The Pregnant Bride. Catherine Spencer

depleted him.

      She lay beneath him, her mouth trembling, her eyes wide pools of disappointment.

      He bent his forehead to hers and whispered, “Sweetheart, I’m sorry!”

      She touched a finger to his face, traced the outline of his upper lip. “It’s all right.”

      “No,” he said, rolling free and drawing her to her feet. “It’s all wrong.”

      He took her hand and led her to the bathroom. Turned on the shower and when the water ran hot, pulled her under the spray with him. He soaped her long, lovely spine, her arms, her legs, until the tension seeped out of her, and her eyes took on a dreamy, unfocused gaze.

      Lips slightly apart, she reached for the soap. Her hands roamed over him, lathering the length of his torso in slow, erotic strokes.

      Quickly, before she brought him to the brink of destruction a second time, he imprisoned her hands in his and growled, “Uh-uh, Jenna! Cut it out!”

      “We aren’t going to make love again?” she asked him dazedly.

      A firm believer in the efficacy of cold showers, he adjusted the water until it ran at little more than blood temperature. “You know full well that we are,” he said, rinsing them both off. “But this time, we’ll take it slowly.”

      And they did. Slow and easy, with a fire burning in the hearth, and brandy to sip between caresses, and the bed soft beneath them. With leisurely delight and the sort of murmured words a man and a woman exchange when they find untold pleasure in each other.

      He explored her from head to foot. Tasted the wild honey of her response as her body yielded to his seduction. Held her tight as she splintered with passion. And when she begged for mercy and whimpered that she could not…could not reach orgasm again, he drove himself deep inside her and taught her that, with him, she could.

      When at last she fell asleep, some time after midnight, he did not think it likely that she dreamed of the absent Mark.

      Light, too bright, too persistent, speared her eyelids and had her squinting into the pillows. Her limbs lay heavy with delicious lassitude. Her mouth felt slightly swollen, her skin a little chafed. She ached pleasurably in hidden places, the way she’d always thought a woman might when she’d been thoroughly loved.

      Had she…?

      With Edmund…?

      Or was she still caught in the web of an unusually vivid dream?

      Tentatively, her hand stole out to verify reality, checking the other half of the bed. Finding the dent in the other pillow where another head had lain. She stretched her leg under the covers, explored with her toe the barely perceptible warmth of other feet recently removed from the mattress.

      As if floodgates had suddenly burst open, memory rushed in.

      Cautiously, she opened one eye and took quick inventory of the room. Like hers, it overlooked the Pacific. The cold ashes of last night’s fire lay in the hearth. The empty brandy snifters still stood on the bedside table. But of the man who’d brought her to the edge of delirium with his mouth and left her sobbing for release; who’d filled her with his vitality and ridden with her to heights of pleasure she’d never before experienced, not once but over and over again throughout the night—of him there was no sign.

      Clutching the duvet to her, she sat up. A thick terry-cloth robe lay across the foot of the bed. Someone had folded her clothes and left them over the arm of a chair, with her shoes neatly placed on the floor below them. The bathroom door stood ajar with no light showing from the interior. Clearly, he wasn’t in there.

      With a tiny click which seemed deafening in the silent room, the digital clock beside the bed rolled to eight-thirty. How could she have slept so late? How could she have slept at all?

      By exhausting herself, physically and emotionally until she was as limp as a rag! By curling up next to Edmund’s hard, warm frame, sated in body and soul, and refusing to think about what yesterday had brought or what tomorrow might hold because, right at that moment, with nothing but a silver dollar moon to witness the event, the here and now had been enough.

      Of course, what they’d shared wasn’t love. It couldn’t be. Because she loved Mark.

      Didn’t she?

      Of course she did! But he’d deserted her and left her at the mercy of self-doubt and a hurt so deeply wounding that she’d wanted to crawl into a hole and never again come out. Instead, she’d turned to Edmund and, miraculously, passion had flared between them with scorching intensity. Because of him, she’d begun the long process of restoring her confidence in herself as a woman.

      Recognizing that was a blessing she’d never expected to find. She knew now that, in time, she would recover. The rest of her life would not be blighted because Mark Armstrong had reneged on his promise to marry her. A whole different world from the one he’d offered waited to be discovered. And one day, when she was ready, she would find a better and a truer love. In the meantime, there was Edmund, and today, and perhaps even tonight.

      Sliding her legs to the floor, she reached for the robe and was securing the belt around her waist when a knock came at the door.

      “Well,” she said, a rush of anticipation warming her cheeks as she ran to open it, “there’s no need to be so polite! It’s your room, after all!”

      A uniformed busboy stood outside, holding a tray. “Your breakfast, ma’am,” he announced pleasantly. “May I come in?”

      Breakfast for one, she noticed with mild dismay, waving him across the threshold.

      Placing the tray on a table by the window, he drew up a chair and removed the fluted paper cover from a tall glass of orange juice. “Another lovely morning, ma’am. A number of our guests are already enjoying the beach.”

      Of course! And Edmund was probably one of them.

      “May I pour your coffee?”

      “I’ll wait a while, thanks.”

      “In that case, I’ll leave you to enjoy your meal. No,” he insisted, backing toward the door when she reached for her purse to tip him, “that’s already been taken care of, ma’am. Have a very nice day.”

      She thought it entirely possible that she would—an amazing concept, all things considered. The rich aroma of coffee underscored by the delicate scent of the single bud rose which completed her breakfast tray, added to the stunning view from the window and the stream of sunlight slanting over the polished wood floor surely made for a great start to the morning.

      Buoyed with sudden optimism, she picked up the glass of juice and silently toasted the bright morning. Life really did go on, one day at a time. Trite, perhaps, but true. The secret was to look forward, instead of back.

      She did not find Edmund on the beach, nor in the lounge where guests were taking morning coffee when she returned to The Inn two hours later. The Navigator was not in the parking lot. The message light was not blinking on the phone in her room.

      “Mr. Delaney checked out early this morning,” the clerk told her when, with a growing sense of unease, she inquired at the front desk.

      “Checked out?” But he’d told her he was staying for a week. He’d slept with her the night before. He’d ordered breakfast for her. She’d thought…she’d thought…

      What? That a new love could be so easily born to replace the one she’d lost? In fairy tales, perhaps—or the mind of a self-delusional fool!

      Still, she looked for a reason that at least hinted of a happy ending. “And you’re sure he left no message?”

      “He was in a hurry,” the clerk said kindly. “I was already on duty when the call came through. Normally, we don’t intrude on our guests when they’ve specifically requested us not to do so, but his wife insisted he be contacted right away—some sort of emergency, I understand. Fortunately, he