Lone Star Twins. Cathy Thacker Gillen

him.

      Their bodies swaying as if they were made for each other, he drawled, “Well, then, Captain Ma’am—” with the pad of his thumb, he traced the curve of her lower lip and looked deeply into her eyes “—I guess I’ll just have to do what you say...”

      * * *

      TRACE HAD BEEN kidding when he said he’d follow her orders. But hours later, when she first laid down the law, he realized by her hands-off expression that she hadn’t been.

      He stared at her in disbelief. She’d been getting more distant as the night wore on. He’d attributed it to fatigue and the stress of allowing people to see only what they wanted to see.

      “You want me to sleep in the guest room?” he repeated, sure he must have misunderstood what she meant. “On our wedding night?”

      She headed through the upstairs hall of her cozy bungalow, the voluminous skirt of her white gown hiding the delectable shape of her hips and swishing lightly as she moved. Steadfastly avoiding his gaze and keeping her back to him all the while, she stood on tiptoe to reach the top shelf of the linen closet at the end of the short hall, trying but failing repeatedly to reach the stack of clean linens and pillows. “You have to understand.” She frowned, rocking back on her heels, her soft lips sliding out into a sexy pout. “I didn’t know you were coming home for the ceremony.”

      What did that have to do with anything? When had it ever? One of the things he liked best about her was that she was so easygoing and—usually—up for just about anything.

      Not tonight.

      He frowned. His presence was supposed to be a happy surprise, not cause for complaint. “I don’t get it.”

      She lifted a desultory hand and waved it in the direction of the master suite. “My bedroom’s a mess.”

      He cast a look over his shoulder. That much was true. Not only did the elegant retreat look as if a tornado had gone through it, spilling everything from lacey undergarments to high heels in its wake, but there was a good deal of Christmas stuff, too. Gift catalogs. Lists. Even what appeared to be the makings for homemade holiday cards and ornaments.

      Not about to be sidetracked, when he had missed her so damn much, he caught her around the waist. Anxious to make up for lost time now that they were finally alone, he trailed a string of kisses down her silky-soft neck. Lingered at the sensitive place behind her ear. Felt her quiver in response. Satisfaction roared through him.

      “So we’ll throw a few pillows on the floor,” he teased, reaching for the zipper of her dress.

      Stiffening, she wedged her elbows between them. “No.” She wiggled free. “Trace...”

      Not about to push her into anything, he dropped his arms and stepped back. Looked down into her face. “What’s wrong?”

      Her dark brown eyes took on a troubled sheen. She brushed past him into the mess that was her bedroom. “When we agreed to get married, we said this wouldn’t change anything.”

      He followed lazily, making sure to give her the space she wanted. Lounging against the bureau, he surveyed the soft blush flooding her cheeks. The turmoil twisting her sweet lips. “You not wanting to make love with me is definitely a change.”

      Hand on the bed, Poppy bent to remove her high heels. “Don’t you see?” She let her skirt fall back into place, but not before he’d gotten a tantalizing glimpse of her long legs.

      Trace felt his body harden in response.

      Poppy shook her head. “After everything we’ve just been through the past six hours—”

      “Seven,” he corrected. That was way too long. Usually, after months apart, they were in bed within minutes of reconnecting, which was why they usually met up at a hotel first.

      Poppy frowned. “Okay, seven hours,” she corrected with an exasperated scowl. “If we were to make love now after all of that...”

      He saw where she was going. “The vows?”

      She nodded in what abruptly seemed like regret. “And the toasts and the cake-cutting and the first dance.” She went around the room, snatching up discarded clothing and stuffed it into the hamper so the lacy unmentionables were out of view. Whirling to face him, she swallowed. “Can’t you see it would be too confusing?”

      For her maybe. Not for him.

      With effort, he ignored the ache in his groin. “It doesn’t have to be,” he said. As far as he was concerned, vows or not, absolutely nothing between them had changed. They were still free to do whatever and to be whomever they wanted.

      She folded her arms beneath the inviting lushness of her breasts. “Right now, everything feels pretty traditional. And you’ve never wanted that. And...” She hesitated slightly before continuing even more stalwartly. “Neither have I.”

      Once again their gazes collided.

      As was their custom, neither wanted to be the first to look away.

      He jerked off his bow tie and loosened the first couple of buttons on his shirt. “So what are you telling me?” he rasped. Feeling pretty damn stifled, he let his uniform jacket go by the wayside, too. “That now that it’s properly sanctioned, we’ll never hook up again?”

      She blushed at the ridiculousness of that notion.

      “Of course we will,” she said softly, her desire for him momentarily shining through. She paused to wet her lips; her defenses sliding stubbornly back into place. “Just not tonight. Not when we’re both so tired. And confused.”

      Trace was confused, all right. He’d pulled every string it was possible to pull, and come an awfully long way, to get turned down cold. On their wedding night, no less!

      Sweeping past him, she went back to trying to get the stack of linens off the top shelf. Stumbling slightly, she managed to grab hold of the bottom corner and pull them toward her.

      He caught her in his arms as she caught the linens in hers.

      Inhaled the sweet fragrance of her hair and skin.

      Felt another tidal wave of desire ripple through him.

      Damn if he didn’t want her all over again.

      That was, assuming he had ever stopped.

      Which, of course, he hadn’t.

      “Thanks.” Arms full, she wiggled free, pivoted and rustled toward the only other bedroom on the top floor of her bungalow.

      Currently a home office, it also housed a sofa bed for guests.

      When he visited her in Laramie and bunked at her place, it was always opened up and the covers dutifully rumpled every morning. But only for show. In case someone in her family happened to drop by, unannounced.

      Although he doubted anyone really believed they were, or had ever been, just good friends.

      No, his place was in her very comfy queen-size bed. Like her, sans clothes.

      But, apparently, not tonight.

      * * *

      POPPY KNEW SHE was disappointing Trace. But, really, she reckoned as she entered the guest room to make up the bed while he went downstairs to get his suitcase, she was doing them both a favor, giving them each a little breathing room.

      The last thing she had ever wanted was for him to feel as trapped as his dad apparently had, whenever he was married, or to ever do anything that would spoil their relationship.

      Come morning, he’d be thanking her for it.

      Meantime, where was he?

      Getting a bag couldn’t possibly take that long.

      Nor could she hear any sounds of him moving around.

      Perplexed, she called out. “Trace?”

      No