The Fifty-Cent Groom

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  “There’s always a first time.”

  The glance she attempted to throw over her shoulder fell short, so she gave her hair a provocative toss. “All right, I can see that you’re not convinced, so try this on for size. You’re honest and intelligent—that I can tell from your eyes. I can tell by your appearance you’re down on your luck and by the set of your jaw that you’re not desperate. I can tell by the way you look at me that you have a basic respect for women. And I can tell by your tone of voice that you expect to be respected, as well. The way you hold your shoulders tells me you have too much pride, and your not-quite-macho walk tells me you are confident and secure with your masculinity. I can tell by the touch of your hands that you’re not accustomed to taking no for an answer, but there’s a certain restraint that tells me you’re not afraid to be gentle. How am I doing so far?”

  “Did you get my bank balance, too? Or should I tear a few more holes in my vest?”

  She honked at a slow-moving car in front of them and swung the van onto a side street. “Your bank balance is of no importance to me, Ben. I just need your body for a few hours. The rest is incidental.”

  He couldn’t recall ever being dismissed so easily or with such blunt conceit. The fact that she did, in many ways, have him pegged was doubly irritating. “You’re amazingly arrogant…even for a redhead.”

  “I hate that. Women don’t refer to men as a hair color. I would never call you a blackhead.”

  “My hair isn’t black.” He couldn’t quite keep the insult from echoing in his voice.

  “Okay, so what color is your hair?”

  “It’s dark brown.” He was beginning to wish he’d opted for the beer, bath and bed. “I’m surprised you couldn’t tell that by the way I bend my knees.”

  Her laugh came again, another low, husky tremor in her throat. “I’m sorry if I offended your vanity, but you did ask for it.”

  He didn’t believe he’d asked for any such thing. “Let me get this straight. If I refer to you as a redhead, I’m being sexist. But you can size me up in a matter of minutes based on my appearance, and you’re just being intuitive?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Ah, I see. This is the old double standard at play.”

  “No. This is twenty-eight years of observation and experience at work. The old live-and-learn axiom.”

  “And you’re never wrong.”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m just not wrong about you.” She was so sure of herself, so naively certain.

  “How do you know?”

  She lifted one shoulder in a delicate shrug. “There’s no need to feel threatened. I’m not psychic. I can’t read your mind.”

  Ben closed his eyes for a moment. She was incredible.

  “This isn’t some special gift. I had to look out for myself and my younger brother when I was growing up, and that meant learning how to size up the danger in situations and in people.”

  “And I pose no danger.” He allowed his fingers to graze her skin and felt her quicksilver response.

  “No,” she said with a touch of bravado. “Although if you don’t hurry, I could be in danger of arriving very overdressed for this reception.”

  “You can borrow my vest if you want. That would add a casual touch.”

  “I brought something else to wear. Something much more suitable for this evening and far more becoming.”

  “That’s hard to imagine.” Ben worked at the tiny buttons, opening an ever-widening V of smooth, soft skin. “Frankly, I think you’re missing a golden opportunity with West by not making certain he gets to see you in this. He could start hearing wedding bells after just one twinkle.”

  Her shoulders stiffened suddenly, as if a hidden straight pin had jabbed her. “He would think it was a practical joke…and not a good one, either.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I know his tastes, and he would never want his bride to wear anything so unfashionable.” Her hips moved within the curvature of his thighs as she applied the brakes, then again when she accelerated, and his body tightened in response. He diverted his attention to the next button, and the next.

  “I’m curious, Sara. Did you peg West by the way he parts his hair or was it something more complicated, like the shine on his shoes?”

  “That really bothers you, doesn’t it? The fact that I could know so much about you just through observation.”

  “What bothers me is your safety, not the idea that you made a few guesses that happened to be fairly accurate. Jumping to conclusions like that could one day get you in more trouble than you can handle.”

  Her laughter was a slight movement beneath his fingers, a soft echo of her amusement. “It works both ways, you know. I could be planning to drive you outside of town and rob you.”

  “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Well, for one thing I have Cleo to protect me. And for another, you’ve already decided that I have nothing worth stealing.”

  “I wouldn’t want to upset Cleo. It’s obvious she holds you in the highest regard.”

  “It’s mutual, believe me.”

  “What do the two of you have in common, other than the call of the wild?”

  “We both loved the same woman.”

  “Loved? In the past tense?”

  “Definitely past.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She left us behind when she accepted a better job in another city and a no-pets-allowed apartment. I’m not sure either one of us actually missed her all that much once she was gone, but it became something of a grudge match to see who possessed the greater tolerance and which one would leave first. So far, it’s a stalemate.”

  “Interesting. Any chance of a cessation of hostilities?”

  “Not likely.” The last button eased from the loop, and the dress parted to reveal the long, smooth slope of her back. Ben thought seriously about running his palm across it, slipping his hand beneath the lace and satin, reaching around to cup her breast and expose her intuition for the foolishness it was. Maybe if he’d been in a better position to control the van, he might have taken on the task of demonstrating the danger in making presumptions. “You’re unbuttoned,” he said, reaching around her to grasp the steering wheel with his left hand and her elbow with his right. “Now, take your foot off that accelerator and let me drive.”

  “Thanks. I will be so glad to get into my own clothes.” She pushed against him with a wiry strength as she levered up and off, balancing with one foot in the other seat while she gathered up the bulky satin skirt and squeezed between the seats into the back of the van. “I owe you for this.”

  “A hundred bucks.” He settled behind the wheel and slowed the van to an acceptable speed.

  “Plus tips. Of course, you never know how those will run, especially at a private party.”

  “Isn’t it slightly inhospitable to expect guests to tip the bartender?”

  “West doesn’t expect the guests to tip. Some of them just do, that’s all.”

  Ben considered the defensive note in her voice. The rustle of satin whisked behind him, and he looked in the rearview mirror just in time to see the wedding gown part in a deep V, revealing her back all the way down to the elastic band of her brief bikini panties. There were no bra straps to mar the view, and he admired her ivory skin until a car horn brought him back from the edge of fantasy. But his gaze strayed to the rearview mirror again at the first opportunity.

  “You’ll need to watch for Mayflower Road,” she said matter-of-factly, and he ripped his gaze from the mirror to check the nearest street sign.

  “Nice neighborhood,” he commented, noting the widening of the streets and the increasing number of stately homes behind wrought-iron gates.

  “I know. I’m planning to live here.”

  “With West.”

  “That’s the plan. Oh, no! Give me that! Let go! I s
aid, let go!”

  Cleo’s playful growl preceded the sound of an ominous rip. Ben glanced back to see Sara struggling to pull something away from the dog. “What was that?”

  “My dress.” Even at a distance, it was clear the words were delivered through clenched teeth.

  “She tore the wedding dress?” A car pulled in front of him, and he couldn’t spare another glance. “How bad is it?” he asked with genuine concern. “Did she ruin it?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s ruined, all right.”

  He looked over his shoulder. Sara was turned toward him, the ivory dress drooping in an uneven line around her shoulders, a soggy strip of black in each hand. Cleo sat at her feet, looking pleased by her part in this latest game. “What’s that?”

  “My black silk dress.”

  Relief washed over him with the knowledge that he wouldn’t have to explain how his dog managed to destroy a million-dollar gown. “She didn’t tear the wedding dress?”

  “No such luck. She had to mangle the only thing I ever paid full retail for…and I never even got to wear it.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll pay to replace it.”

  “You can’t afford to do that, Ben. I spent far too much money on it to begin with…but thanks. It was a nice gesture.”

  He heard the rich rustle of the satin and looked in the rearview mirror to see her holding the bodice of the wedding gown in place as she frowned at the scraps of black silk on the van floor. She looked up, caught his gaze and sighed. “I hate it when a plan falls apart.”

  Ben wanted badly to cheer her up. “I may be over-rating my intuitive abilities here, but I can tell by the arch of your eyebrows that you’re already formulating a new plan.”

  She adjusted the ivory lace covering her arms and sagging on her shoulders. “Considering the extent of my wardrobe at the moment, the only plan I have is to have you button up the back of this dress again.”

  “I could turn this jalopy around. We’d be back at your house in twenty minutes or less.”

  “Only if we collected another speeding ticket on the way. At best, it would take an hour to get there and back. And that doesn’t include time for any unscheduled stops or wild-key chases.”

  “So do we proceed on to the West Ridgeman home?”

  “We’re almost there, and one way or another, I’m going to be at this party.”

  “A woman after my own heart,” he said and was surprised to realize he meant it.

  “The next intersection will be Mayflower. Turn left.” She walked to the front, holding the gown in place with one hand and placing the other on the back of his seat for balance. After he completed the turn, she pointed at a pair of large, elaborate, open gates at the end of the block. “That’s the house. Follow the drive all the way around. We’ll park in back. Just wave at the valet as we pass. He’ll recognize the van.”

  “Any idea what we’ll do when we get there?”

  “Not yet.” Sara stooped, propping her arms on the seat backs as the Ridgeman estate came into view. “But I’ll think of something.”

  Chapter Four

  “Are you sure you want me to do this?”

  Hands on her hips, Sara looked at the shadowed balcony of the second story. “Unless you’d rather climb the trellis and tap on that window.”

  “Depends on whose window it is.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been upstairs.”

  Ben turned his head to look at her. “You’re going to marry this guy and you’ve never been in his bedroom?”

  “How do you know his bedroom isn’t downstairs? Now, keep your mind on earning your salary and go on up to the door and knock.”

  “What if he answers?”

  “Improvise.”

  “Right.” He pantomimed a knock. “Hello, Mr. Ridgeman. I’ll be your bartender this evening, but could you introduce me to your sister first because I want to borrow her clothes.” He smiled at Sara. “Think that will do it?”

  “I think so, yes.” She returned his smile with saccharine assurance. “You should say it exactly like that if West answers the door—which he won’t. Now go on before someone comes outside and sees me in this wedding dress.”

  Ben studied the well-lighted terrace he had to cross to reach the kitchen door. “Tell me again why this is a better plan than returning to your house to change clothes.”

  “It would have taken too long.”

  He nodded. “Right.”

  Her sigh was deeply frustrated. “Okay, so maybe I made a poor choice, but we’re here now and I know DeeNee will help me. Just say whatever you have to say to get her outside.”

  “You’re sure she’s here?”

  “The only thing I’m sure about is that I’m crouched behind a boxwood hedge, hoping the sprinkler system isn’t set to come on in the next fifteen minutes.”

  Ben couldn’t recall the last time he’d been so well entertained. “You could have stayed in the van with Cleo.”

  “I’ll take my chances with the sprinkler, thanks. Now, go on.”

  He made a production of checking the area. “Okay,” he said, talking covertly from the side of his mouth. “Cover me, I’m going in.”

  A twig hit him square between the shoulder blades, and he was glad she didn’t have access to more advanced weapons. With an easy stride, he mounted the terrace steps and approached the glass-paned door. After rapping lightly on the panes, he waited for someone to answer.

  A tall, dour-faced man opened the door. “Yes?”

  Ben smiled broadly. “Hello,” he said. “I’m At Your Service.”

  The man evaluated Ben in a single, unimpressed glance. “I sincerely doubt it.” And he closed the door.

  Ben looked at Sara and shrugged. She motioned and he knocked again.

  The door opened to impart the butler’s scowl. “May I help you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m here to help you. I’m a bartender.”

  “I don’t drink.” The door closed.

  Ben looked to the shrub for guidance.

  She stood up and brushed away a twig. “That’s Arthur. I don’t know what he’s doing in the kitchen, but we’ll never get past him. Not with you looking like you just fell off a turnip truck. I’ll have to think of something else.”

  “I’ll have you know there is nothing about me that resembles a turnip.”

  “Tell that to Arthur.”

  Ben walked across the terrace and down the steps. “Does your beau know Arthur is answering his door?”

  “That’s what West pays him to do. He’s the butler.” She scrutinized the trellis, from the ground to the balcony. “Can you climb that?”

  He pursed his lips. “I could. The question is, would I?”

  “Well, would you?”

  “Depends on what kind of motivation I had.”

  “My gratitude?”

  “For that, I might be able to throw a couple of pebbles and hit the window.”

  “As if we could find a pebble of any kind in this lawn.”

  “Oh, there’s bound to be something. Look around.”

  “No. This is ridiculous. I’m just going to walk in there and act like this is the dress I planned to wear. If West sees me, he will just have to deal with it.”

  Ben liked the sound of that. “Are you going to tell him the dress twinkled at you?”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “I can see the humorous side.”

  She squared her shoulders and smoothed the front of the wedding gown. “I just hope the joke isn’t on me.

  SARA DIDN’T BOTHER to knock. She simply opened the door and breezed into the kitchen like a hurricane heading for shore. “Hello, Arthur.” She addressed the scowling butler in a pleasant, don’t-mess-with-me tone. “This is Ben. He’ll be in charge of the bar this evening. He needs something else to wear. Would you be so kind as to find something suitable for him, please?”

  A fly under a microscope couldn’t have come under closer scrutiny. Ben full
y expected the butler to take a magnifying glass from his pocket and check for dirt behind his ears. “If you’ll pardon my saying so, Miss Gunnerson, it would be simpler to outfit the Rockettes.”

  “Oh, but not nearly as much fun.” Ben defended his dignity and his camouflage vest. “I’ve been told my high kick is a wonder to behold.”

  Arthur’s glower was a beauty. “I’m certain it is a spectacle. However—”

  “Come on, Arthur, be a sport.” Sara rushed to interrupt. “I know you can dig up something for him. You’re a genius with fashion.”

  The dour expression softened a degree and then he took a second look at Sara. “I hope you don’t expect me to dig up something for you, too. Genius has its limits.”

  A slight stiffening of her posture was her only perceptible sign of tension, and Ben wasn’t sure he would have noticed if he hadn’t been watching for it. “I don’t expect you to tax your creativity for me, Arthur. Where’s DeeNee?”

  “Miss DeeNee went home to change for the party.” Arthur’s gaze ran disparagingly over the wedding gown, making the clear implication that Sara should have done the same.

  “How long ago did she leave?”

  “Twenty, possibly thirty minutes ago.”

  “She’s going to be late for the party,” Ben said for Sara’s benefit. “But then, it might be worth it to arrive properly dressed.”

  Sara smiled testily. “I’ll call her while you’re changing into something else.”

  “You’re sure I can’t just wear my own duds?”

  “Not in this house,” Arthur said crisply. “Those duds would have to be taken into the next county before I would feel comfortable burying them.” Turning on his heel he walked, stiff and starched, to the kitchen stairway. “If you will follow me, G.I. Joe…”

  Ben raised his eyebrows and fell into step behind the butler. “I like you, Art. You can call me G. And, strictly as a matter of information, the salesman at the Military Surplus Store assured me these pants were worn by General Schwartzkopf, himself. I wouldn’t put on just any pair of dungarees to come to a swank party like this, you know.”