Marrying Mike...Again by Alicia Scott Read Free Book Online

designer dress and veil custom-made for her on Newbury Street.
    Mike hadn’t paid much attention to those things, either, though maybe he should have. At the time, none of it had mattered to him. Not Rusty’s dire predictions, nor his mother’s stiff stance, or his future in-laws’ condescending stares. So their parents didn’t get along, so they came from different worlds. Sandy drove herself hard. He lived life easy. She believed in fine dining, he loved a good barbecue. She played bridge with her family, he played coed tackle football with his.
    Diversity was the spice of life. Love would get you through. If there was a platitude, he must have believed it back then. Because mostly, he’d believed so badly that he’d wanted Sandy.
    And then, there she was. Standing at the head of the aisle. Framed by white roses with golden light from the stained-glass window pouring in behind her. He’d stopped breathing. His chest had gone so tight it hurt. Mon Dieu, she was lovely. Mon Dieu, she was his wife.
    The rest of the world had ended for him then. If he hadn’t already fallen in love with her that first day, he fell twice as hard for her at that moment. He loved the strong, proud line of her shoulders. He loved the way she walked down the aisle, looking him right in the eye and never missing a step. He loved the way she clung to him after their first man-and-wife kiss and he loved the way a single tear had trickled down her cheek. “I love you, Mike Rawlins. And I’m so happy to be your wife.”
    Later, much later, finally alone in their honeymoon suite, they’d both been curiously shy. Sandy had a confession to make. She’d been reading magazines on the subject. Lots of brides and grooms end up too exhausted by the end of the big day to have a traditional “wedding night.” So, if he was tired…they didn’t have to…she meant, if he didn’t want to…
    Hell, there was nothing Mike had ever wanted more.
    But it was funny, he’d taken it slow. He’d made love to a dozen women in his life. He’d made love to this woman over a dozen times. Sweet Lord, for the first month they hadn’t been able to keep their hands off each other. Still, this was their wedding night. She was his wife. It did something to him, made him feel the moment way down deep. He’d never spent so much time carefully slipping little pearl buttons free as he did that night. He’d never lingered for so long over each piece of clothing, peeling away satin and silk and froths of lace to reveal smooth, creamy skin and firm, ripe curves.
    He hadn’t made love to Sandra that night; he’d devoured her. Slowly, carefully, exquisitely. Until he felt her soft, urgent sighs burn across his skin. Until her perfectly manicured nails dug into his back. Until the sweat was a fresh sheen across their bodies and she was wild beneath him.
    And even then, some part of him didn’t want it to end. Some part of him would have dragged it out forever if only he’d known how. Maybe even back then, some part of him had known it could never last. She hadn’t even taken his name. How long before she decided she didn’t need the rest of him, either?
    Still he had tried. Still he remembered those first days of marriage, when fierce, haughty Sandra Aikens had loved him and said she was proud to be his wife.
    “What are you thinking about?” Koontz asked from the driver’s seat.
    “Nothing.”
    “Nothing,” Koontz observed, “doesn’t wear hundred-dollar perfume.”
     
    They struck out at the bus station. The city bus passed the newspaper office every half hour, making it hard to narrow down the time the letter was delivered, let alone by whom.
    The station manager fetched the bus driver of the route for them, but when Koontz asked him if he’d carried a thirteen-year-old black kid lately, the man burst out laughing. He ran the east-west metro. About all he had on his buses were teenage black kids.
    Next they tried the newspaper office. Surely they had