn jeans and a plaid shirt, standing by her sliding door, so tall and composed, facing away from her.

  After a few seconds that stretched out like a century, she turned the thing off and busied herself putting the filter in the basket, tapping in the sweet-smelling grounds, getting water from the cooler in the corner and pouring it into the reservoir.

  Cole turned from the glass door as she was setting the pot, all ready to brew, on the warming plate. She watched him come from the corner of her eye. And then he went around the counter, behind her, where she could no longer see him.

  He stopped a few feet from her. She could feel his stillness, his gaze on her back, feel it acutely—a sensation both sweet and unsettling at the same time.

  She pushed the brew button and faced him, ordering her lips to form a smile. “It’ll just be a few minutes.”

  “Fine.”

  Behind her, unaccountably loud, she heard the sizzle as the warmer heated. The water began dripping into the basket. “Would you like...I don’t know, some toast or something?”

  “I think the omelet, the steak and the biscuits I ate should just about hold me.”

  “Oh. Yes. Well, I’d imagine so.” A silly giggle escaped her. He went on regarding her with serious eyes. Finally she couldn’t stand it. “What, Cole?”

  He smiled, but only slightly, a musing lift of one corner of his mouth. “You haven’t said much about yourself tonight.”

  She backed up against the counter—and found she felt cornered there. Still, she managed to speak casually. “What do you want to know?”

  He cast a quick glance around, at the pretty kitchen with its hand-painted counter tiles and chef-style appliances, at the big room and the attractive view beyond. “This is a nice house. And that was a nice car my pickup rammed into. It looks like you don’t have any money problems.”

  What was she supposed to say to that? She shrugged. “You’re right. I don’t.”

  “You’re a rich girl.”

  She answered too quickly, “I’m comfortably off,” and then had to order herself not to wince. That had sounded exactly like something her mother might say.

  He wouldn’t quit staring at her. “I’m not rich. I guess you’ve got me beat there.”

  She found she didn’t know what to do with her hands, so she crossed them beneath her breasts. “Cole.” Another sharp, foolish laugh bubbled up. She closed her throat over it, pushed it back down. “It is not my intention to beat you.”

  “Well.” He was still almost smiling. “Good. Got a special guy?”

  “No. No special guy. No guy at all, as a matter of fact.”

  Now he looked amused. “No guy at all?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  He moved marginally closer. The counter pressed at her back. She had no easy way to retreat from him.

  And she wasn’t even sure she wanted to retreat from him.

  All at once, she found herself poignantly aware of her own crossed arms. They seemed such an obvious attempt at self-protection.

  Protection from what?

  She dropped them to her sides—and then felt too vulnerable. Her breasts were only inches from his chest.

  She thought of that moment right after the accident, when he had opened her car door and reached across her, to free her from her imprisoning seat belt, of his arm brushing her breasts, of the scent of him—aftershave and soap and man.

  Right now, this close to him, she could see the faint early-morning stubble of sprouting beard along his jaw.

  Slowly he lifted both hands and showed them to her, palms out. The gesture spoke volumes. I’m going to touch you now. With these two hands.

  It was the moment when she could shake her head, tell him no, slide to the side and make her escape.

  But she didn’t.

  So he touched her. Oh so tenderly, he cupped her face. Waves of longing lapped through her, rolling out, caressing, sliding back and flowing in again.

  She should pull away, she knew she should. But she didn’t. Now, his scent had really found her. It had more of the man himself in it and less of aftershave than she remembered. It was a good scent, healthy. Seductive. It mingled with the aroma of the brewing coffee behind her, making her think of lazy mornings, of slow kisses in bed.

  “Lord.” His voice was a little bit hoarse, and very low. His mouth was close enough that she could feel the stirring of his breath across her lips. “You’re so beautiful. It’s kind of hard on a man, makes his hands itch to touch you.”

  The words were sincere. They moved her as a thousand clever compliments never had. She answered honestly in a whisper, staring into those light eyes that were green and blue and a little bit brown all at once. “It’s not something I did, Cole. It’s just—” Her voice broke, so she swallowed, “—how I am.”

  The other corner of his mouth went up. A real smile, and such a tender one. “How you are. Comfortably off. And so beautiful it hurts.”

  She tried to make light of it. “I’m the girl who has everything.” It came out brittle, and she wished she hadn’t said it. She found herself thinking, Oh, right. I’ve got everything. Except love and companionship, meaningful work... and a tiny warm bundle to hold in my arms.

  “You’re a real city girl, huh?” His mouth was so close, whispering to her.

  “Mm-hmm,” she whispered back. “Born and raised in Manhattan.”

  A few tendrils of hair had escaped the imprisonment of her oh-so-professional French roll. His fingers found them, where they curled at her nape. He tugged on one, gently, then dropped his hands away and moved back a step.

  She wanted to cry out, Wait! You haven’t even kissed me yet!

  But somehow she managed not to say such a foolish thing.

  He braced an arm on the counter, leaned against it again. “Ever had the urge to go country?” .

  “Never,” This was insane. She wished he had kissed her. And felt sad saying never, even though it was the truth.

  “Maybe you’d like it, if you gave it a try.”

  “I have tried it, thank you. My brother runs a ranch. In Northeastern Wyoming, near a small town called Medicine Creek. It’s the family ranch. Bravos have owned it for several generations. I used to visit there, once or twice a year, when I was growing up. But only when my Grandfather Ross put his foot down and insisted.”

  “Only then?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Because you didn’t want to go?”

  “Exactly. And I wasn’t the only one. My parents wanted nothing to do with the ranch, either. But Grandpa still had enough clout with them to see that his grandchildren got a taste of what his son had left behind.”

  “Northeastern Wyoming. I’ve heard that’s beautiful country.”

  “Maybe so. But what I remember is incessant wind and lots of cows. Coyotes howling at night. A dearth of decent restaurants. And the shopping...” She flicked up a dismissing hand, thinking that she sounded shallow and supercilious, and telling herself she didn’t care. “There’s only one word for the shopping in Medicine Creek, Wyoming.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Nonexistent.”

  He suggested softly, “There are other things besides shopping and restaurants.”

  “Certainly there are. Good museums. Broadway shows. The Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center.”

  He tipped his head to the side. His eyes held both patience and challenge. “If New York is your home, then what are you doing all the way out here on the edge of the Pacific Ocean?”

  Her brittle facade cracked. She could feel it breaking apart. “I’m here to...start over.” She shrugged, a gesture she knew to be both inadequate and forlorn. “Bu
t I have to admit, it’s not working out very well.”

  He reached for her again. She made no effort to evade him. Alarm and exhilaration tingling through her, she found herself pressed against his hard chest.

  “A new start?”

  She nodded, staring up at him. His arms felt so good around her. His lean, hard body seemed to pull at hers, as if it had somehow been magnetized specifically to her alone. It was terribly disorienting.

  “I’m not... a very successful person,” she heard herself say. “Not in any of the ways that really count. And I thought, maybe, if I started over somewhere totally new, I would be able to...” Her breath was coming shallow and fast. She forgot completely what she’d been trying to say.

  His mouth hovered above hers. “You’re a good woman, Melinda Bravo. I saw you today, I saw how you are. You’ve got heart and you do what’s right.”

  “Oh, Cole. You don’t know me. You don’t know me at all. I’m just not—”

  Her sentence ended half-said, because right then, his wonderful mouth settled on hers.

  Tenderness. The word bloomed like a flower in her mind. He gave such tenderness. Tenderness somehow blended together with a stunning, nerve-tingling heat. With a yearning so lovely, so powerful. So right.

  She should have pushed him away.

  But she couldn’t.

  Right then, there was nothing—nothing in the world but the yearning in the way he held her, a yearning that called to her, a yearning she could not help but answer. Every part of her felt...engaged. Her body. Her heart. Her mind. Her very soul.

  His lips nuzzled hers, and his tongue sought entrance. She gave it, sighing eagerly, then moaning low. Their tongues met She sighed again.

  Could this really be happening? Surely not. She was nearing thirty. She had loved a man and lived with him. She had thought that she knew all there was to know about kissing.

  Oh, but she hadn’t. No, not at all. Not kissing like this, not kissing that felt so perfect, so total. So... complete.

  Cole kissed her as if the mere taste of her nourished him. And as if they could just stand here until daybreak and beyond, pressed so close together, in this endless searing, intimate caress.