Lone Star Twins

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 answer.

Grabbing the skirts of her wedding gown, she rustled down the stairs.

Trace was sprawled in the oversize club chair she’d brought into the house just for him. His long legs were stretched over the matching ottoman and his chest moved with deep, even breaths. It looked as if he had sat down, just for a second, and fallen fast asleep.

He was more handsome than ever, in repose.

Tenderness swept over her and she knew she couldn’t wake him. Instead she eased off his shoes and took a throw from the back of the sofa and spread it over him.

As expected, he didn’t stir.

She stood there another long moment, just drinking in the sight of him, realizing all over again just how much she missed him when he was away.

In need of a little comfort herself, she slipped into the kitchen and extracted the nearly empty peppermint ice cream container from the freezer. Taking that and a spoon, she headed back up the stairs, suddenly feeling near tears again.

What was with her these days? Poppy wondered as she moved into her bedroom and sat to finish what was left of the ice cream. Was it the prospect of adopting the twins that had her so emotionally overwrought? The knowledge that while she was getting part of what she wanted, she was still eons away from getting it all? Or just the fatigue?

Poppy had no answer as she let the minty, holiday flavor melt on her tongue and soothe her yet again. Finally she put the empty container aside. Then, taking a moment just to chill, she laid back against the pillows.

The next thing she knew sunlight was streaming in through the windows. It was just after nine in the morning. And—was that her doorbell ringing?

Poppy sat up with a start.

Thinking it must be some sort of emergency, she rushed down the stairs. Too late, Trace had already awakened and moved to open the door. Mitzy Martin stood on the other side of the threshold, work bag over her shoulder.

If Poppy’s childhood friend was surprised to see them still in their wedding finery, she managed not to show it. “Hey, sorry to intrude. But I really need to talk to both of you.”

Gallantly, Trace ushered the social worker inside.

The vivacious Mitzy pulled out a sheaf of papers attached to a clipboard and pen. “The Stork Agency wants an amended home study done ASAP.”

Hence, Poppy thought, the surprise visit. One of several she’d endured during the past few years. “Why?”

“You’ve already interviewed us both extensively,” Trace pointed out.

Mitzy looked around, bypassing the chair with the throw still on it, and took a seat on the sofa. “You weren’t married then. Or planning to marry.”

Feeling a little self-conscious to be caught, still in her wedding gown, her hair askew, Poppy snuck a furtive glance Trace’s way. He looked as bedraggled as she did. His once-pristine military uniform was wrinkled, and from the look of his bloodshot eyes, it appeared he’d had a pretty rough night.

Clearing her throat, Poppy shook off the rest of the cobwebs. “But they asked us to do this!”

“Exactly my worry.” Mitzy sobered. “Is that the only reason you tied the knot last night?”

Poppy locked eyes with Trace, not sure how to answer that.

“Yes,” he said, blunt as ever.

“So if the Stork Agency hadn’t required it?” Mitzy took a clipboard full of papers, and pen from her bag.

Trace shrugged and took a seat in the same chair where he’d spent the night. “I wouldn’t be here today. I’d be back in the Middle East.”

Mitzy wrote on a preprinted form. “Is it your intention to be in this marriage for the long haul? Or just until the adoption is final?”

“Until the kids are grown,” Trace said firmly. He glanced at Poppy. “Or longer.”

Mitzy turned to Poppy. “And you?”

“When Trace and I decided to adopt children together, we agreed we would behave as a family from this point forward.”

“So there was no end date?” Mitzy challenged.

Aware her knees were suddenly a little shaky, Poppy perched on the wide arm of Trace’s chair. “No. Being a parent is a lifelong commitment.”

Mitzy looked at Trace. “Do you agree?”

He nodded. “For better or worse. Just like marriage.”

“Are you expecting the worst?”

Trace returned, “Are you?”

Ignoring his insolence, the social worker rose. “Are you going to live here?”

Poppy and Trace nodded in unison.

Mitzy continued to study them. “Mind if I take a quick look around the premises?”

“You’ve already done that,” Poppy protested. When the upstairs wasn’t such a total mess!

Gaze narrowed, Mitzy paused. “Is there a reason you don’t want me to look around?”

Yes, Poppy thought, knowing if the social worker went up there, she would quickly realize that neither bed had been slept in. “No,” she said out loud.

Her manner all business, Mitzy made her way through the dining area and into the kitchen, which, unlike the upstairs, was neat as a pin. From there, she peeked into the powder room then took the stairs. Poppy and Trace were right behind her.

She paused in front of Poppy’s bedroom, which was still a mess, the covers rumpled from where she’d slept.

“Where will the babies sleep?” Mitzy asked, still making notes.

“In here.” Poppy pointed to the office-cum-guest room.

Wordlessly the social worker took in the perfectly made-up sofa bed, Poppy’s desk and computer.

“Obviously, everything’s happened so fast, we haven’t had a chance to set up a nursery,” Poppy said in a rush. “But I’ll get it done in the next couple of days.”

“Call me when you do. I’d like to add it to the report,” Mitzy told her. “Where are the two of you planning to sleep?”

Trace quirked his brow at Poppy as if he’d like to hear the answer to that, too.

Flushing, she pointed to her bedroom. “Exactly where you’d expect. In my—er, our room.” There wouldn’t be a whole lot of choice once the nursery was set up.

Mitzy turned back to Trace, her expression as poker-faced as his. “Does that square with your plans, too?”

“Unless she relegates me to the sofa,” he replied in a joking tone.

Poppy recognized an attempt to lighten the mood when she heard one.

Unfortunately, Mitzy chose to ignore it. “Is that likely to happen?”

“Well...” Trace exhaled slowly, his expression turning even more maddeningly inscrutable. “We are married, after all.”

“And?” Mitzy persisted.

Trace lifted his broad shoulders in an affable shrug. “Sometimes spouses disagree, and when that happens, one of them generally ends up on the sofa. Unless they are really ticked off and go to a hotel.”

Another joke.

That did not go over well.

“And you would know that because...?” the social worker prompted.

Abruptly, Trace lost all patience. “Come on, Mitzy. Everyone in Laramie County knows my mother’s been married eight times, my dad three. So I’ve seen my fair share of discord. And, for the record, I was kidding around about the sofa.”

“Except the sofa bed upstairs was made up,” Mitzy pointed out with a Cheshire smile.

“And no one slept in it,” Poppy noted. But wisely did not elaborate.

Mitzy looked pointedly at Poppy’s rumpled wedding gown and Trace’s uniform.

In an effort to smooth over any rough edges, Poppy shrugged lightly. “It was a long day and an even longer night. We were both exhausted by the end. Suffice it to say...” She paused, took a breath and turned to look Trace in the eye, giving him a wordless apology for her unprecedented cowardice. “Nothing went according to plan.”

He smiled. Apology accepted. Then he reached over and clasped her hand. Tightly.

A taut silence fell.

Mitzy frowned. “I’m just trying to get a feel for how real this union is going to be.”

Trace countered in a smooth voice, “As opposed to?”

“A sham marriage.” Mitzy walked down the stairs. “Which, I don’t have to tell either of you, would be a very bad thing to have to report on.”

How could things have gone so far south so fast? Poppy asked herself glumly as she and Trace followed. It hadn’t even been fifteen hours! Feeling as if it was her turn to defend them, she said hotly, “It’s not a sham. It might not be traditional by someone else’s standards, but it’s definitely going to be real enough according to ours.”

Mitzy took a seat in the big comfy chair, leaving the two of them to sit side-by-side on the sofa. “I gather since the original plan was marriage by proxy—until Trace showed up in person, anyway—that this was almost a mere formality.”

Before it turned oh, so real, Poppy thought.

“And now it’s not,” Trace said snidely.

Aware she was getting under his skin, Mitzy made another note. “So how long had you been thinking about getting married before you made the decision?” she asked.

Trace continued the battle like the true warrior he was. “Five minutes maybe.”

“I don’t mean when you actually proposed,” Mitzy said.

Figuring the truth, and nothing but the truth, was the way go to, at least as much as possible, anyway, Poppy put in, just as cavalierly, “Actually, it was my idea.”

Mitzy did a double-take. “You proposed to Trace?”

Proposal meant romantic. Hers hadn’t been. Poppy made a seesaw motion with her right hand. “Mmm. More like... I...presented the option.”

Trace draped his arm around her shoulders and shifted closer. “And I accepted.”

“Because of the agency requirement regarding the adoption of more than one child at one time,” Mitzy ascertained.

Poppy and Trace both nodded. She, reluctantly. He, as if to say, what’s the big deal here?

Was he more like his oft-married and divorced mother in this respect than she knew? Poppy wondered uncomfortably.

Mitzy turned the page on the preprinted questionnaire she was working through. “Do you have a prenup?”

“No,” Trace said.

“We trust each other,” Poppy agreed.

Mitzy looked up. “What about an actual marriage contract, verbal or written?”

“No,” they said firmly in unison.

Mitzy tapped her pen on the page. “Surely you have some sense of exactly how this is all going to work.”

Somehow, Trace managed not to sigh—even though Poppy could feel his exasperation mounting. “I’m in the military,” he stated bluntly. “I’ll be here whenever I can, as much as I can. The rest of the time Poppy will handle everything on the home front, like most military wives.”

Military wife. Poppy kind of liked the sound of that. All possessive and gruff-tender.

Mitzy’s expression softened ever so slightly, too. “Will you come home to see them every time you get leave?”

“I always do,” Trace said.

And Poppy knew that was true. Whenever he had time off, the two of them managed to steal time together. Even when it meant they rendezvoused in a third central location.

“So in that sense—” Mitzy smiled, still writing “—nothing will change.”

Trace and Poppy nodded again.

“So is this it?” Trace asked, looking impatient. And still jet-lagged.

Another long, thoughtful pause.

“Actually,” Mitzy said, riffling through the content on her clipboard, “I have several more pages—”

Pages! Poppy thought.

“—of questions to ask for the amended home study. But I can see it’s a bad time, the two of you being on your honeymoon and all. So what do you say we get together at another time, when you have the nursery done, and finish up then?”

“What else could you possibly need to know?” Poppy asked, only half joking, getting to her feet.

Mitzy slid everything in her work bag. “Well, for one thing, we need to revisit your individual family histories.”

“We did that before,” Poppy pointed out.

“Individually. Not together. Now that you are married we have to make sure there has been full disclosure between the two of you and that there are no underlying issues there, either.”

“Sounds like a test,” Trace grumbled.

That Cheshire smile again. “It is, in a way,” Mitzy said. “So, if there’s anything you haven’t told each other—and should—now is probably the time.”

* * *

TRACE WAS ABOUT to say there was nothing he and Poppy hadn’t told each other when he caught the fleeting glimpse of unhappiness in his new wife’s eyes and realized maybe there was. What it could be, though, he had no idea.

He waited until they had showed the social worker out before voicing his concern. He cupped Poppy by the shoulders and looked down at her. “What’s wrong?” he asked gently.

Poppy extricated herself deftly, swirled, lifted the skirt of her wedding dress in both hands and headed up the stairs. “Didn’t you see the way she was looking at us?” She was fuming.

He caught sight of the layers of petticoat beneath the satin skirt. And couldn’t help wondering what was beneath that.

Casually, he caught up with her in the short hall that ran the length of the second floor of the bungalow. “Like a social worker doing her job?”

Poppy stormed into the bedroom, still in her stocking feet. Reaching behind her for the zipper, she pouted. “She thinks our marriage is a sham.”

Trace stepped in to gallantly unhook the fastening at the nape of her gown. Once that was free, the zipper came down easily. “Why?” he countered huskily. “Because she obviously figured out you and I didn’t consummate our marriage last night?”

She shivered when his fingertips grazed her bare skin. “Please don’t say it that way.”

Hands on her shoulders, he turned her to face him. “Since when have we parsed words or dealt with something other than the truth?”

Poppy raked her teeth across the delectable plumpness of her lower lip. “Never.”

“So what’s the problem, then?”

She stared at the open collar of his shirt. “The fact we didn’t make love makes us—our whole union—look suspect.”

“Well, then,” Trace drawled, taking her in his arms and doing what he should have done the night before, would have done if she hadn’t been so skittish and he hadn’t been so damned jet-lagged. “There is only one way to fix that.”

Chapter Four

Poppy knew she and Trace would eventually make love as a married couple. She had just convinced herself it wouldn’t be until she felt emotionally ready.

She splayed her hands across the hardness of his chest and ducked her head to the side. “You can’t kiss me.”

He chuckled, stroking one hand down her back, molding the other around the nape of her neck. “Actually, darlin’...” He left a trail of light kisses across the top of her head, down her temple, along the curve of her cheekbone, to the ultrasensitive place just behind her ear. “I think I’m supposed to...”

“Not yet.” Not until her sentiments were in order, her heart secure.

“Then how about I help you out of this dress,” he said.

She moaned as his tongue swept the shell of her ear. “Trace, I—”

“Unless you’re really going to wear your wedding dress all day.”

Gently, he eased the unzipped gown from her shoulders.

Poppy caught it, one hand to her chest.

His brow lifted. “Something you don’t want me to see?”

Actually yes. “My sisters...”

He waited.

“Well, they got me this, um...”

As always, he knew where she was going almost before she did. “Lingerie?”

“As a joke.”

His husky laughter filled the room. Devilry sparkled in his hazel eyes. “Then I really have to see it.”

Letting her go, he removed his jacket and the tie still loose around his neck and unbuttoned a few more buttons on his shirt. That came off, too. Leaving only a white cotton military-issue T-shirt and uniform dress pants.

With a sweep of his arm, he cleared a place on the side of the bed where she’d been sleeping and sat, propped against the headboard, both hands clasped behind his head.

Her heart pounding, she stammered, “Y-you really expect me to give you a show?”

“Well...since you’ve outlawed the romantic approach I was intending...having a little fun seems like the way to proceed. Unless—” he dared her with a wolfish smile “—the Poppy I know no longer exists?”

Poppy planted both hands on her hips, forgetting for a moment she’d been holding up the front of her dress. The bodice tumbled down, revealing the ridiculously sheer and tight-fitting, low-cut bustier that laced up the front.

His grin widened even more as she decided, against her better judgment, to just leave it where it fell, draped low across her waist. “You know, married or not, I am just the same.”

“Ah...” He undid his belt then his zipper. “Then prove it.”

Her gaze followed his hand.

The bulge she saw pressing against his fly made her mouth water.

“Unless,” he said, going back to simply watching her, his eyes dark and seductive. “You don’t want to give me something to fantasize about when I am far, far away?”

* * *

TRACE HAD MEANT the remark as a jest. Incentive to forget the tumultuous pressure of the past five days and return to their usual horsing around. But the reminder of an eventual departure had set the time clock that always surrounded their reunions running.

“All right, Lieutenant,” she said.

Sashaying forward, she turned, giving him a 360-degree view of the dress peeled down to the waist. Facing him, she continued her striptease.

Not wanting it to be over too soon, Trace goaded. “No music?”

Poppy stopped. Rolled her eyes. Sauntered over to the CD player on her bureau and pushed Play without even looking. The strains of the “Hallelujah Chorus” burst forth, prompting them both to burst into gales of laughter.

“Good choice,” Trace said, getting immediately to his feet.

“What are you doing?” Poppy asked.

“Isn’t it customary to stand for the finale of Handel’s Messiah?”

She knew full well, as did he, that it was.

But it wasn’t the rousing sounds of the traditional oratorio that had his heart pumping. Or hers, either, he guessed. Today it was all them...

But not wanting her to know—just yet anyway—how wickedly excited he was, lest he ruin the mounting anticipation for her, too, he waited for her to make the next move.

Her sable brown eyes lit with a lively, impetuous light. Inhaling deeply, eyes locked with his, she stepped out of her dress and then the petticoat. Then slowly, erotically, moved toward him in nothing but the bustier, garter belt and thigh-high stockings, and the tiniest bikini panties he had ever seen.

When she was just out of reach, she stopped.

It was all he could do not to groan in frustration, as she began taking the pins from her hair, until it, too, spilled over her shoulders in a tumble of dark, silky-brown curls.

Unable to hold back, he breathed, “You are so damn beautiful.”

The adrenaline rush of Handel playing in the background, Poppy sashayed closer still. “Mmm-hmm.” She tilted her face up to his mischievously. “Your turn.” Her eyes drifted over him appreciatively. “Lieutenant...”

Aware he was already way too aroused to hold back for long, he warned, “Poppy...”

She stepped away and tilted her head tauntingly. “Unless you don’t dare?”

Oh, he dared, all right.

Still appreciating the view, he tugged his T-shirt over his head. Spun around, just as she had.

Her soft laughter filled the room.

Hands spread on either side of him, miming a model showing off the garments, he let her look her fill, then hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and pushed them down.

Instead of the white military-issue briefs he knew she was expecting, he was wearing a pair of black silk boxers with red hearts all over them.

Chuckling merrily, she let her gaze drift lower, to the outline of his male anatomy pushing against the silk.

No hiding his desire now.

“Nice,” she said softly as the first song ended and “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” began.

Unable to wait a second longer, sensing she wasn’t either, Trace prowled toward her. “Not as nice as you,” he said, running his thumbs over the crests of her breasts pushing against the sheer fabric.

Her arms came up to wrap around his neck.

Rising on tiptoe, she moved all the way into his arms. Then, pressing her body flush against his, she threaded her hands through his hair, all the tenderness he had ever wanted to see shimmering in her misty brown eyes. “Now, you see? This is why you always end up seducing me.” She kissed him soulfully.

“Really?” Cupping her face in both hands, he returned her kiss with every ounce of pent-up passion that he had. Feeling her shudder, he took her by the hand and led her over to stand next to the bed. Satisfaction roared through him. “Because all this time, I thought it was you seducing me.”