Carey smiled. “If you dare, Allen,” he said, humor weaving like children's laughter through his voice, “I'll find you, no matter where you hide.”
“Bloody hell,” Allen exclaimed, “under that man-of-iron will beats the mushy heart of a romantic.”
“More to the point, a mushy heart that just had me tear up my contract. So call the lawyers.”
“Okay, Carey. What the hell? My broker can learn to live a little cheaper.”
Picking up the torn scraps of contract, Carey said, “Put these in a box, will you, Allen. And have it gift-wrapped. Wedding paper, I think.”
“That's a thirty-million-dollar gift, you damned fool.”
“She's worth every penny of it.”
CHAPTER 51
T he film was finished. Carrie was in bed. It was the evening before their wedding. Contrary to custom, Carey refused to stay away from his bride-to-be, and they lay together in bed, the TV on but unwatched, the lights of the city spread out below them in a colorful array, framed in the floor-to-ceiling wall of windows.
“You're subdued tonight, Honeybear. Having cold feet?”
With her cheek resting on his chest, her hand trailing slowly over the hard muscles of his stomach, Molly murmured, “Not a chance. You're trapped this time, and no mistake.”
“Ah… a predatory woman. After my own heart.”
“You never did like the passive, gentle type, did you?”
“Nope-not my style. Too damn boring. Now a woman like you-temperamental, opinionated, dare I say, aggressive? Love every tiny little inch of your opinionated body.”
“Speaking of opinionated, I've made a decision.” Sitting up suddenly, Molly rose from the bed.
“Hey,” he protested, “if you're leaving me, you know the old saying-over my dead body. I'm not about to let that happen a second time.”
“Only getting you a present,” Molly shouted from the dressing room where she was digging through her purse. A moment later, walking back to the bed lush in a rose silk robe Carey had had flown in from Paris, she held out a heavy envelope. “My gift to you,” she quietly said.
Taking it, he patted a spot on the flowered sheets. “Sit down, Honeybear. I've something for you, too. I was going to wait until tomorrow, but why not now?” Graceful and lean, he twisted around to reach his leather travel bag on the floor near the bed. She watched the play of muscle down his body from shoulder to thigh. Tossing aside clothing, he found what he was looking for-a small flat package exquisitely wrapped in silver foil paper and white lace ribbon. Rolling back onto the bed, he offered the package to Molly. “Happy marriage, Honeybear.” And he lounged back against the pillows to rip the envelope flap open. His eyes shone with both tenderness and amusement when he extracted the colorful brochure of homes for lease in Melbourne, and the catalogs of private schools in that city.
Molly had carefully untied the expensive ribbon and folded away the paper the way her mother always did. She was piecing together the ragged edges of several sheets of legal-sized paper she'd taken from the small box. Perusing the first paragraph of a partially assembled page, her gaze lifted to Carey's.
“This is the nicest gift I've ever received,” he said, holding the brochures and catalogs aloft, his dark eyes full of love.
“You gave this up for me?” Molly whispered.
“For us,” he quietly replied. “For all of us.”
“It's too much.”
“No more than you gave up for me.”
“You really don't mind about Australia?” She was almost afraid to mention it. Life was too perfect, and her gypsy soul was screaming, “Don't be stupid.”
“Plenty of time for that when the kids are older,” Carey said. “I'm going to be a father, you know.”
“Yeah,” she said with a grin. “Someone told me about that.” And then her voice became very small. “Are you really pleased?”
His lazy, seductive smile appeared like sunshine after the rain, and he whispered, “Come here, Honeybear, and I'll show you how pleased.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Susan Johnson, award-winning author of nationally bestselling novels, lives in the country near North Branch, Minnesota. A former art historian, she considers the life of a writer the best of all possible worlds.
Researching her novels takes her to past and distant places, and bringing characters to life allows her imagination full rein, while the creative process offers occasional fascinating glimpses into the complicated machinery of the mind.
But perhaps most important… writing stories is fun.
