The Fifty-Cent Groom

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  Arthur marched up the stairs and Ben stayed right on his hccls.

  “DEENEE.” Sara cupped her hand around the mouthpiece of the kitchen phone to prevent Annette and Clark—the husband and wife servers who were conspicuously eavesdropping—from overhearing the conversation. “Listen. I need a dress. Can you bring one for me?”

  “What happened to the black silk you told me about?”

  “A dog ate it.”

  DeeNee’s voice bubbled with mirth. “A canine with designer tastes. I can’t wait to hear the rest of this.”

  “Can you bring something?” Sara allowed desperation to creep into her voice. “And the sooner you can get here with it, the better.”

  “Actually, I was thinking about not coming back. You know how much I detest these boring affairs West insists upon calling parties. However, if you are running around my brother’s house with no clothes on, it might be worth the trip over. Are you?”

  Sara turned her back to Annette, who was easing closer under the guise of looking for another serving tray. “Am I what?” she whispered.

  “Running naked in West’s house.”

  “Of course not,” Sara’s voice came up to full volume. “I just need something to wear.”

  “What’s wrong with what you have on? If you’re not naked, you must be wearing something.” DeeNee, like West, could be tenacious to the point of annihilation.

  Sara turned again and reduced her tone to a hoarse whisper. “I’m wearing a wedding gown.”

  “What? Talk louder. I can’t hear you.”

  She gave up on discretion. “I said, I’m wearing a wedding gown.” Something Annette had, undoubtedly, figured out for herself anyway.

  There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. “Is there going to be a wedding?”

  “No. I put this dress on by accident and—”

  DeeNee’s laughter came through loud and clear. “You don’t do anything by accident, Sara. This is some kind of practical joke, isn’t it? Some wonderful little plan you have to bring my big, stiff-necked brother to his knees, right?”

  “Just bring anything you think will fit me and get here as fast as you can.” Slamming the phone into the cradle, she turned to face the curious, expectant stares of Clark and Annette.

  “THERE IS NO WAY to make these fit.” Ben thought it should be obvious that his thirty-four-inch waist was not going to squeeze into Arthur’s size thirty-one trousers. “And my shoes have to be twelves. I cannot wear anything smaller. No matter how many times you assure me I can.”

  The butler looked unimpressed. “I have done as requested and found you something appropriate to wear. It is entirely your choice to wear it or not.”

  “Good. I’ll borrow this shirt, that bow tie and those suspenders.” He pointed out his choices from the collection in Arthur’s closet. “But I’ll keep my pants on.”

  It was clear that Arthur wasn’t big on compromise. “That, of course, is your decision. However, I doubt Mr. West will consider it good judgment.”

  “I’ll stay behind the bar, and he’ll never know whether or not I’m wearing any pants.”

  A slight breach occurred in the butler’s stern facade, the faint hint of a smile. “As you wish.” Arthur picked out the selected items and handed them to Ben. “If I may say so, sir, you have expensive taste in accessories. The tie is a D’Lur original.”

  Ben looped the ends of the tie around his neck. “I know, and as I’m sure you’re aware, not just any bow tie would complement these dungarees.” He pushed one arm through the sleeve of the starched white shirt taken fresh from the butler’s vast collection of starched white shirts, heard the rip of a seam and looked at the damage before turning to Arthur with an apologetic shrug. “Maybe he won’t notice that I’m not wearing a shirt, either.”

  Like a schoolmaster weary of dealing with a difficult student, the butler held out his hand for the torn garment. “I will get a larger shirt for you from Mr. West’s wardrobe. Kindly wait here.”

  Ben kindly waited.

  “I’LL PARK IT MYSELF, thanks.” DeeNee Ridgeman dismissed the valet with a wave of her hand and sped past a row of parked cars to the rear of the house. She pulled up beside the At Your Service van, braked and released the clutch all in one continuous and practiced routine. “We’re back where we started, Brody,” she said to the black-faced pug in the passenger seat. “At least we know the food will be good, huh?” She rubbed the dog’s ear. “I promise, though, that if this party is as dull as the last one, you won’t have to attend any more for the rest of the summer.”

  The pug wheezed and licked her hand with his long, pink tongue.

  “Let’s go see what that silly Sara has up her sleeve, shall we?” DeeNee held out her arms and Brody jumped into them, licking her chin with roughly textured adoration. “Okay, okay.” She opened the car door and set the pug on the ground before frowning at her brother’s soaring modern Grecian and utterly pretentious residence. “This had better be worth the trip,” she muttered.

  Agreement came from behind her in an unexpected and friendly bark. DeeNee glanced over her shoulder and into the lustrous, hopeful eyes of a black Labrador retriever. “Hello there,” she said. “What are you doing in Sara’s van?”

  The dog wagged from one end to the other.

  With an easy motion and an easier smile, DeeNee stepped out of her low-slung sports car and moved closer to the window of the van. Placing her palm against the glass, she smiled when the Lab pushed its nose against the other side in response. “You look too intelligent to eat a nasty old dress.”

  Three soft barks clearly indicated a plea of innocent, a willingness to be friends and a request for release. DeeNee didn’t have to think twice. “You want out of there, don’t you? It’s too hot to be locked up in a stuffy old van, no matter what crime you committed.” She patted the glass, then moved to the back and tried the door. It opened with one pull, and the dog jumped down, her tail swaying like a metronome, rhythmically delighted to be paroled. “Hello.” DeeNee stroked the dog’s head and scratched under the noble chin. “Aren’t you a sweetheart,” she murmured. “Brody, where did you go? Come back here and meet our new friend.”

  The pug’s snuffle preceded his stroll around the van, and he pranced right up to the new arrival. In moments, the dogs had sniffed, postured and made peace. They took off in a rambling run. “Stay in Uncle West’s yard,” she called after them, knowing there was no way over, under or through the iron bars and brick walls that sectioned off the property from the surrounding neighborhood. West was adamant about security, and while DeeNee didn’t think he had to be quite so paranoid, she liked being able to turn Brody loose without having to supervise his every move. Her brother, she knew, wished she would leave the pug at home.

  Hoping against hope she wasn’t about to waste yet another perfectly good evening, she walked across the terrace and approached the kitchen door.

  SARA DUSTED HER HANDS and tried to look as if she had her life under control. “Well,” she said. “It looks like everything is ready. I don’t know what I’d do without the two of you.”

  Annette and Clark nodded a polite thank-you, but Sara could feel their curiosity pressing her against the wall, and she answered with a fading smile. Whatever had possessed her to put on this wedding dress? Why hadn’t she gone home to change when she had the chance? And where was DeeNee? “I, uh, think I’ll go upstairs and see how the bartender’s new clothes look.” She backed toward the kitchen stairs, stepped on the bridal train and almost tripped. She caught herself in time, though, and jerked the yards of satin up and out of her way. “Annette?” She tried to sound as if there was nothing out of the ordinary, as if she was accustomed to scooping up bridal trains before she walked up a flight of stairs. “Make sure there’s enough ice and napkins on the bar. And Clark, you could check on the, uh…oh, just think of something and go check on it.”

  Bunching the heavy satin in her fists, Sara headed up the stairs. She’d hardly t
urned the corner of the landing when she heard the swoosh of the swinging door opening from the dining room into the kitchen.

  “Has anyone seen Sara?”

  It was West’s voice, and she didn’t wait to hear what Clark or Annette answered. She fled up the stairs like a mouse scurrying at the first tinkle of the cat’s bell. At the top of the steps, a narrow hall led to a closed door, which she opened, taking care to be quiet as she slipped inside. She gathered the seemingly endless yards of satin around her, closed the door to within a fraction of latching and listened for the sound of approaching footsteps.

  “Hi.”

  Ben’s whisper warmed her ear and nearly startled Sara out of her skin. As she spun to face him, the door shut with an ominously loud click. “What are you doing in here?” she whispered.

  “Waiting for Arthur,” he whispered back. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Running from West.”

  “I thought you wanted him to catch you.”

  “Not in this dress.”

  “What happened to the idea that West will have to deal with your choice of party duds?”

  “So, okay, when push comes to shove, I’m a coward.”

  “Me, too.”

  Sara’s heartbeat skittered with the sudden, irrefutable awareness that not only was Ben bare-chested, but the nearness of his bare chest to her seemed to be causing some difficulty with her breathing. “What will I do if he comes up here?”

  The whisper had scarcely passed her lips when West called up the stairs. “Sara? Where are you?”

  Ben looked at the door. “I think he’s coming up here.”

  She looked at Ben. “I’m going to hide.”

  “Good plan. In the closet? Under the bed?”

  “The closet. I don’t think I can get this dress under the bed.”

  “Sara?” Footsteps thudded softly on the stairs. “Are you up here, Sara?”

  Ben moved to the closet and opened the door with a flourish. “Quick. In here.”

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she mumbled as she swept across the butler’s bedroom and into his closet. Ben pushed and pummeled the train in after her, then stepped in and closed them into a still, cloistered darkness just as West opened the outer door.

  “Sara?”

  “Mr. West?”

  “Arthur?”

  “Shh.” Sara put her finger to her lips even though it was black as sin inside the closet.

  “I didn’t say anything,” Ben whispered directly and very softly into her ear.

  Velvet couldn’t have been any softer, Sara thought with a tiny, treacherous shiver of attraction. “Shh,” was all she could manage to say as she tried not to think about how close his bare chest was to her now. Or how close she was to being discovered in a closet standing close to his bare chest.

  “I’m looking for Sara,” West’s voice explained on the other side of the closet door. “Have you seen her?”

  “She was in the kitchen earlier,” Arthur’s voice answered.

  “That maid woman said she came up here.”

  “Why would she do that, sir?”

  “I can’t imagine, but if you see her, tell her I’m looking for her.”

  Sara shifted her weight from one foot to the other…and bumped up against the unmistakable curve of Ben’s body in front of her. She could hear him breathing, feel their body heat mingling in the confined air of the closet. All right. So she’d known there was a physical attraction the moment she opened her eyes on the porch and met the sexy confidence in his. And now she knew that hiding in a closet with him was not conducive to clear thinking. However, since she operated on the theory that knowing was half the battle, she should be in good shape. The moment they were out of this forced togetherness, she’d forget all about this stifling longing to touch his chest…just touch it. She didn’t want to run her fingers across it or anything like that. A touch would suffice, just enough to confirm her suspicion that he was in prime physical condition.

  “Shall I look for her, sir?” Arthur asked.

  “No. She’ll turn up. This is one party she does not want to miss.” West’s voice turned away, then became stronger on the last two words as if he had turned back. “You should be at the door, Arthur. The guests will be arriving any moment, and I want you there to greet them.”

  “I’ll hang up this shirt and be right down.”

  “Good man.”

  The sound of the outer door closing carried into the closet, and Sara breathed a sigh of relief. West was leaving. And he hadn’t seen her. Thank heaven for small favors. The knob on the closet door turned with a small squeak.

  “Oh, and Arthur, I want you to check the—“ West was suddenly back in the room as the closet door began to open.

  Sara elbowed Ben out of the way and grabbed the knob. The door bounced shut.

  “What’s wrong with your closet?” West interrupted himself to ask.

  “The door appears to be stuck.” Arthur tugged on the doorknob, and Sara held on for dear life, creating a bumping match of door against doorframe.

  “That’s odd,” West said. “Let me give you a hand.”

  Her heart leaped to her throat. She was about to be discovered. In a closet. In a wedding dress. With a bare-chested man. Grasping the door with both hands, she braced for disaster.

  “Pull on the count of three, Arthur.”

  The pressure built.

  “One, two…”

  Ben’s arms slipped around her, on either side, and his hands closed over hers. In a split second, the odds shifted in her favor, and she leaned gratefully into his strength.

  “Three.”

  Their resistance held, and Sara allowed herself to appreciate the supple vitality in the muscular arms pressed against her sides.

  “Hmm. It does seem to be jammed, doesn’t it?” West’s voice snapped Sara out of her moment of inappropriate and lustful appreciation.

  “I will make arrangements to have someone fix it tomorrow,” Arthur said.

  Sara could feel West’s puzzled gaze on the door, could well imagine his frown. He had no tolerance for doors that jammed or anything that didn’t operate with smooth efficiency. When she realized Ben’s fingers were loosening their grip over hers, she caught his hand and placed it on the doorknob.

  Sure enough, West tried the door one more time. “Very odd,” he said.

  “I’ll take care of it.” Arthur’s voice faded as he walked away from the closet. A moment later, the outer door opened with a quiet whoosh. “What was it you wanted me to check, Mr. West?”

  “I’ve forgotten for the moment, Arthur.” West sounded distracted as he turned from the closet. “I’m certain you’ve already taken care of all the minor details, anyway. I’ll go downstairs with you. I should keep looking for Sara. I wanted to talk to her before the guests arrived, but I guess it will have to wait.”

  “I’m certain you’ll find her, sir.”

  Their voices ebbed, and when the bedroom door closed, the sound was reduced first to a low vibration and then to silence. Sara sagged in relief and slowly released her grip on the doorknob. Ben’s hands stayed over hers as she drew back, and when her hands rested against the lace and satin covering her waist, she found herself in the circle of his arms, her back pressed against his chest, her head resting beneath his chin.

  “Shh.” His whispered warning was the only sound in the darkness, his breath an echo of her own escalating awareness. She knew if she tried to move away, he would caution her to wait a little longer. She knew if she assured him West was gone, he would advise her to wait a little longer. She knew if she made the slightest protest, he would let her go…and she would wish she had waited a little longer.

  “I’m pretty sure we’re alone now.” She breathed out the words over a rush of internal protests. Her body liked the protective warmth of his wrapped around her, despite the meticulous intrusion of her better judgment. She barely knew Ben Northcross, and what she did know made her certain she d
id not want to get involved with him. That was the trouble with sexual attractions. They were so seldom discriminating in their choice, and almost never resulted in a good match outside of the bedroom…or closet. “We should probably get out of here,” she said.

  “No doubt about it,” he answered.

  “West is gone now and—” she lost her train of thought as he traced a fingertip along her neckline “—you’re not wearing a shirt.”

  “I like this dress. What do you suppose would happen if it twinkled at me?”

  That did it. Sara groped for the doorknob. “You’d get pixie dust in your eyes. Let’s go. I have things to do, and getting out of this dress is first on the list.”

  Ben reached past her and pushed open the door. “All right, pixie, let’s get to it.”

  Sara started through the doorway but had to stop and maneuver about half of the satin skirt out ahead of her before she could fit. “Unbutton me,” she said.

  “Haven’t we been through this already?”

  “Yes. Now do it again.”

  “You didn’t use the magic word.”

  “Ben, please.”

  “That isn’t the magic word. It’s twink—”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Okay. We’ll change the word to sparkle. Do you like that better?”

  “Just unbutton me and keep your sense of humor to yourself.”

  His fingers touched the back of her neck, and a shiver of heated response raced right down her spine. She pretended it was nerves.

  “What would you have said if Ridgeman had opened that door?” His tone was casual, light, with just the right touch of companionable curiosity to inspire a reply.

  “I don’t know,” she answered. “He wouldn’t have believed me no matter what I said. Not with you standing half naked behind me.”

  “Mmm, I hadn’t thought of that. And what’s worse, I’m wearing camouflage pants, so he might have surmised I wasn’t wearing anything at all and punched me in the nose.”

  “He might have surmised he could sue you for being in his closet.”