Bride in Trouble Read online

  “Not all of them,” Phoebe said. “But I don’t remember much about the last eight years.”

  “So, you don’t remember me?” The girl didn’t look upset, just curious.

  “No,” Phoebe said gently. “But I’ll have fun getting to know you all over again.”

  Dominic’s lips curved up. “She’s very fond of her Auntie Phoebe.”

  Phoebe suspected he relied on his sisters for advice about bringing up a daughter. How awful for him to have lost his wife. She hesitated, wondering whether to mention it in front of Emily, then decided it was better to talk about the girl’s mother than to act as if she’d never existed. “I just want to say, I’m so sorry to hear about Jo. That must have been such a difficult time for you both. She was lovely, and I’m going to miss her a lot.”

  “It was tough,” he said, kissing the top of his daughter’s head. “But we’re doing okay, aren’t we?”

  Emily nodded. “Dad says Mum’s wearing wings now, but they’re plastic ones because she was allergic to feathers.”

  Dominic chuckled, and Phoebe smiled. She gave him an impish look. “So… am I supposed to call you the Reverend Dominic now?”

  “Yep. And genuflect when you walk by me.”

  She grinned. “Seriously, though, I supposed I’m not really surprised when I think about it. You’ve always been a pillar of the community.” He’d been one of the good guys at school, never getting into trouble and always receiving top grades, unlike Elliot, who’d constantly ended up in the Deans’ office. Which was even funnier now he’d ended up as a cop.

  Dominic smiled. “Jo helped make me the best version of myself I could be.”

  Phoebe met his eyes, seeing the sadness buried deep within them. He was far from over losing his wife, she thought, but he was doing the best he could for his daughter.

  “If I swear in front of you do I have to say ten Hail Marys or something?” she asked him lightly.

  “Well, that’s Catholic and I’m Anglican, but yeah, something like that.”

  She chuckled. “Rafe said you’re marrying us?”

  “Yep. It was the first thing you asked me after you told me you were engaged.”

  She glanced across at Rafe. He was listening to Elliot talk about the recent All Blacks game against the Lions, the two of them bickering amicably about who they considered the man of the match. He sat back in his seat, long legs stretched out. He needed a shave, and the T-shirt he was wearing must have been five years old. His shorts were faded, his Converses scuffed. He was the epitome of casual scruffy sexiness.

  “Some things don’t change,” Dominic said softly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You still look at him as if he’s the only guy in the world.”

  Her face warmed. “Aw,” Emily said. “You’re blushing.”

  “You think I’m doing the right thing going ahead with the wedding?” Phoebe whispered to them.

  “You’re like a prince and princess,” Emily said. “You’ve got to get married.”

  “She’s a big fan of the royal wedding,” Dominic said. “And she has a point.” He tipped his head to the side. “Are you having doubts, then?”

  “I don’t remember him, Dom. I wasn’t sure if it was fair to marry him without any memory of what we’d had. I wasn’t sure if I’d feel the same way about him. I seem to have changed so much over the past few years—what if the new me feels differently?”

  “You don’t look as if you feel differently.”

  “He’s gorgeous,” she said. “And he’s charismatic. When he’s around, I can’t even think about anything or anyone else. But… sometimes I feel as if he’s hiding something. Or maybe it’s just my unease at not being able to remember. I’m not sure.”

  Dominic looked away, across the street, and for a brief moment Phoebe had the feeling that he knew exactly what Rafe was hiding from her. Did everyone know? Was there some big conspiracy going on?

  Then he said, “Rafe loves you. You ought to hold on to that. You nearly died, Phoebe. It’s amazing how quickly things can slip away from you.”

  He was thinking about his wife, that was all. One day, Jo had been there, and the next, she’d gone. Phoebe couldn’t imagine how terrible that had been for him. He must have huge sympathy for Rafe, who’d nearly gone through the exact same thing. Of course he would recommend that they grab on to any hope of a happy future. She felt ashamed that she’d questioned it when he’d lost the one person he was supposed to be with.

  She glanced back at Rafe, her heart giving a little jump when she saw him watching her. He wasn’t smiling, and she wondered if he’d heard her question whether they should get married. His lips curved up then, though, and he winked at her.

  Rafe loves you. You ought to hold on to that.

  She was going to, with both hands.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “You were quiet this evening.” Rafe turned the car onto the main road and headed for the bypass. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “I feel fine. It was nice just to listen. I enjoyed that; thank you for taking me.”

  Rafe cast her a wry smile. “You’re welcome. And you don’t have to thank me.”

  “I don’t have to be polite now we’re getting married?”

  “Are you teasing me?”

  She smiled. “Maybe a bit.”

  “I can see you’re almost back to your old self.”

  She looked out of the window. “I’m getting there.”

  He knew it was a half-truth. She hadn’t recognized most of their friends, and seemed no closer to getting her memory back.

  He’d assumed it would filter back gradually, like bringing a telescope slowly into focus, with small scenes popping into her mind one by one until the picture became clear. Maybe it wouldn’t happen like that though; perhaps it would all come back to her in a big whoosh one day, and she’d be able to remember everything from the last eight years.

  Or maybe it wouldn’t come back at all.

  Rafe had taken her to lots of places that held meaning for her, and she’d now met many of her friends and family. But nothing had worked.

  She didn’t speak for the remainder of the journey, and Rafe remained silent too, not sure how to comfort her. He pulled onto the drive and parked, and they got out and went inside. It was dark now, and the house was filled with shadows, a little stuffy and humid. She went into the bedroom, and Rafe followed, opening up the windows to let some air in. He went to turn on the light, but she reached out and stopped him.

  He lowered his hand, frowning. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  Rafe reached out a hand and cupped her face. “Talk to me.”

  She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. He felt an answering twitch in his shorts, but ignored it.

  “Take me to bed,” she whispered.

  His heart began to thud harder. Last night had been agony, forcing himself to keep his hands off her. “Phoebe…”

  She stepped closer to him, tugged up his T-shirt, and slid her hands onto his skin. “I haven’t touched you yet,” she murmured, “or seen you naked. Why should you get all the fun?”

  He caught her hands and removed them, giving her an exasperated look. “All in good time, sweetheart.”

  “Rafe, don’t turn me down again. Please.”

  “I’m not having sex with you.” He pushed her away as gently as he could. “You’re not well, and it wouldn’t be right.”

  “Fuck being right.” Heat flared in her eyes.

  His stomach flipped. Since her father had died, she’d become much more serious and focused. In the bedroom, though, she’d remained feisty, wanting to make love most nights, more than a match for his own high sex drive. Bearing in mind the doctor’s speech to him in the hospital about changes to her libido, amongst other things, he’d been hesitant to think the previous night was a return to their old ways, but the look in her eyes now told
him the old Phoebe was still there, and still wanted him as much as she’d always done.

  Which was great, except he couldn’t take advantage of that, not now. She wasn’t in her right mind, and he had to step up and take care of her.

  Not that she wanted taking caring of, by the looks of it.

  She gave him a sultry look, running a finger down his chest, and he felt a flicker of warning. “I was okay yesterday, wasn’t I?” she said sweetly. “I can’t stop thinking about it, about you. I want to make love with you. I need to. Being with you, being close to you, doing the things we used to do… it might help my memory come back.”

  “I can’t,” he said, somewhat helplessly, “I’d never forgive myself if I hurt you.”

  “Jesus, you won’t hurt me. You’re the gentlest guy I know.”

  “Not in bed, I’m not.”

  Her eyes widened, sparking with excitement. Shit, that had been the wrong thing to say.

  He ran a hand through his hair. “You make me lose my mind. I forget myself, and I can’t afford to, not when you’re like this.”

  “Just keep away from my head and we’ll be fine.” A smile danced on her lips.

  “Don’t joke about it,” he snapped. “You nearly died. That was barely a week ago. Do you really think I can take you to bed and make love to you with that still in my head?”

  Unperturbed as always by his temper, she moved closer to him again, trapping him against the bed. “You touched me yesterday. Pleasured me. Nothing terrible happened.”

  He put his hands on her arms, but couldn’t bring himself to push her away. “It’s not the same.”

  “The world didn’t end, Rafe. I just want to touch you.” She pulled up his T-shirt again and slid her hands underneath. “God, you feel good.”

  He shuddered and caught her hands by the wrists. “You’ve got to stop.”

  “I can’t. I’m burning up.” She did indeed look feverish, with flushed cheeks and glazed eyes. He knew that look, and knew that she’d already be swollen and wet, more than ready for him.

  “Let’s get in bed, then,” he conceded desperately, “and do what we did yesterday.”

  “I don’t just want an orgasm, Rafe. I want you inside me.” She slipped out of his grasp and slid her hands up, her fingers reaching his flat nipples, and she rubbed her thumbs across them. It was like she’d put a taser to them, electric shocks of desire shooting through him.

  “Jesus, fuck.” He yanked her hands away.

  “I know you want me.” She pressed her hips to his, rubbing against his eager erection. “Don’t you want to make love to me?” She pouted.

  The pout reminded him that she was acting, instinctively doing what she’d done since they met, working him, knowing exactly what to do to turn him on. “You know I do,” he told her, “but I’m not going to. Don’t make this even more difficult than it already is.”

  Her jaw dropped as she realized he really was turning her down again. Her face reddened, and then her eyes blazed. “I can’t believe you. What gives you the right to make this decision?” She tried to tug her wrists away from his grip, but he held on.

  “I’m doing what’s best for us both,” he said firmly.

  “Fuck you.” Furious tears pricked her eyes as she fought with him.

  “Phoebe, calm down, for God’s sake. You’re just upset…”

  “Of course I’m upset! My fiancé won’t have sex with me!”

  “This isn’t about me—”

  “Let go of me!” She managed to yank one wrist free, but he still refused to let go of the other one. Outraged, she drew back her hand and slapped him around the face.

  He saw stars for a moment. “Ouch,” he said flatly. Now he was angry. He was trying to do what was best for her. He growled and tried to grab her arm.

  She pushed him, hard. He stumbled back, met the bed, and fell onto the mattress.

  Phoebe fell forward on top of him. She sat astride him and, when he caught her hands again, she used her weight to pin them above his head and kissed him, delving her tongue into his mouth.

  He groaned, for a brief moment letting her, his body aching for her, then fought with her, heaving up and lifting her off him. She sank one hand into his hair though and gripped it tight, hooked a leg around his hips, and tugged him off balance. He fell heavily onto her, almost squashing her in the process.

  He was going to have trouble now if he wasn’t careful. Whether it was the medication or the wine or the sultry night or just whatever magic existed between them, her world had spun off balance, and she had the bit between her teeth. It didn’t matter that she had no memory of ever sleeping with him—something within her knew what to do, and how to fire him up.

  Pulling his head down to hers, she kissed him hungrily. Irritable that she knew how to turn him on, he tried to pull her hand free, but she refused to let go of his hair.

  “Stop it,” he snapped, lifting his head, and trying to push her leg away from his hips.

  In reply, she slid her free hand down and flipped open the top button of his shorts.

  He grabbed her hand. “Phoebe! You’re driving me fucking insane.”

  She wrestled her hand free. “That’s the plan.” She yanked down the zipper and cupped his erection. “Holy shit. You’re huge. Oh my God, I want that in me.”

  “Jesus.” He knocked her hand away and tried to rear up, but she still had hold of his hair. Shifting on the bed, she caught him off balance, and he fell onto one elbow, trying not to hurt her. Their hips met, his erection nestling neatly against her mound.

  Phoebe moaned and rocked her hips, arousing herself against him. She slipped her free hand beneath his T-shirt, then scored her nails down his back.

  Rafe lost his temper. “Let go of my fucking hair,” he yelled.

  In reply, she pulled his head down to hers and bit his bottom lip.

  “Ow!” He let out a string of swear words, his hands curling into fists. “What is it with you? Do you really want me to fuck you and just forget about the fact that you nearly died last week?”

  She stared at him then, and stopped moving. Tears glimmered on her lashes. “I need you, Rafe,” she whispered. “Please.”

  His anger died away. Wasn’t that what he’d wanted all along?

  Keeping his eyes on hers, he pulled up her dress, pushed down his shorts and boxers to free himself, and moved between her thighs. Tugging her panties to one side, he pressed the tip of his erection into her folds. She tilted up her hips, forcing him to slide a fraction inside her. He froze, groaned, and then pushed forward, going up to the hilt in one swift move.

  She let out a long moan. “Oh holy Jesus, that feels good.”

  She was hot and wet and tight around him, and he’d missed her so much, missed being inside her, and felt spirited away into pleasure. “Is this better?” he murmured, pushing her thighs wide and filling the air with the slick sound of him moving inside her. “I wanted… to wait and… make it good for you.” His voice caught with emotion, even as he thrust. “But you make me… lose my… mind…”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I couldn’t wait.”

  He sighed, bent his head, and kissed her, moving his mouth slowly across hers, dipping his tongue inside, and she returned it with a moan of pleasure, running her other hand over his skin.

  When he finally moved back, he whispered, “Let go of my hair.”

  She moistened her lips, and shook her head.

  “Phoebe…”

  “You might stop,” she said, “so I’m not letting you go.”

  “I won’t stop. I promise.”

  “I don’t care.” She tightened her fingers.

  He winced. “Ouch.” But he swelled inside her, and she moaned.

  Sighing, he began to move again, long, slow strokes that she met with a rock of her hips, until it was as if they were engaged in a beautiful dance, moving perfectly in time with each other.

  God,
it felt so good, and he could feel her orgasm approaching, her breathing turning ragged. He kept a tight hold on his own desire, though, trying to stay in control so he didn’t hurt her.

  Clearly, Phoebe didn’t want him in control. “More,” she whispered.

  “Sweetheart…”

  “Rafe, ah Jesus, I’m going to come… harder…”

  Muttering under his breath about sirens leading him astray, he lifted onto his hands, grabbed a pillow, and slid it under her head to cushion the wound. She laughed at that and kissed him, wrapping her legs around his waist, and he gave in and started to thrust properly. Phoebe moved with him, crying out with pleasure, and she smelled so good, her sighs and moans filling his ears, her tongue in his mouth, and then she was coming so hard, so hard… strong pulses, clamping around him again and again. Her nails dug into his muscles, and he said her name over and over, his hips jerking as he spilled inside her. The room was hot, they were both sweaty, and he could taste salt and smell sex and feel wet and warmth and her soft, soft skin… She shuddered with little pleasurable aftershocks, and it was ohhh… fucking amazing…

  “Holy shit, Phoebe.” He gasped, his chest heaving. “What the hell do you do to me?”

  She squirmed beneath him, clenching her internal muscles.

  “Ow!” He groaned and hung his head, exhausted. “Please, please let go of my hair.”

  Finally, she released the short strands, lifting her arms above her head and stretching with a purr of pleasure. “Mmm.”

  He sighed. “Are you all right? Is your head okay?”

  “What head?”

  He gave a short laugh and withdrew, making her sigh. Lifting to one side, he then collapsed onto the bed on his back and closed his eyes.

  She rolled onto her side facing him, sliding a hand down his chest to his groin and giving his still-firm erection a stroke. “You’re all sticky,” she said. “Yum.”

  “Will you stop? Are you trying to kill me?” He pushed her hand away. “You’re insatiable, woman.”

  “It’s my poor, damaged brain,” she murmured.

  “It’s not your brain. You’re always like this.”

  “Am I?” She sounded surprised.