Luke's Promise. Eileen Wilks

truck swerved slightly in the lane.

      “How long will this marriage have to last to get the trust dissolved once you’re all married? Two months? Six?”

      “Maybe four months.” He had control of the truck, and himself, again. “Maybe more. I’m not the financial whiz in the family, but Jacob’s best guess is between four and eight months.”

      “Well, I’m not crazy about getting a lot of pitying looks for the next four months or more because my husband has been seeing other women.”

      His jaw tightened. “You think I’d embarrass you that way?”

      She shrugged and went back to toying with the zipper. “I think you’d try to be discreet. The thing is, I do know you, Luke. Are you planning to swear off sex for the next four to eight months?”

      He shot her an incredulous look.

      She grinned. “For once, I can read your mind.”

      No, she couldn’t. Or she’d be trying to climb out of the truck right now. Fortunately she hadn’t a clue what kind of images had popped into his head when she’d said “sex.”

      But she’d been on target with the rest of it. Not that he’d actually thought it out. About all he’d taken the time to plan was how to get the two of them to Vegas as quickly as possible. But in the back of his mind, he’d assumed he’d find what he needed elsewhere…because no way was he going to hurt Maggie again. And sure as God made little green apples, if he took her to bed, she’d end up hurting.

      But he hadn’t thought it through. Maggie talked tough. She was tough, strong as old leather—in some ways. In others, she was as soft and easily damaged as a rose petal. Fragile. If he married her and then fooled around on her—never mind the reason for the marriage—he’d bruise that petal. Again.

      Guilt rose, thick and grim. “I think they include something about fidelity in the marriage vows, even in Las Vegas. You don’t think you could trust me to live up to any promises I make?”

      “Luke.” Her sigh was small, husky, impatient. “They include something about ‘till death do us part’ in those vows, too. But we wouldn’t either one of us mean that part, would we?”

      He couldn’t think of a damned thing to say.

      “I take it this means that the marriage is off.” She shook her head. “Do you think we set any records for the shortest engagement ever? We’re nearly to the airport, I see. I can call someone from there to come get me.”

      The hell of it was, he knew he could change her mind. Maggie wanted him. She didn’t like it, tried to hide it, but the simmer and spark were there between them. Always had been. If he could get his hands on her, he could persuade her to marry him…among other things.

      Hell, she was right not to trust him. Just as well he had to keep his hands on the wheel—it forced him to do this right. Changing her mind while threading his way through the seventy-mile-an-hour traffic on I-35 was going to be tricky, though. “Let me see if I understand. You won’t marry me because you think I wouldn’t be faithful.”

      “That’s about it.”

      “Thought you’d found a deal-breaker, didn’t you?” He grinned. “All right. I promise I won’t fool around.”

      “I—I didn’t exactly say I would marry you, even if—and realistically, a promise like that…Luke, have you ever been faithful to any woman for longer than, say, a week?”

      “Realistically,” he said gently, “I don’t break promises. And this one is from me to you. Personal, not part of whatever vows we make in order to dissolve the trust.” His quick glance revealed that she’d gone from messing with the zipper to gnawing on her lip. “You’re cute when you’re worried.”

      “I’m not worried.”

      “You’re cute when you lie, too.”

      “And I’m not marrying you.”

      “Do you want me to promise that I won’t use you, Maggie? That I won’t take you to bed just because you’re handy and I’m horny?”

      Her cheeks flamed. “That sounds awful.”

      “It’s what you’re worried about, isn’t it? All right. You have my promise. I won’t cheat on you, and I won’t use you.” It wasn’t a hard promise to give. Keeping it…well, he’d have to, that was all.

      She was staring unhappily at her lap, where the fingers of her right hand were rubbing at the hand that was partially encased in that radioactive-green cast. “You’re not used to celibacy, Luke.”

      “No.” Time to lighten the mood, he decided, and flashed her a quick grin. “I won’t ask for a reciprocal promise, however. Feel free to use me. If, at any time, you become overwhelmed with lust—”

      “Hah!”

      “—my body is at your disposal.”

      She muttered something under her breath, scowling at her clenched hands.

      “I didn’t catch that.”

      “Nothing. This just isn’t a good idea, Luke.”

      “What’s wrong with it? You get Fine Dandy, I get what I need to take care of Ada and your father will be mad enough to spit nails.” Malcolm Stewart couldn’t stand him. He blamed Luke for everything that had gone wrong in that short, miserable marriage so many years ago.

      With some reason, Luke knew.

      “Now, there’s a great reason to get married,” she said dryly. “To irritate my father.” But at last her hands stopped tormenting her T-shirt.

      “Think of it as a bonus.” This time, he’d be careful with her. He’d find a way to make her feel better about herself, to repair some of the damage he’d done. This time, he wouldn’t hurt her when he left. “Here’s another bonus. You need a trainer.”

      “Yes, but—but do you mean you’d do it? You’d be my trainer?”

      “Yes.”

      “You’re good.” That was said grudgingly. “Almost as good as you think you are.”

      He grinned and signaled for the turnoff to the airport. “Better than Walt Hitchcock, anyway.” He glanced at her. “Come on, Maggie. What would Xena do?”

      She looked all over the place—at her shirt, her hands, out the window—everywhere but at him. And at last said, “Well…well, hell. I guess I will marry you, Luke.”

      6:54 p.m.

      Five hours later, they stood side by side in the “Love Me Tender” wedding chapel just off the Strip. Candles burned atop the unused piano. A few minutes ago, a stereo had played the chapel’s theme song while Maggie walked down a short aisle between empty pews.

      The room was silent now, except for the words being spoken by the man in front of them.

      Her mouth was dry. Her stomach was in revolt. In one hand she held a small bouquet of roses, while the other was clasped firmly in Luke’s. His palm was dry, unlike hers. The scent of the roses blended unhappily with the floral room freshener someone had recently sprayed in the small room.

      She was still wearing her purple T-shirt and cargo pants.

      The man who was marrying them wore a collarless black shirt that looked vaguely ecclesiastical. His thin black hair was combed back meticulously over the bald spot on top of his head. His tanned skin was stretched so tightly over his cheeks that she was afraid it would split if he smiled.

      Face-lift, she thought vaguely. She wondered if it hurt when he went to the dentist and had to “open wide.”

      Did ministers get face-lifts? Was he a minister? Panic clutched the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t remember. She remembered