The Wedding Secret. Janelle Denison

her cuddling, ruthlessly reminding him that he’d been too long without a woman.

      More determined to awaken this sleeping beauty, he gave her a firm jostling she couldn’t ignore. “Wake up, Jenna.”

      With a groan, her lashes fluttered open, and she slowly pushed herself to a sitting position. Brushing her hair from her face, she blinked to clear her vision, then glanced from him, to the darkened house in front of them.

      She frowned in confusion. “Where are we?” she asked, her voice sleep-husky, and incredibly sexy to Garrett’s ears.

      Taking advantage of the reprieve, he opened his door and stepped out into the moonlit night. “We’re home,” he said, retrieving her one paisley-print suitcase from the bed of the truck.

      He offered his hand to help her out of the vehicle, but she didn’t move. Instead, she shook her head, her expression heartbreakingly bereft and desolate. “I don’t have a home anymore,” she whispered.

      Surely she was kidding, or being extremely emotional—the latter of which made the most sense. Even if she hadn’t married her fiancé, she had to live somewhere, have friends and family who would miss her, and a life she needed to return to soon.

      “Since you can’t think of anyone we can call to pick you up, you can stay here for the night. We can sort everything out in the morning, when you’re feeling better.” He had the sudden thought that she might be a bit apprehensive about staying at his house with him. “Are you okay with that?”

      Nodding, she drew a shuddering breath and secured her hand in his, allowing him to assist her, and that mile-long train of her wedding dress out of the truck. She wobbled when both satiny shoes hit the pavement, and he automatically wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her, then ushered her toward the porch.

      He helped her into his house, thankful that Chelsea had stayed at his sister’s place, and that his brother had most likely found other accommodations for the night, as well. Both would be home early in the morning though, and he’d explain their extra guest then. With luck, she’d be gone before Sunday’s sun set over the horizon.

      He flicked on the living room lamp, giving him the illumination he needed to guide them up the stairs. Even before they arrived on the second landing, he was debating where to put her. After a quick grappling with his conscience, he decided on the most logical choice—his master bedroom, which had an adjoining bathroom just in case her stomach decided to rebel during the night. As for him, he’d sleep in Chelsea’s bed next door.

      Thanks to Chelsea, his bed was neatly made, and the clothes he normally tossed over the chair in the corner had been dropped into the hamper, giving his room a semblance of order. His little imp of a daughter was only eight, but took her chores seriously since she’d dubbed herself the “woman” of the house, though that didn’t stop her from reminding him that he needed a wife, and she wanted a mom.

      Unfortunately, he had no intention of marrying again. One wife had been more than enough for him and taught him a lesson he wouldn’t be repeating with any woman, including this one, as enticing as she may be. As for a mom, his sister, Lisa, was a fine substitute for that maternal influence Chelsea needed.

      Jenna’s gaze took in his masculine furnishings without a hint of worry over whose room she might be occupying. Once she was seated on the four-poster with her wedding dress pouffed around her, he put her suitcase next to the dresser, figuring she could handle everything else on her own.

      “The bathroom is right through that door,” he said, dragging his fingers through the thick, dark strands of his hair. “And if you need anything, just call for me. I’ll be in the room right next to this one.” He turned to go.

      “Garrett?” she called softly, halting him before he could make a quick escape.

      He exhaled heavily and glanced back at her, instantly steeling himself against that lost look in her eyes. “Yeah?”

      Her satiny pumps hit the floor as she toed them off one at a time. “I…I can’t undo the buttons on my dress by myself.”

      She slid back to her feet, turned around, and gathered her luxurious hair over her shoulder, presenting him with a row of at least two dozen pearl buttons that started between her shoulder blades and marched all the way down to the curve of her bottom.

      He stood there, paralyzed by the thought of helping her to undress. His first instinct was to tell her to sleep in the gown, but knew that suggestion was ridiculous. She had to be extremely uncomfortable, and she had to get out of the gown sooner or later.

      Resigned to the inevitable, he came up behind her. With hands that were none too steady, he fumbled with the small, slippery buttons, unable to ignore the ever-widening expanse of smooth, pale skin he revealed. As the material loosened, she crossed her arms over her chest, holding it in place. She wore what looked like a white, satin corset, and he unhooked that, too, knowing she’d never be able to do it on her own.

      Finally, he completed the intimate task just as the lacy band of her panties came into view. He stepped back, wanting to bolt from the room, from his tempting reaction to this woman, but realized that she seemed unsure of what to do next, or how to step out of the bulk of her wedding dress without getting tangled up in the yards of heavy material.

      She looked to him for help—and the next step was getting her into something she could sleep in for the night.

      He stifled a groan. Not wanting to take the time to sort through the garments in her suitcase and possibly end up with something flimsy and more befitting a honeymoon night, he grabbed one of his chambray shirts from his closets and thrust it toward her. Gratitude filled her eyes, and as soon as her fingers curled around the soft material, he turned around, giving her privacy to change.

      A minute later she said softly, “I’m done.”

      He turned to face her again, relieved to find all the important, voluptuous parts of her decently covered—though he couldn’t help but appreciate how well she filled out his large shirt. Her unbound breasts were full and high, grazing the soft, faded cotton. The hem flirted around her slender thighs, drawing his gaze to those long, graceful legs of hers covered in ivory stockings, prompting fantasies he had no business imagining.

      Awareness rumbled through him, settling in his belly like hot coals. Needing the distraction, he helped her from the crumpled dress, then pulled down the covers and gave the firm mattress a pat.

      “In you go,” he said lightly, the words echoing his nightly routine with his daughter.

      The very grown-up woman with centerfold curves sat on his bed, but before he could yank the covers up to her chin, she glanced down at her legs dangling over the side of the mattress. “My stockings and garter,” she murmured, a perplexed frown creasing her brow. “I can’t sleep with them on. I want them off.”

      Garrett’s jaw clenched with restraint. He’d been hoping she wouldn’t notice her stockings, and he was willing to bet that as soon as her head hit the pillow she’d be out like a light and nothing would disturb her, not even that extra lingerie. But there was a sudden stubborn glint in her eye that told him his torment wasn’t over. He stepped back to let her do the deed, and crossed his arms over his chest so he wouldn’t be tempted to help. Without modesty, she hiked up the hem of his shirt and reached down, swaying off balance. She managed to catch herself, just barely, before she toppled over.

      Her tenacity would have amused him if she didn’t arouse him so much.

      For a sober woman, the task should have been a simple one, and possibly even a provocative striptease. For a woman who was all thumbs and couldn’t get those thumbs tucked beneath the band of her stockings, the deed was a monumental one. Her frustration mounted as her fingers slipped, and a choked sound escaped her. When she glanced up at him, hopeless tears brimmed in her eyes, turning them to a velvet shade of blue.

      She bit her trembling bottom lip in a valiant attempt to hold her emotions at bay. “I can’t do anything right today.”

      If she hadn’t looked so beaten,