wrangling her wayward desires in favor of a pleasant, professional afternoon. Looping her arm through his, she tried not to care about the prickles on her skin as the heavy fabric of his suit coat brushed the underside of her upper arm.
“Don’t make me regret this, Tony,” she said as he led her down the porch steps.
When she looked at him, hoping to see his face sobered by her warning, he winked. “No worries, Boss Lady. I gotcha covered.”
Which was an image she didn’t need in her head, but an image that surfaced a few times—despite her best attempts at trampling it—on their way to the country club.
She kept the conversation work-related. He talked about the car. But in the silence lurked those stupid images, particularly one of Tony covering her while they had all sorts of the wrong kind of fun.
“So your people don’t get married in a church?”
Her people. In an odd way she liked that he didn’t call them her family, not that they weren’t her family. They were the only family she’d ever known. But “her people” seemed to fit. She blinked a few times and faced him. “We’re not particularly religious.”
“A Corcarelli isn’t married if he didn’t get married in the church. If he wakes up the morning after a wedding on the beach or at the supper club, he’s just broke as hell and living in sin.”
She stared at him, watching his lips part into a grin. She couldn’t imagine him conforming, following such a rule. Heck, she couldn’t imagine him married. “So someday, will you get married in a church?”
He chuckled. “Marriage isn’t really my thing. Too restrictive.”
She had him pegged on that.
“But I’d like kids,” he continued. “Kids are about the best part of life. Too bad they’re kind of impossible without a wife, unless I want to risk custody battles with an ex-girlfriend who hoped to tie me down.”
His words acted like a vise grip on Trish’s lungs. She opened her mouth, but couldn’t capture enough air to keep calm. She turned her head to hide her exaggerated breathing. And all the while her chest pushed against the bodice of her dress so hard she had to raise a hand to keep her breasts from popping out of the neckline.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, just hot.” She pawed around the door for a handle to open the window.
When she looked at him, he was grinning. “I’m not going to tell you that opening a window won’t help, because you’ll still be hot. That wouldn’t be me behaving. Right?”
She managed a small smile. “Right.” And then she turned her attention out the open window, not caring one bit that the wind whipped the crud out of her French-twisted hair.
She had bigger worries.
Tony Corcarelli wasn’t an option for her baby-making plans. He was Angie’s brother. Trish squeezed her hands together hard enough to dig her fingernails into her skin. Angie would go ballistic if she knew Trish was thinking like this. Angie would remind Trish that Tony was a screw-up. He lived in a shoebox in a neighborhood famous for drunken bar fights. He drove a Harley, for cripes sake. His tattoos alone were enough to make Trish’s mother faint. He’d never stepped foot on a college campus. He made up words like “whaddya” and “dontcha,” and his family was the same—not that she didn’t like his family. Trish loved his family, but the idea of her family, knowing his family was half of her child, well…
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” she choked out.
“Is there booze at this wedding? Not that I’m drinking anything but tonic water. You, on the other hand, look like you need a drink—or two. Relax,” he said, giving her thigh a pat. “I’ll take good care of you.”
And he did.
“So what do you do for a living, Mr. Corcarelli?” Aunt Constance eyed him like he was more delectable than the wedding cake.
After being softened by his polished charms for four hours, Trish suspected he was.
“I own a furniture upholstery business.” He grinned.
“Oh yes, I could tell you were a business owner. You have that air about you.” She made an awkward sound, half giggle, half whimper.
Trish gripped the stem of her champagne glass and looked over her shoulder so she could cringe.
“It’s a lovely wedding, and your daughter is a beautiful bride.”
Again with the silly sound, but this time, instead of cringing, Trish smiled at her aunt. “Speaking of the bride, we should offer our congratulations while she’s free. Excuse us, Aunt Constance.”
Trish tugged on Tony’s arm, but not before he took Aunt Constance’s hand and smoothed it between his palms. “You take care.”
The woman swayed a bit, prompting Tony to clutch her elbow and steady her.
“Ooh, my. Low blood sugar,” she giggled. “Time to cut that cake.” She waddled off with her head held high. It was a familiar scene.
Apparently Angie was right about unrelated vaginas and their reaction to Tony.
“What are you doing?” she asked, tugging Tony across the ballroom floor, not at all aware of where she was taking him.
“What do you mean what am I doing?”
“You’re laying it on a little thick, don’t you think?”
“You said behave.”
“I did, but don’t…” Trish attempted to swallow the unrest that had plagued her since their car ride, “try so hard.”
How was she supposed to stop looking at Tony like a potential father for her baby if her family didn’t stop fawning over him? It was the suit. She groaned into her champagne glass.
“Whaddya say?”
“Antonio, dear.” Trish’s mother excused herself from a small group and cornered Tony. “Would you suggest linen for an ottoman?”
“No, ma’am. I wouldn’t. Linen may resist pilling and fading, but it soils and wrinkles.” He leaned closer, as if he was going to whisper in her ear. “And that’s not the kind of fabric you want handling feet.”
“Just as I suspected.” She grabbed hold of Tony’s Trish-free arm and squeezed. “Thank you for taking my side on this. Oh, Rosemary.” She let go and fluttered back to her group.
Trish frowned. “She could’ve asked me.”
“I think she wanted to touch my bicep.”
Like Trish was touching his bicep? Her palm flattened against his arm, while her fingers stretched to his triceps. A thick wool suit coat and broadcloth shirt weren’t enough to mask the feel of his muscles, contracting beneath her hand.
She had to stop this slow slide out of sanity…fast.
“Let’s dance.” She let go of him, dropped her glass on a passing table, and powered through the crowd to the dance floor.
If she could keep him moving to this God-awful jazz music, she could get him sweaty enough to remove his coat and roll up his sleeves. One look at Tony’s tattoos, and the DeVigns would be lining up to protect Trish from the hoodlum.
Not that he was a hoodlum, and not that she needed protection from him. It was more like she needed protection from herself.
When she reached the dance floor and turned around, she half expected Tony to have returned to their table. After all, she’d never known a guy who liked to dance outside of the requisite slow dance. Even now, the dance floor was filled with poky ladies and a couple half-soused old men.
But Tony was right behind her.
“Are you sure you can dance in that dress,” he said, leaning his mouth so close to her ear his breath fluttered the curls at her temple.
“Stop it,” she hissed, but there was little bite behind her words. The playful swat and nervous smile probably had something to do with that.
Shaking off the little thrill of having his lips so close to her face, Trish fisted her hands and lifted them to
