The Man Who Wouldn't Marry. Tina Beckett

ago.

      ‘Do you, Blake Taylor, take Molly McKinna to be your lawfully wedded wife…’

      The voice droned on as a curtain of red slowly rose behind Mark’s eyelids. Could this get any worse? When his friend had asked him to be best man, he’d known it was a bad idea.

      Churches and weddings?

      Not for Mark. Not any more.

      He’d become adept at drifting from relationship to relationship, never allowing things to become too serious. Never willing to risk the hurt that came with discovering someone you’d cared about had married someone else—had another man’s child. It was his own fault, but he’d had no choice. Not at the time.

      ‘Muster Mark?’ The words brought his gaze back down to the boy beside him. ‘Are we almost done? I’m thusty.’

      The slight lisp sent a half-smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, before he cranked them back down. The child had to be almost six years old. A surge of hope had flashed through him the first time he’d seen the boy. Hope that he had been his son. But he had been aboard an aircraft carrier in the Arabian Sea at the time, flying missions to Afghanistan, so there was no chance.

      He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. He’d told her to move on with her life, and she’d done exactly that. Two years after his plane had left Dutch Harbor that final time.

      Which brought him back to his original question. Why was he here?

      A question that had nothing to do with witnessing his best friend’s wedding and everything to do with moving back to his hometown. He swore once his dad died, he’d never come back, but his mom had seemed so…

      Frail.

      Terrified of being alone for the first time in her adult life. So he’d done what he’d tried to do as a young boy, protect her from the bad things in the world. He wasn’t any better at it now than he’d been all those years ago.

      He glanced down at the kid, who was about the same age Mark had been when he had realized something was terribly wrong with his family. That they were different from the families of his classmates and friends. Hence the fights he’d frequently got into. The need to prove he was tougher—better than them all. It had also kept anyone from focusing on the truth behind his bruises.

      Almost against his will, his hand went to the boy’s head, resting for a second on the dark silky hair—so like his mother’s. ‘A few more minutes,’ he whispered, realizing he’d never answered the child’s question.

      The kid blinked up at him, eyes trusting. Innocent.

      Hell, he hoped Sammi knew enough to protect that at all costs.

      He glanced over at her again, this time finding her brown eyes staring at him, brows drawn together in worry. He had a feeling if she could snatch her child away from him without causing a scene, she’d do it in a heartbeat.

      Mark removed his hand from the boy’s head, and crossed his arms over his chest, staring back at her in defiance. She jerked her attention away and faced the bride and the groom, her teeth digging into her soft bottom lip.

      Her customary braid was gone today, her long dark hair left free to spill over her bare shoulders and halfway down her back. Thick and glossy, he knew firsthand how decadent those silky strands felt as they flowed across his hands… his body.

      He shifted in his spot to keep from remembering too deeply, knowing this was not the time or place. Later, when he slugged back his first shot of whiskey and tried to push away the horrors of the last eight years, he could afford to nurse his regrets.

      But he wouldn’t go back and change how he’d done things. It had been the right thing to do under the circumstances. The only thing. His father had made sure of that when he’d cracked open the tiny velvet box and discovered Mark’s secret.

      Well, well, boy. What have we here? The slow, ugly smile that had made Mark’s insides tighten with dread had appeared. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure the girlie is given a proper Branson welcome.

      He’d left for Anchorage the next day, the engagement ring tucked into the pocket of his jeans, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He’d shown up at the first recruitment station he could find… and the rest was history.

      Soft clapping around him made him realize the bride and groom were now in each other’s arms, their lips locked together.

      He couldn’t bring himself to applaud, so he dropped his hands to his sides. When his gaze wandered back to Sammi, he noted that she was standing as still as a stone, her knuckles showing white as she clenched the stems of her bouquet.

      How soon could he get out of there?

      There was no reception planned, which was a big relief. He didn’t have to mingle and make small talk about how great it was that the bride and groom had finally gotten hitched. Or how wonderful it was that they were moving permanently to Anchorage. Mark had never thought his buddy, of all people, would ever leave the island.

      Love conquers all.

      Wrong.

      Sometimes love just turned you into a victim.

      His friend’s desertion, though, meant it was now Sammi… and him… doing the island’s medevacs. Why he’d agreed to take the job, he had no idea. He should have said no, that he was strictly a tourist pilot, sticking to a fluffy job that required nothing more than a smile and a canned speech. Nothing like the life-and-death missions he’d flown in the military—or the terrible images that still invaded his thoughts and woke him in the night. But it was either that or stand in the way of his buddy’s happiness.

      And his friend knew how to lay on the guilt. He always had.

      The pair at the front of the church broke apart amidst laughter. They pivoted towards the small assembly and started down the aisle to the pipe organ’s piercing rendition of the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’, drawing more chuckles from friends and family. The groom put his arms around his bride and pulled her close, stopping for another kiss before they’d gone a half-dozen steps.

      All Mark wanted to do was escape.

      The rest of the wedding party—he, Sammi, and Sammi’s son—turned to follow suit. He started to hold out his elbow for Sammi as he’d been instructed by his friend—under threat of death—but found her boy’s fingers grabbing his hand instead.

      Sammi shot him a glare that could have scalded milk and swept in front of him, perfectly rounded curves showcased by her snug emerald dress. The thing actually shimmered with each angry swish of her hips. It took several seconds and a tug at his hand before he realized he was still standing there, rooted in place, as Sammi drew further and further away.

      He forced himself to move, having to dial back on the length of his strides to match the kid’s. By the time they caught up with her, she was standing in the reception line by the front doors of the church, and he was once again trying to figure out why he was there.

      Samantha Grey Trenton sucked down a deep breath and tried not to let her rising panic overwhelm her. Her son Toby’s sudden fascination with Mark was nothing more than the fact that he was tall and dark like his father, her ex-husband. Despite the physical resemblance, though, Mark was not the kind of person she wanted her son hanging around. The kind that led you on for as long as it suited him and then left with barely a word.

      ‘I think I have something of yours.’ Low and deep, the murmured words slid over her, his breath ruffling her hair.

      She swallowed, then turned to face him, realizing with relief he was talking about Toby and not some sentimental relic from the past. That thought caused a warning prickle behind her eyelids that she forced back with a single harsh blink.

      Mark’s hand came out, her son’s small fingers still gripping it like a lamprey. No choice. Her only hope was to try to take possession of him without touching anything but Toby.

      Except