But for one brief, shiny, sparkling moment in her dull, gray life, she was Eleanora Watters English, and she intended to enjoy it.
Waiting for the limo outside the chapel after the ceremony and photos, Evie snuggled against Van and grinned at her cousin. "Well, you did it. You're, like, married, Ellie!"
Glancing down at her thin gold wedding band, Eleanora looked over her shoulder at Tom, who stood behind her. "I guess I am."
Van stuck out his hand, adding solemnly-his words clearly meant more for Tom than for her-"I hope you don't regret it."
Eleanora took Van's hand and shook it. "You don't need to worry. We have an agreement. I intend to honor it."
Van nodded, but Eleanora was surprised to feel Tom's hands land on her hips, pulling her back against his body. During the pictures, he'd followed the directions of the photographer, putting his arm around her shoulders or pressing his lips to her cheek, but this was the first time he'd reached for her since they'd kissed in the chapel.
"Let's not worry about that right now," he murmured near her ear, his hot breath making shivers skate down her back as he wrapped his arms around her, resting them under her breasts. "Let's just enjoy Vegas."
"What did you have in mind?" asked Evie, smiling at Tom over Eleanora's shoulder.
Tom spoke close to Eleanora's ear again. "Any chance you like Donny and Marie?"
Evie gasped so loud, her cousin couldn't help but chuckle. "Well, even if I don't, I know someone who does."
"Did he say Donny and Marie? As in . . . Osmond?" Evie squealed.
Tom laughed, holding on to Eleanora a little tighter.
"Aw, honey," griped Van, "I wanted to show you my room."
"And I would love to see your room," said Evie, "but the man just mentioned Donny Osmond!"
Tom spun Eleanora in his arms, and suddenly she found herself looking up into his deep blue eyes, which were crinkled and merry, to match his smile.
"So? Want to go to their show tonight?"
"Did you really get tickets?"
He nodded, grinning at her like the cat who got the cream. "It's their Christmas special. It's going to be televised."
"Ellie! Ellie! Ellie! Say yes!" yelled Evie from behind her.
Eleanora beamed at Tom. "I'd love to go."
"You're wrecking my plans," muttered Van, giving Tom a dirty look as the limo pulled up.
Tom pressed a kiss to Eleanora's forehead, and her stomach filled with butterflies, making her feel weak and strong at the same time as she basked in the way she felt special and precious to someone for the first time in her life. "I've read about this. This is spoiling, isn't it? You're spoiling me."
"So let me. It's only temporary, right?"
"Right." Her cheeks flushed hot, and she dropped his eyes, wishing she could ignore the sting that accompanied his words. Plastering a smile on her face, she looked up at him again. "Thank you. Donny and Marie it is."
Leading her into the back of the limo, he held her hand as they were driven the two miles back to the Imperial Palace, and the whole way Van grumbled about the best-laid plans going to hell, with Evie assuring him that he'd have plenty of time to get the best lay after she got a chance to see Donny Osmond.
***
Tom had barely seen the show.
As much as possible, he'd watched his bride, still radiant in white, as she experienced her first live production of . . . anything.
At dinner before the show, Eleanora had shared a little bit about her background: she'd grown up in a tiny town called Romero, three hours south of Vail, where her father worked as a mechanic. He could tell from her reluctance to talk about her childhood that it probably hadn't been very easy or very happy, unlike his, which had been steeped in unfathomable wealth and endless opportunity. She spoke with some guarded affection about her high school English teacher-whom Evie had simultaneously labeled "heinous" and "a spaz"-and mentioned the library, where she'd worked after school and on weekend mornings until she left Romero at nineteen. Neither woman spoke freely about why they'd left their hometown, but Tom sensed that the reason was sound and serious and that the cousins were bound by its necessity. He couldn't help but notice the way Evie looked at her older cousin, with an adoration on the edge of worship, which left little doubt that Eleanora had extricated Evie from something potentially toxic . . . or worse.
Learning more about her added dimension and strength to a woman he admired more by the minute. Despite her young age, she was smart and ambitious, protective and brave, all wrapped up in the body of a goddess, with the face of an angel. And she was his wife. The words circled in his mind as he watched her: This goddess – angel is my wife. In the eyes of the law, she belongs to me, and I belong to her.
After dinner, they walked over to the Flamingo, where they took their third-row VIP seats for the televised show. Eleanora suddenly grasped Tom's hand, her cheeks pink and lips glossy as she faced him.
"Thank you for this," she said, her smile dazzling. "For everything. For the best Christmas ever."
"It's not even Christmas yet," he responded, feeling shaky and adolescent, his feelings for her taking his head, his heart, his very soul, by storm.
"See what I mean?" she joked, facing the stage and entwining her fingers with his before shifting their bound hands to her lap.
He didn't want to freak her out by staring at her, but at every possible opportunity-when there was a gag they could laugh at, after every song as he held her hand and didn't clap, and sometimes during an especially poignant Christmas carol-he'd glance over at her. She sat up straight, her posture perfect, her chin high. Her strong cheekbones made apples of her cheeks when she smiled or giggled, which made her look younger and softer than twenty-two, and he wondered what it would be like to always see her smiling, to never again see the lines of worried caution that crossed her face with too much regularity. Her hand was warm and small in his, her fingers elegant and soft threaded between his, and when he wasn't looking at her, he was concentrating on the feeling of her skin pressed against his, and wondering what he wouldn't give for the right to hold her hand like this forever.
What was happening to him? And why now? And why so fast? And why, for heaven's sake, with her?
He'd had his pick of girls at the country club, at Princeton, in Philadelphia society. What was it about this girl-down-on-her-luck Eleanora Watters-that so pulled at his heartstrings? She was beautiful, yes, but it was so much more than that. It was the heart of a lion inside the body of a lamb. It was a poet's soul in a waitress's dress. It was a girl who deserved so much more than getting a shitty hand in life. And it was her sitting beside him now, watching the whole world with wonder at Christmastime, when the show was just some forgettable Vegas tripe. She was unspoiled and honest, unentitled and hardworking, hopeful when she had every right to be bitter. She was magnificent. How in the hell could he not fall for her?
Once the curtain was down and the lights up, Evie and Van hurried back to the hotel, but Tom and Eleanora strolled hand in hand, walking leisurely under the bright neon lights of the Strip.
"Did you like it?" he asked her after a while.
"I loved it."
"It's different being there in person, isn't it? Did you think it would be the same as watching it on TV?"
She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I don't know how to explain this, but I don't have thoughts like that at all. If you'd asked me yesterday my thoughts on seeing Donny and Marie on TV versus seeing them live, I wouldn't have been able to answer you. I wouldn't have had an inkling of what it was like to see movie stars singing and dancing ten feet away from my eyes. I would have wondered if you were making fun of me."
"And maybe dressed me down with your numbers routine?"
She whipped her head to his, a slow smile spreading across her face. "You caught that yesterday morning, huh?"
"I don't think anyone at the restaurant missed it." He squeezed her hand. "You were brilliant."
She sighed. "I get sick of it, you know?"
"Getting hit on?"
"Getting hit on, being objectified . . . the assumption that I'm so desperate, I'm a sure thing."
"I don't see you like that, you know."
She stopped walking, looking up at him, the red, yellow, and green lights above them sparkling in her eyes. "I know."
"What if I kissed you again?" he whispered.
"What if you did?"
"You wouldn't mind?"
"Maybe I'd mind if you didn't."
He dipped his head and caught her bottom lip between his, winding his arms around her slim form and pulling her against his body. She was lithe and small next to him, and she tasted like pineapple juice and rum, and Tom knew that he'd never drink a piña colada for as long as he lived without thinking about Eleanora English.