Kiss the Bride (44 page)

His eyes met hers. She
was
hurt. “I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I can’t accept.”

“I’ll be at the ranch with you,” she said. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

“You can’t put your life on hold for me. You have duties in Washington. Your father needs you.”

“Daddy understands that you need me more.”

The dynamics in their relationship had shifted. He’d gone from protector to patient and he didn’t like it. He wasn’t the man he used to be and he didn’t know how to find his way back.

“Elysee, I just don’t think it’s the best idea.”

“Don’t make me pull rank on you.” She grinned. “I could have your Commander-in-Chief give you a direct order.”

He thought again of his sparse, lonely apartment back in Georgetown, and then he looked into Elysee’s eyes.

“Please,” she said. “Do it for me.”

In the back of his mind something was jangling, but his thoughts were still so jumbled he couldn’t put a name to it. Too much damned Percodan. He had to lay off the
stuff, blinding headaches or not. Because the tender way she looked at him both worried him and drew him to her.

He didn’t know how it happened exactly, but Shane found himself saying what he feared wasn’t in his best interest. He said the words for her, because she seemed to need to hear him say them. He said them for himself because he didn’t want to be alone.

“Yes, okay, I’ll recover at your father’s ranch.”

Five mornings later, Shane and Elysee ate breakfast in the dining room at her father’s sprawling ranch house in Katy, with a handful of servants and her new bodyguards hanging around. Shane felt odd as a panda strolling up Broadway, sitting across from Nathan Benedict’s daughter reading the
Washington Post
in his pajamas and bathrobe. Elysee leafed through her magazines, trying to catch up on the back issues she’d missed while nursing him through his recovery.

For one thing, the role reversal didn’t fit. He should be guarding her, taking care of her, not making idle chitchat over cereal and cantaloupe. For another thing, he wasn’t a pajama and bathrobe kind of guy. Nowadays, he preferred sleeping in the buff.

He used to be the sort who snoozed in his BVDs, but Tish had broken him of that habit. When they were married, he never knew when he would awaken to find her tugging at the waistband of his boxer briefs with a come-hither look in her eyes and making impatient get-naked noises at the back of her throat.

“Even though Hurricane Devon took top billing on the day of the UT groundbreaking,” Elysee said, “we still managed to make page ten of
People
magazine. Look, here’s a picture of you in the hospital.”

She held up the magazine for him to see. Sure enough, there was a picture of him sitting up in the hospital bed, head bandaged, IV snaking from the back of his hand, looking like hammered dog crap. He had no idea when the photograph had been taken or who had snapped it.

Something else in the photograph caught his eye and caused Shane’s chest to tighten. Elysee was sitting at his bedside, gazing at him with an expression of pure adoration. Cautiously, he shifted his gaze from the page to meet her frank stare from across the table.

She smiled, then ducked her head.

His lungs chuffed against his constricted chest. It wasn’t his imagination. She was infatuated with him.

Shane gulped. Oh, shit. He didn’t know how to feel about this discovery. The truth was it felt pretty damned nice being here with her, knowing how much she respected and admired him. Knowing he respected and admired her just as much. It was flattering.

It’s hero worship is what it is. Don’t let your ego swell out of control, Tremont.

“Omigosh,” Elysee gasped and splayed a hand against her heart.

“What is it?”

“It’s my old nanny, Rana.” Elysee held up the magazine again, showing him a photograph of a woman in her early forties who looked to be of East Indian descent. The woman’s eyes blazed intensely. Her mouth was set in a serious expression. The headline read
DEATHLIST TARGET
.

“What’s that all about?” he asked.

Elysee scanned the article. “Rana is a key player in a group called WorldFem that helps women in Third World and Middle Eastern countries escape honor killings at the hands of their families. Now she’s being targeted herself
for bringing shame on her country! Oh, this is terrible. What is wrong with people?”

It was a philosophical question Shane couldn’t begin to answer. “This woman used to be your nanny?”

“Yes, when I was very small, for the couple of years my parents lived in London. Rana cared for me while my mother was getting her graduate degree at Oxford. She taught me how to speak Hindi. Then later, after Mother died, Dad hired her again while he was governor of Texas. She was with us a little over three years then, from the time I was eleven and a half until I turned fifteen.”

“You speak Hindi?”

“Well, not fluently, but I can get by.”

“I’m impressed. I didn’t know that about you, Elysee. Who knew you were such a woman of mystery?”

“I know what you’re trying to do.” She smiled. “Thanks for that.”

“Thanks for what?”

“Trying to get my mind off Rana’s grim plight. I’ve got to speak to Dad, see if he’ll throw some political muscle around and get the heat off Rana.”

“You know next year is an election year.”

“Meaning what?”

“Your father has to be careful what causes he champions if he wants to get re-elected.”

“What’s more important? Rana’s life or winning an election?”

Shane raised his palms. “Hey, I’m on your side. I’m just pointing out your father’s advisors might discourage him from wasting political energy on this issue.”

“Well, he’s got to do something. We just can’t stand by and let whackos with crazy ideas kill Rana because she’s trying to save women held down by an archaic system.”

“You know it’s more complicated than that.”

“God.” Her eyes flashed. It was the first time he’d seen her look so passionate. Her verve both surprised and delighted him. “I hate politics.”

“You definitely should talk to your father. I was just pointing out it might not be a slam dunk.”

Elysee closed the magazine. “I’ve got to get my mind off this. Nothing I can do until Dad comes to the ranch tomorrow. Why don’t we take a walk in the garden this morning before your physical therapy session?”

“Sure.”

“The chrysanthemums are in full bloom. I’d like you to see them. My mother planted the flowers before she died.” Her voice saddened.

They finished their breakfast and Elysee waited patiently when he almost lost his balance getting up from the table and had to pause a moment. Since the surgery, if he moved too quickly he got dizzy. Damn this cursed weakness. He bit down on his bottom lip to keep from letting loose a string of foul words.

“Easier than yesterday,” she said brightly.

If Tish were here, she would tell him it was okay to swear. She would probably even get the ball rolling with a few choice words of her own. Shane smiled, thinking about it.

“That’s how I like to see you.” Elysee tucked her arm through his. “With a nice big grin on your face.”

When he looked at Elysee he saw all the ways she wasn’t his ex-wife. Her hair was mousy brown; Tish’s deep auburn. She was thin, petite; Tish busty and tall. She was quiet and thoughtful; Tish was energetic and spontaneous.

Something stirred inside him. Not desire, but something just as compelling for a man who was feeling vulnerable. Contentment. Around Elysee he felt content.

She maneuvered him out the back door. They picked their way across the patio, up and over the wooden deck, past the gazebo and down the walkway leading to the gardens. Once he was in motion, Shane’s muscles relaxed and his joints loosened. His feet grew more self-assured over the cobblestones. No more dizziness.

The top of Elysee’s head came to his chin and the smell of her gentle shampoo crowded his nose. Lavender. It had been his grandmother’s favorite perfume. Tish preferred spicy fragrances. Like cinnamon and anise and ginger—exotic, sharp, and memorable.

Strangely, a lump formed in his throat. Damn injury brought his emotions too close to the surface. Shane swallowed back the bitter lump and clenched his jaw.

The late October weather had finally cooled from the intense dog-day summer heat. It had rained the night before and the damp morning breeze felt good against his skin. Fall flowers were in full flush. Pink and orange and rust-colored. Elysee leaned over to pick a flower. She straightened, the bloom held to her nose, and took a deep breath. “Smells like autumn.”

The eastern sunlight dappled through the languid limbs of willow trees and cast Elysee’s face in an ethereal glow. Looking at her, Shane’s chest tightened again.

She was so delicate, so fragile. Her soft blue eyes looked the way clouds felt. He found himself thinking crazily—
cumulus, stratus, cirrus—
and he had an irresistible urge to comb his fingers through the wisps of her flyaway hair. For the briefest of moments the sunlight tinged her hair auburn and she looked vaguely like Tish.

His eyes must have given away his impulse because she gave him a little smile and her gaze hung on his lips.

“Shane,” she whispered and dropped the flower blossom. “Shane.”

He leaned forward, surprised by how calm he felt, how utterly at peace. No raw passion. No disturbing chemistry. No volatile boom-boom of his heart like the first time he’d kissed Tish. Nothing except tranquil serenity. His lips brushed her mouth.

She kissed him back, tentatively curling one hand around his arm.

Safe
, he thought. Safe and simple and comforting as mashed potatoes. Elysee would never max out his credit cards behind his back. She’d never challenge his authority, or question his motives.

The kiss was nice and sweet and reliable. Nothing to complain about. Everyone liked mashed potatoes.

But the minute the kiss was over and he caught the puppy-dog-in-love look in Elysee’s eyes, Shane realized he’d just crossed a very important line that he hadn’t meant to cross.

T
he following day, the President arrived at the ranch for a weekend-long stay. Nathan Benedict was a tall, lean man, as aloof as his daughter was welcoming. He was fiercely intelligent and a moderate Republican who commanded respect from both parties. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, everyone listened. Some compared him to Abraham Lincoln.

Shane’s admiration for him was second only to his admiration for his own father and grandfather. Whenever he was in Nathan’s presence, he felt as if a great honor had been bestowed upon him, but he was nervous as well, afraid that he wouldn’t live up to the President’s standards.

The dinner conversation was restrained. Nathan sat at one end of the table, Elysee down the length of the table at the other end, and Shane in the middle, feeling decidedly displaced. He should be outside the doorway with Cal, not dining on roasted chicken and tomato aspic with the leader of the free world.

He was especially self-conscious about his table manners. The physical therapist had insisted he use his right as much as possible, but not tonight. As awkward as eating
with his non-dominant hand was, it was preferable to anything his injured paw could accomplish. He ate slowly, carefully, aware of each bite. A silence fell over the table and he realized that Elysee was studying him.

And that Nathan was watching his daughter watch Shane.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and put his fork down.

Elysee coaxed a few stories from her father about his trip to China, but ultimately she was the one who carried the dinner conversation. Toward the end of the meal, she brought up Rana Singh and what she’d read in
People
magazine.

“Dad, you’ve got to do something to get Rana off that death list.”

“Sweetheart.” Her father smiled at her kindly. “The fact that she’s been featured in
People
has effectively guaranteed her safety. If she were murdered, everyone would know who was responsible.”

“So? It doesn’t stop them from killing their daughters, their wives, their granddaughters, their nieces over their illogical sense of honor.”

“Elysee, all of that takes place in other countries. Rana lives here, in the U.S.”

“But she goes overseas to help those women. Evil men could kill her then and the U.S. couldn’t touch them.”

“Then Rana’s just going to have to stay in the U.S.”

“Well, what about those other women? If Rana’s not helping them, then who will? Can’t you do something? It’s a horrifying practice.”

“Agreed, but making moral and religious policy in other countries is beyond my scope.”

“But you’re the President of the United States! How can it be beyond your scope?”

“We had a similar conversation when you were thirteen and I was governor and you thought it was unfair that you had to pay adult prices at the movie theater, but you weren’t allowed to vote, drink, or drive a car.”

“It’s not the same thing at all. You’re comparing Rana’s life to the price of a movie ticket?”