Million-Dollar Bride

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  The driver’s door opened and a burly man dressed as a chauffeur stepped out. He leaned forward to converse with someone inside the limo, then closed the door with a single shove and walked quickly out of sight, toward the front of the boutique.

  A raindrop struck Eliza’s head dead center, dampening her hair encircled by the satin rosettes and lace veil. “Faint heart ne’er won fair lady,” she whispered. Then, with her free hand clasping the headpiece and her trapped hand clutching the bunched skirt, she ran for the limo and the opportunity fate had so thoughtfully provided.

  Chapter 2

  Mack wished he’d thought to request a decent bottle of Scotch. Though the rented limo came equipped with an assortment of liqueurs, there wasn’t a good Scotch among them. Pushing back the sleeve of his tux, he checked his watch. Ten of three. Too early for a drink. Too late now to avoid being late for the three-o’clock wedding. Canon in D was resounding in the halls of St. Pat’s at this very moment. Leanne was already there—had probably been there for hours-dressed and waiting, calm, composed and undaunted by the news that her bridegroom had yet to arrive.

  He leaned his head against the leather seat, knowing she would wait ten minutes or ten days for him to arrive at the altar. In one way or another, he supposed, she’d been waiting for him most of her life. Still, it was inexcusable of him to be late.

  The rain picked up its tempo with a random ping, ping-ping against the roof, and Mack wondered if most bridegrooms felt this same odd mix of resignation and resistance. Of course he wanted to get married. It was the right time for him to make such a commitment, and Leanne was the perfect choice as his wife. They knew the same people, liked the same activities and traveled in the same social circles. Her family was as conservative as his and every bit as proper. In many respects, she was better suited to bear the Cortland name than he was. His feeling of emotional doors slamming shut inside him had to be a normal, last-minute reaction. After all, they had been planning this wedding for nearly three years, and in an hour it would be over.

  Suddenly, the door jerked open and a bride scrambled into the seat across from him. Her backside landed at an awkward angle and her bare feet, with rosy-tipped toes, made a smooth arc in the air as she rolled and then settled into a more-or-less-upright position. She didn’t even pause for breath before she lunged for the door handle and, with a fussy rustle of ivory satin, yanked the layers of her skirt inside the car a mere second ahead of the slamming door. She held her left hand cradled close to her waist like a broken wing as she acknowledged him with a careless and fleeting glance. “Hello. This will only take a minute,” she said in a rush.

  Mack couldn’t decide how to respond. Should he ask the obvious—what was only going to take a minute? Or should he wait politely for her to leave? He leaned back against the leather seat and studied her, wondering whether she was running to a wedding or away from one.

  In her flustered condition, she was attractive…in a haphazard sort of way. Her long, dark hair was rumpled, as if it hadn’t been combed since she’d gotten out of bed, and the damp curls on top of her head skewed over, under and around the headpiece that looped her forehead. Her makeup was careless, maybe even nonexistent, and she didn’t look old enough to get a marriage license without her mother’s consent.

  His gaze dropped to the full, heavy thrust of her breasts beneath her bodice and he added a few years to his initial impression. Not that a few years either way mattered…because there was something about her that warned him to run like hell in any direction she wasn’t going.

  He watched with frank curiosity and waited for her to say something by way of explanation, but her whole focus was on smoothing the folds of her skirt and adjusting the position of her arm. She fussed with it continually, in a kind of frenzied self-control.

  “Are you all right?” he asked finally.

  “Not yet, but a minute either way could make the difference.”

  He frowned and studied the dark crown of hair ringed by the old-fashioned circlet of off-white roses, which was all he could see of her head. He ventured a guess. “Runaway bride?”

  “Million-dollar dress,” was her mumbled and unfathomable answer.

  “Is that a yes?”

  He suddenly found himself facing a pair of honest gray eyes that viewed him with startled distraction. “Look, I know this probably seems strange and all, but if I don’t get out of this dre—” Thick, straight lashes blinked up and her distraction vanished, replaced by a hesitant but dawning recognition. “Wait a minute. I know you…don’t I?”

  Was she trying to pick him up on the way to his own wedding? Or on the way to hers? “I don’t think so,” he said, in his best I’m-not-interested, better-luck-elsewhere tone.

  Her answering smile was friendly and unfazed. “Oh, yes, I do. I do know you.”

  “I sincerely doubt that we’ve ever met.” Actually, he was quite certain of it. He had a knack for avoiding trouble, and this woman—no matter how innocent distracted or otherwise occupied she looked—was trouble on the hoof. Bare hooves, in her case. “I don’t see how I could have forgotten you.”

  She wrinkled her nose in a charming display of candor. “Oh, don’t worry. People do it all the time. I guess I just kind of blend in with the wallpaper or something.”

  For her, blending into the background was clearly impossible, and he decided she expected him to contradict her. So he didn’t. “I have a good memory for faces.”

  She laughed, a natural, spontaneous sound that somehow enhanced his uneasiness. “Oh, faces.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “I’m not always good with faces, but I’d know that suit anywhere. Waist, thirty-four. Inseam, thirty-five. Coat, forty-six. Shirt, sixteen. Sleeves, thirty-four and a quarter. Shoes, eleven, D.” She smiled, pleased. “I can spot one of our tuxedos at forty paces.”

  “Our tuxedos? Do you work here—at the boutique?”

  Her smile vanished and her gaze dropped like a rock to her wrist. “Well, I did when I woke up this morning.”

  He told himself not to ask. He did not need to know.

  She told him anyway. “Let’s just say I think I’m on probation at the moment.”

  He looked purposefully at his watch. She bent her head and fussed with a button or something at her waist. It was hard to tell what she was doing, and whatever it was, he did not want to get involved.

  “You know, you literally saved my life by driving in here when you did.”

  This was trouble. He could feel it. “Merely a coincidence.” He wanted to avert any idea she might be forming that he had meant to rescue her. “My vest had a stain. The limousine driver’s inside the shop picking up a replacement right now.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Pageatt won’t like that.”

  “The stain or the limo driver?”

  “Whichever is uglier. She’s very particular about how things look.”

  “It’s only a small stain.”

  “Try explaining that to Mrs. P.” Her brow furrowed with worry as she plucked at the lace encircling her wrist. “Oh, drat! I just can’t get this untangled.”

  She lifted troubled gray eyes to his, and he steeled himself to resist their unspoken plea. Unfortunately, she didn’t leave it unspoken.

  “Could you…?” she asked. “Would you mind giving me a hand?”

  It was no wonder the Age of Chivalry had died, he thought. With a quiet sigh, he resigned himself to the inevitable and asked, “What seems to be the problem?”

  The sound of a siren wailed far down the street, and her head jerked up so fast that the headpiece slipped forward and settled on the bridge of her nose. She shoved it back to her hairline and swatted at the flutter of veil as she looked, wide-eyed, out the window, then back at him. “What problem?”

  “The one you’re having with your dress.”

  She followed his gaze to her wrist. “Oh, that. Yes. Well, I have no idea how this happened…but my sleeve is caught and I just can’t seem to get it un-caught.” She glanced out the darkl
y tinted side window. “Can anyone see in here?”

  His eyebrows went up. What the hell was keeping Chuck? “I don’t think so, no. Is someone…looking for you?”

  The headpiece rose a quarter inch on her furrowed brow. “Why would anyone be looking for me?”

  Her denial was too fast, her voice too high, clearly indicating that someone was looking for her—or ought to be. “I don’t know,” he said. “You seem a little distraught, that’s all.”

  The siren got louder, and she shot another anxious glance toward the window. “I’m not distraught. I’m just tangled up.”

  Not that he had much experience, but she certainly seemed to be acting like a runaway bride. “Is this a last-minute case of cold feet?”

  She was struggling with the button and the lace again and didn’t look up. “Cold feet, wet feet or webbed feet, any way you look at it, I’m a dead duck unless I can get this button undone in the next few seconds.”

  “Here.” He scooted forward on the seat and tried to figure out what was wrong with her wrist. He leaned forward and grasped her arm, seeing in an instant that she was, indeed, tangled up. He prepared to administer a quick jerk and break the connection between lace and button, but she slapped his hand.

  “Are you nuts?” Her wide gray eyes accused him of treason. “Do you know how much this dress cost?”

  “I thought you wanted to get free.”

  “I do, but not if you’re going to tear it.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Look, do you want my help or not?”

  “Yes, but…be careful,” she said. “If anything happens to this dress…”

  “You’re a dead duck, I know.” He changed seats and sat beside her. He turned her wrist carefully so he could get a closer look at the problem. Her fingers rested trustingly in his hand, and he felt an unex pected rush of protective warmth toward her. He ignored it. “There, I think I see the problem…. Yes, that’s it. Hold still….”

  Like a bat out of hell, a police car wheeled past the parking-lot entrance and squealed to a stop in front of the boutique. Eliza jerked forward and stared out the front windshield.

  “Sit still!” Mack commanded.

  “It’s the police,” she reported in rapid staccato. “Two of them. Getting out. Running toward the shop. Oh, dear.”

  “Why didn’t you sit still?” Exasperation flooded him. “Now look what you’ve done.”

  She turned to face him, then looked down at the strands of lace looped like a sailor’s knot around the button at her wrist, and now also wrapped around the button of his shirt cuff, just visible beneath his jacket sleeve. “How did that happen? I thought you were going to be careful.”

  He pursed his lips in a fierce grimace. “I’m the guy who was just sitting here, minding his own business. You barged in. You asked for help. All I asked you to do was to sit still.”

  “But the police are here.”

  “Good. Maybe they can get us untangled.”

  She looked nervously out the tinted window. “This is going to be really difficult to explain.”

  “What is there to explain? It’s obvious that we’re stuck!”

  “Yes, well, it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

  He’d had a feeling it would be. “Look, I’ll try to do this gently, but the only way to get out of this mess is to break the—”

  “We are not tearing so much as a thread of this dress.” She raised a pair of determined eyebrows and lifted her pert and pointed little chin. “There’s a way to do this without sacrificing the gown. I just haven’t thought of it yet.”

  “As soon as Chuck gets back out here, I have to leave for the church, so think fast.”

  Her sigh was tremulous and troubled, and Mack was suddenly, intensely, aware of their closeness and of her enticing scent—and of a nagging inclination to put his arm around her. Bad idea…even if his arm wasn’t tied up at the moment.

  “How much time do we have?” she asked.

  “He should be back any minute.”

  “No, I meant how long before your wedding?”

  He took a turn at glancing out the window. “Three minutes, more or less.”

  She bent her head over their hands, then snapped her gaze back to his. “Three minutes? Three minutes?”

  “You heard correctly.”

  “How can you be late for your own wedding?”

  “I’m not late. There’s still time.”

  “Oh, right. As if you could get to the church and down the aisle in three minutes. Two and a half by now.”

  “Wedding ceremonies always start late.”

  “No, they don’t.”

  “Yes, they very often do.”

  “I’ve been to dozens of weddings that didn’t start late.”

  “I’ve been to dozens that did.”

  Her lips tightened in denial. “Mine won’t.”

  “Would that be the wedding you’re running away from?”

  “What gave you that idea? Oh.” She plucked at the skirt with her free hand. “You think I’m a runaway bride because of the dress. But I’m not. I mean, I’m not a runaway bride. I just look like one because I tried on the dress and Mrs. P. came in and…well, it’s a long story. However, I assure you that when I do get married, my bridegroom will not be late for the ceremony.”

  He flexed his hand. “You can’t be sure of that.”

  “Yes, I can. I mean, this is the way I look at it. You’ve waited all your life to meet this one special person, right? So, why would you take even a remote chance on being late for the ceremony that means you can be with that person for the rest of your life? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “That isn’t the way I see it.”

  “I’ll bet she would agree with me.”

  “Who?”

  “Your fiancee.”

  “I assure you, the question won’t come up.”

  “You mean she’s not going to ask you why you’re late?”

  He stared at her and felt a spot of sympathy for whatever bridegroom eventually married this bride. “She won’t ask,” he said with finality.

  “Why would she marry someone she doesn’t care enough about to ask why he’s late for their wedding?”

  “She won’t ask.”

  “Will she be at all curious about me?”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Won’t she think it’s a little odd when you arrive at the church with me attached to your cuff?”

  That was a staggering thought. “No, no, no. That is definitely not going to happen. One way or another, we will sever this connection before then.”

  “I think we’d better, because I’m not sure I could explain this.”

  “Just get us untangled.”

  “I’m trying.” She poked at the thread with her fingernail. “I have to think about it, you know.”

  “I suggest you think a little faster.”

  She gave his wrist a sharp pinch. “Oh, sorry,” she murmured with obvious insincerity. “Let’s switch places.”

  “I fail to see how that will help.”

  Her eyes flashed her not-so-subtle annoyance. “Do you want to arrive at the altar sporting an extra bride as a cuff link?”

  “Do I look like an idiot?”

  “Then on the count of three, move your assets….

  One, two, three.” Clamping her free hand over his wrist to keep it steady, she pushed herself to her feet.

  Mack did the same and the two of them stood in the car, scrunched like Japanese lanterns while they shuffled around each other like two crawdads in a fish-bowl.

  “Wait! Go to your…left.”

  He eased to the left.

  “No, right! Go right.”

  He retraced his step and moved right, feeling the tension on his shirtsleeve increase. Maybe the damn thread would break on its own.

  “Stop! If we keep this up, the dress is going to tear for sure.”

  He let his gaze wander casually to hers, and knew by the tightening of he
r fingers against his wrist that she had read his mind. “Don’t even think about it,” she warned. “I have an idea. Now, you stand still and I’ll move around you….”

  Like a flamenco dancer with one arm tied to her waist, she eased to her left, turning, twisting, never taking her hand from its protective position, never so much as drawing a quivering breath of awareness. As for him, he was fighting a variety of insights…none of them appropriate for a man who was less than a half hour away from being a husband.

  “There! I think we did it.”

  His hopes mingled with a curious regret. “You got it untangled?”

  She frowned at him as if he hadn’t been paying attention. “We switched places,” she said. “That’s a start. Now, sit down. Easy…. Easy…. Careful…. Careful….”

  Coordinating their movements, they sat down, side by side and—as impossible as the idea had seemed a couple of minutes ago—closer together than before.

  “Now, let me look at this again….” Her head bent over the twisted fabric once more, and he noted the striking contrast of her dark hair against the ivory headpiece.

  “Uh-oh.”

  The rain cut loose, pounding the metal roof over his head in echoes of disaster. “Did you say…uh-oh?”

  “That’s not the worst thing I could say right now.”

  “What would the worst thing be?”

  She shook her head. “You don’t want to know.”

  He sucked in a calming breath and exhaled it slowly. “I’m sure you’re right,” he said. “I’m also sure you won’t like what I’m going to do now, so don’t watch.” With that brief warning, he jerked his hand free…except it didn’t come free. In fact, it barely moved. If anything, the restraint on his wrist felt stronger than before. “What in the hell is wrong with this?”

  He bent his head for a better look just as she bent hers, and their foreheads met with an audible whump.