Grady's Wedding by Patricia McLinn

pretend she had really wanted to go with him. That ingrained graciousness was one of the things he liked about her. As they studied the displays that drew the viewer along with an appreciation of humanity’s deep-seated desire for diversion and its ingenuity in meeting the desire, Grady detoured from the thought that there were a lot of things he liked about her.
    Almost pretend she had really wanted to go with him .
    Almost, but not quite, because clearly she’d been reluctant.
    Maybe pure stubbornness prompted him then to lead her away from the activity around Paul’s exhibit. A couple twists and turns later and they were in quiet, shadowy isolation with only unlit display cases for company.
    “We must have taken a wrong turn somewhere,” Leslie said. “Maybe we can follow the bread crumbs back.”
    “Wait a minute. I want to talk to you.”
    Caution replaced cheerfulness. “Oh? About what?”
    “About this weekend . . .” She looked away, but not before he’d caught a shadow of expression, almost hunted, on her face. He went on slowly, turning that over in his mind. “I’m planning to head to Denver to check something for a client. Then I’ve got things in Chicago that need attending, so I probably won’t be back until the end of next week.”
    “Oh. Well, have a good time. Hope all your business goes well.”
    The relief in her voice hit him low and hard. He’d considered accepting Paul’s invitation to the beach this weekend, then trying to wrangle it so Leslie came, too. But he’d decided a week apart might make her appreciate him more. And might give him a chance to figure out what she was playing at. He’d heard about hard to get, but he hadn’t seen it often, and it didn’t seem Leslie Craig’s style.
    Now he had another answer—she didn’t want to be around him.
    “Thanks.” He didn’t examine his curt tone or the raw sensation low in his stomach. “Guess we should get back.”
    He took her arm, maybe with a little more force than necessary, and she pulled back automatically. But he already had his hold, so the momentum of her countermove simply pivoted her until she came up against him, one open hand on his chest.
    She was in his arms, the way she had been in the rose garden not so long ago. She smelled as sweet. She felt as good. And her mouth . . . her mouth was right there . . .
    It took no thought, just the following of a need. He bent his knees and ducked his head; he had to because she hadn’t looked up at him, but he caught her mouth.
    He dropped his hand from her arm, holding her only with the kiss. She tasted of warmth. Sweet, sweet warmth that seeped into him and fired his blood. And she tasted of hesitation. But she didn’t pull away.
    Wanting to crush her to him, he instead touched his fingertips lightly to her jaw. She raised her chin, and he deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue through her slightly parted lips as his hands tunneled into her hair to cup the delicate curve of her skull.
    It took only the slightest pressure to urge her tighter against him. Her hands slid up to his shoulders. Better, but not enough. He didn’t want those elegantly capable hands on his damn suit coat, he wanted them on him. Then, as if in answer to his desire, she moved one hand to his neck, the tips of her fingers stroking the skin.
    He swirled his tongue deeper into her mouth, exploring the warmth, barely holding back the fire.
    Her tongue touched his—almost, it seemed, by accident—and started to retreat. But he caught it, drawing it into his mouth with an insistent need he was too absorbed in meeting to analyze. He felt more than heard the soft sound deep in her throat, the same way he experienced his own groan at her delicate touches. He wanted more . . . more . . . And he wanted so strongly he started to feel lightheaded with it.
    He raised his head to gasp in the oxygen his lungs demanded, but he kept his gaze on her lips as if a look could sustain the physical