Diana couldn’t seem to think beyond the misery of her entire body. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a small croak. She swallowed and tried again. “What—happened . . . to me?”
“It’s only a theory, but your nervous system is probably under assault by a buildup of acetaldehyde,” he provided with cheerful sympathy as he put the tray on the nightstand. “In severe cases, that causes blurred vision, headache, nausea, trembling, and dry mouth. At least that’s the theory we’re working on at Unified’s pharmaceutical division. In layman’s terms, you have a colossal hangover.”
“Why?” Diana whispered, closing her eyes against the glare of bright orange liquid in a tall glass on the nightstand.
“Too much champagne.”
“Why?” she said again. She wanted to know why she was here, why he was here, and why she’d made herself sick, but her brain and her mouth refused to function properly.
Instead of answering, he sat down on the bed, causing her to moan aloud when the mattress shifted and she rolled a little sideways. “Don’t try to talk,” he said with stern authority that contrasted with the gentleness in his movements as he slid his left arm beneath her shoulders, lifting her slightly upright. “This is buffered aspirin,” he said, giving her two white tablets. Diana’s hand shook as she took them from him and pressed them awkwardly between her lips. “And this,” he added as he lifted the glass of orange liquid from the tray and held it toward her lips, tipping it carefully so she could drink, “is orange juice with a little ‘hair-of-the-dog.’ ”
Diana’s stomach lurched violently at the thought of dog hairs in her orange juice, but before she could react, he tipped it up, forcing her to swallow; then he eased her back down onto the pillows. “Go back to sleep,” he said gently as her eyes closed. “You’ll feel much better when I wake you up later.”
Something cold and soothing was pressed against her forehead. A washcloth.
Cole Harrison was a kind, caring man, she thought. She needed to tell him that. “Thank you for helping me,” she murmured as his weight lifted from the mattress and he stood up.
“As your husband, I consider it my duty to nurse you through any and all hangovers.”
“You’re very nice.”
“I was hoping you’d still think so this morning, but I had some doubts.”
The carpet muffled his footsteps as he walked away, and she heard the door close softly behind him as she lay there, waiting for the anesthesia of sleep. For several moments, his parting remarks were merely a baffling joke she tried to ignore, but they’d evoked stubborn images that began marching insistently behind her aching eyes. She remembered being at the Orchid Ball and drinking wine and champagne . . . and an amethyst necklace, and more champagne. She remembered going up to Cole’s suite . . . and more champagne . . . and a limousine ride to Intercontinental Airport . . . and the cabin of a private jet, where she drank more champagne. She remembered another limo ride through a city ablaze with lights . . .
The images slowed and sharpened into better focus. She’d gotten out of the car and walked into a place with an arched trellis covered with fake flowers. A short, bald, smiling man had talked to her while she leaned her head back and mentally removed those awful flowers, replacing them with fresh ivy vines.
Swallowing against a surge of nausea, Diana tried not to think about the bald man and the flowered trellis, but the tableau seemed to be etched into her aching brain, a foggy, strangely ominous vignette—and yet, he’d seemed a pleasant enough man. . . . He’d walked Cole and her to the door when they left. He’d waved to them and called out something to her as the limousine started to roll away from the curb. She’d leaned out of the window and waved back at him as he stood in the doorway beneath a pink-and-green neon trellis, with blinking neon bells above it and some words below it.
Words below it.
Words . . .
Words, in scrolling pink-and-green neon letters.
WEDDING CHAPEL
The man in the doorway had been calling out, “Good luck, Mrs. Harrison!”
Reality struck Diana with enough force to set off fresh explosions of pain in her head and a holocaust in her stomach. “Oh, my God!” she moaned aloud, and she rolled over, pressing her face into the pillow, trying to blot everything from her mind.
Chapter 29
WHEN DIANA AWAKENED AGAIN, SOMEONE had opened the heavy draperies, letting filtered sunlight into the room through the filmy sheers, and a telephone was ringing somewhere in the suite.
For several moments, she lay perfectly still, her eyes closed, taking cautious mental inventory of her body’s condition, afraid to move lest her nerves begin to jangle and her head pound as it had earlier. She still felt shaky and her head still ached, but her skull no longer felt as if it were going to split in half.
Having dealt with the physical side of her situation, she reluctantly allowed herself to contemplate the outcome of her first true bout with inebriation.
She had married Cole Harrison.
Her heart began to hammer as the reality of that reckless, irrational act clamored in her brain. She was married to a stranger! He was a heartless opportunist who’d taken advantage of her state of mind last night and convinced her that marrying him would also benefit her, not just him.
She was clearly insane. So was he.
She was a fool. He was a monster.
She needed to be locked up in an asylum.
He needed to be shot!
Somehow, Diana forced herself to break off her unjustified mental tirade and block out the guilt and panic that were causing it.
She had not been completely irrational last night, and Cole had not coerced or forced her into marriage. As calmly as she could, Diana reviewed everything she could remember about his reasoning and her reactions.
In the bright light of day, without the lulling effects of champagne, it was obvious that Cole had amazing powers of persuasion. It was equally obvious that she’d let emotion and sentimentality drive her to do something that was incredibly impulsive. But the more she thought about it, the more Diana realized that the logic behind their agreement was still sound.
Last night, Cole had been the pawn of a well-meaning old man named Calvin, who was jeopardizing the business empire Cole had built. This morning, Cole was victor, not victim, and the uncle he loved was going to be a very happy man.
Last night, the credibility and the financial future of Foster Enterprises had been in jeopardy, and Diana had been the object of scorn and pity—the discarded fiancée of a wealthy Houston socialite. This morning, Foster Enterprises was secure and Diana was the “cherished wife” of a handsome billionaire tycoon.
Diana felt vastly better, though she was not looking forward to trying to convince her family that Cole wasn’t some sort of manipulative monster and that she hadn’t lost her senses.
To escape thinking of that scene, she tried to remember more about what had happened after Cole’s plane took off from Las Vegas, but her memory was fuzzy. She remembered being impressed when she first saw the interior of his plane, and she remembered asking Cole if they could go to Las Vegas instead of Lake Tahoe, because she’d already been to Lake Tahoe. From then on, things began to blur and meld with her dreams. She wasn’t certain whether her disjointed memories were real or only part of the vivid dreams that had pursued her while she slept, and she wasn’t up to thinking hard enough to solve the mystery.
Rolling over, she shoved back the sheets and was surprised to discover that she was naked. Considering how inebriated she’d been last night, it was amazing that she’d managed to unfasten her gown and get undressed herself. It occurred to her that Cole might have had to undress her, but that mortifying possibility was more than she could bear to contemplate at the moment. It was then that Diana realized she had nothing to wear except the purple silk gown she’d worn last night. The dining room at the Grand Balmoral was a favorite for Sunday afternoon dinner, and the prospect of walking through the hotel lobb
y in that gown, added to everything else that lay ahead, was enough to make her lie back for a moment in exhausted dread. She couldn’t phone her family and ask them to bring clothes to the hotel, because she didn’t want to explain about this whole escapade while she was in Cole’s suite. With a sigh of resignation, Diana climbed out of bed.
Chapter 30
COLE LOOKED UP WHEN SHE emerged from the bedroom with her hair still wet from her shower and her slender body completely engulfed in one of the hotel’s thick terry-cloth robes. Her bare toes peeped from beneath the hem of the robe, which should have stopped at mid-calf, and the shoulder seams fell to her elbows. Last night, Cole had thought she couldn’t possibly look more desirable than she had in that provocative purple gown, but he’d been wrong. Wrapped in an oversize robe, with her face scrubbed free of makeup and her thick russet hair falling damply at her neck, Diana Foster had the dewy freshness of a rose at dawn.
He laid the Sunday Houston Chronicle on the coffee table and stood up. “You’re looking better,” he told her.
She gave him a weak smile. “I’ve decided to be very brave and try to go on living.”
Chuckling at her quip, he gestured toward a linen-covered table laden with platters of food. “When I heard you turn on the shower, I phoned room service and had them send up some food.”
She looked at the eggs and bacon and pancakes and shuddered. “I’m not that brave.”
Ignoring her protest, Cole walked over to the table and pulled out a chair for her. “You have to eat.”
She sighed, but she padded over to the table, slid into the chair, and unfolded her napkin.
“How do you feel?” Cole inquired, sitting down across from her.
“The same way I look.” As she spoke, the oversize robe slipped off her left shoulder, leaving it bare, and she pulled it back in place.
“That good?” he said.
The warmth in his deep voice and the bold admiration in his eyes did astonishing things to Diana’s heartbeat, a reaction that was so unexpected and so strong that her cheeks grew hot. With a faint smile, she quickly dropped her gaze from his and reminded herself that he was merely playing a part, living up to his promise to make her happy during the tenure of their bargain. A bargain—that was all it was to him, and to her. The problem was, she didn’t know how she could possibly make her family understand that.
She reached for a slice of dry toast and lapsed into silence, trying to anticipate the scene with her family later. Cole had insisted on being with her when she told them they were married, and she appreciated his honorable desire to buffer, or share, the results of an action he had instigated. She didn’t expect them to make any sort of angry scene, but Grandma in particular was likely to have some strong opinions and she wasn’t likely to withhold them on Cole’s account or Diana’s.
Cole watched her expression grow increasingly somber as each minute passed. “Can I help?” he offered finally.
She glanced up with a guilty start. “I’m afraid not.” When he continued to regard her in waiting silence, Diana conceded to his silent instruction and told him what was worrying her. “I just don’t know how to explain to my family that I married a virtual stranger on an impulse and for purely practical reasons. I mean, once they calm down, they’ll begin to understand. Not agree probably, but understand.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that I’m dreading their reaction when they discover what we did. I’m going to give them the shock of a lifetime.”
“Not necessarily.”
“What do you mean?”
“You made some phone calls from my plane.”
Diana gaped at him. “Who did I call?”
“Marge Crumbaker.”
Relief restored a little color to her cheeks. “Marge is an old family friend.” In case he’d forgotten, she added, “Marge used to be the society columnist for the Houston Post, but the Post went out of business. So in this instance, that’s good.”
“When you finished telling her the news, you called Maxine Messenger.”
“That’s bad.” Diana’s heart sank at the mention of the Houston Chronicle’s society columnist; then she brightened. “Did I ask Maxine to keep it confidential?”
“I’m afraid not,” Cole replied, intrigued by the play of emotions across her expressive face. “There wouldn’t have been much point in asking her to keep it confidential, anyway.”
“Please don’t tell me I called anyone else.”
“Okay.”
She stared at him through suspicion-narrowed eyes “I did call someone else, didn’t I?”
“Eat something. You’ll feel better.”
She picked up her spoon, nudged a red cherry off the top of a half grapefruit, and lifted a bite toward her lips.
“Who else did I call?”
“Larry King.”
Denial and self-disgust reduced her voice to a choked whisper. “Are you telling me,” she enunciated in dire tones, “that I actually called CNN in the middle of the night and asked to talk to Larry King?”
“I’m afraid so. He wasn’t there, however.”
“Thank God!”
“So you talked to some man in the newsroom instead.”
She shook her head, groping desperately for a reason to be optimistic, and she hit on a lame one. “I have a common name, and besides, my grandfather is the one who’s popular with men. I’m associated with the magazine and most of our readers are women. There’s no way that newsman at CNN would have recognized little old me by name or reputation.”
“Possibly not,” Cole said. “But he recognized ‘little old me’ by name and reputation.”
“You should have stopped me!” she moaned. “You should have taken the phone away. No, you should have pushed me out of the plane. At least if I were dead, my body wouldn’t feel as bad as it does.”
Unable to suppress a grin, he nodded at the plate of food in front of her and refused to say another word until she complied with his order. “Finish your grapefruit and have some more orange juice and a little of that egg.”
She gazed at the three items and shuddered a little. “Everything looks so . . . so yellow. The grapefruit, the egg, the orange juice. The color is hurting my eyes.”
“That’s what happens when you drink too much.”
“Thank you for that unnecessary lecture on a subject for which I can now qualify for a Ph.D.”
“You’re welcome,” Cole said with unshakable good humor. “Eat some toast. It’s brown, so it shouldn’t hurt your eyes.”
“It has butter on it, and that’s yellow.”
“Stop it, Diana,” he said on a chuckle. “I don’t feel so great either, but I refuse to get sick on my first morning as your husband.”
“I’m sorry.” She picked up a piece of toast and looked at him, her expression so troubled that Cole felt genuinely sorry for treating her concerns lightly and for trying to avoid more questions. “What’s wrong?” he said gently.
“Tell me the truth—when I was calling those people, did I sound happy? Or intoxicated?”
“You sounded happy and like you’d possibly had a little to drink,” Cole said diplomatically, “but I doubt they’d think much about that. Brides frequently have a little too much champagne on their wedding night.”
“A little too much?” Diana repeated with shame. “I was disgustingly drunk—”
“You weren’t disgusting,” Cole argued with a tiny smile tugging at the left corner of his mouth.
Somewhat reassured, but undeterred, Diana added, “I was insensible—!”
“Not entirely,” he gallantly contradicted.
“I drank so much I must have passed out in the plane.” She nibbled tentatively at the toast, then took a full bite before putting the slice back down.
“No,” he argued reassuringly, “you fell asleep after a long, stressful evening.”
“Why, it’s a miracle I didn’t throw up—!” Unconsciously, Diana paused, expec
ting him to deny that as well.
Instead, he quirked a brow at her. Silence. Assent.
“Oh, I didn’t!” she breathed, dropping her face into her hands.
“You felt better afterward,” he pointed out kindly.
She let her hands fall away and drew in a deep breath. “Did I do anything else?”
“You told me a few very funny jokes.” He helped himself to some eggs.
“I had strange dreams all night—they were so vivid they were more like hallucinations—but I can’t remember all of them, and I’m not sure if what I do remember actually happened, or if it was part of those dreams. What I mean is, have I forgotten anything else that’s important?” She picked up the slice of toast, but instead of taking a bite she looked directly at Cole.
Define ‘important,’ Cole thought, remembering the way she had ensconced herself in his lap shortly after takeoff on the way back to Houston. While the jet hurtled skyward, she had laughingly told him nursery rhymes with silly, altered endings that made the rhymes seem hilarious.
He remembered the way she had pressed her lips to his for a small kiss, and later when he deepened the kiss, she had slid her hand beneath his tuxedo jacket and curved it around his neck, tentative at first, and then yielding, and then holding his mouth locked to hers. While the plane streaked through the predawn sky at cruising altitude, he had struggled to keep things from getting too far out of hand, while his delectable wife engaged in playful, inebriated, and astonishingly effective tactics aimed at seeing how far his control could be stretched before it broke.
He lost a little of it at thirty-two thousand feet, and stretched out on the sofa, bringing her down on top of him. This morning, he was having problems trying to forget things that she couldn’t remember at all. On the other hand, her lack of recall was for the best, since there would never be a repetition of that. “Nothing worth remembering,” Cole said.
“I know I did something else. I remember watching the casinos go by from the car and thinking how brilliant the lights were and how exciting it all seemed.” She took another bite of the toast and realized she was feeling a little bit better.