The Wedding Bargain

by Lee McKenzie

  She’d been fourteen, and she’d come home from school one afternoon to find her mother’s latest—a washed-up, unemployed drunk called Buzz—sprawled on the threadbare sofa, the TV remote in one hand, drinking beer straight from the can.

  “Where’s my mom?” she asked.

  He didn’t take his eyes off the TV. “Out.”

  That was helpful. Not. Jess slipped her backpack off her shoulders, pushed aside some dirty dishes on the kitchen table and set it down.

  “Wanna beer?” Buzz asked, laughing.

  Funny. “No, thanks.”

  He belched. “More for me.” Judging by the number of flattened cans strewn on the floor and coffee table, he’d already had more than enough.

  She debated whether to stay and clean up the kitchen, hide out in her room, or leave the apartment and come back later. If her mom wouldn’t be home for a while, she didn’t want to be stuck here with Buzz, but she didn’t particularly want to hang out in the rain, either. She hated the mall, but at least it would be warm and dry. Safe.

  Buzz heaved himself off the sofa and staggered into the kitchen. “Can you cook?” he asked.

  “No.” She started filling the sink with hot water and dirty dishes, her senses on full alert, and suddenly she was trapped between the counter and the disgusting mass of flab hanging over the top of Buzz’s pants. One arm snaked around her waist—the one with the tattoo of the naked woman on it. He pawed at her breast with one meaty hand and grabbed her crotch, hard, with the other. The smell of alcohol and body odor filled her nostrils and fear fed the swell of nausea that rose in her throat.

  Her survival instincts kicked in, big-time, crowding everything else out of her mind. This moron had a mean streak a mile long and easily outweighed her by 150 pounds, but this could not happen. She couldn’t let it.

  He pressed his erection against her rear end and fumbled with the zipper of her jeans, and she willed herself not to throw up. Oh, God. Do something! But trying to fight him off would not end well for her, she knew that.

  When you’re dealing with a drunk, you’ve got to keep your wits about you. That’s what Granddad always said.

  Use your head, she said to herself. Make. Him. Stop.

  She turned off the taps, struggling to breathe, telling herself not to scream.

  He yanked her jeans open and jammed a hand inside her panties.

  No! No way, you son of a bitch. She fought off the panic, forced herself to stay calm, and did her damnedest to adopt one of her mother’s sultry come-ons.

  “Hey, big boy.” Her chest was heaving, but she managed to keep her voice soft and low. “What’s your hurry? If it’s fun you want…”

  It worked. With an evil laugh, he backed off enough to let her turn around and face him. “Like mother, like daughter.” His sour breath assaulted her when he stuck his tongue in her mouth.

  She held her breath and squeezed her eyes shut.

  Up. Yours.

  She stroked the inside of his calf with the sole of her sneaker and pressed herself against the bulge in his pants, revulsion crawling over every inch of her skin like an army of ants.

  Either too drunk or too stupid to suspect anything, he widened his stance.

  She lowered her foot to the floor, braced herself against the counter and drove her knee into his crotch.

  Buzz staggered back, eyes bulging, and fell to the floor in a writhing fetal position.

  She grabbed her bag off the table and ran out of the apartment, leaving the disgusting scum lying in a pool of his own vomit. She never went back.

  “Jess?” Michael’s voice jolted her back to the present.

  Damn it. She’d let herself go to the one place she hated. She picked up her wineglass, but her hand was too shaky. She set it back on the table so she didn’t spill it.

  Michael immediately covered her hand with his. “Oh, Jess. Did he…?” But he stopped, as though he wasn’t sure what the question should be.

  “He kind of made an indecent proposal.” Her friends said she still had serious trust issues stemming from that incident. They were probably right. Much as she wanted to believe she had moved past that devastating day, it had changed who she was and thinking about it still made her feel like last week’s dirty laundry. “I said no.”

  Michael relaxed his grip on her hand, but didn’t remove it. She was glad for that.

  “Then I left and went to my granddad’s, and I stayed with him till I went to college.”

  “I hope you called the police.”

  “Granddad did, but since the guy hadn’t actually ‘done anything’ to me, it would have been my word against his and there was nothing they could do.”

  “The bastard.” At least that’s what it sounded like, but he said it so quietly she couldn’t be sure.

  “In some ways I’m lucky. If one of my mom’s boyfriends had tried that when I was younger, I might not have known what to do, how to say no, and mean it. At fourteen, it was hell no!” She smiled.

  He didn’t. “I have two sisters. If anything like that had ever happened to one of them, I would have—” He didn’t say any more, and he didn’t have to. He probably would have reacted the same way her grandfather had.

  “Your sisters are lucky to have had someone who’ll stand up for them. But…” She was going to say that many girls never reported these things, especially not to family members, and thought better of it. “I was lucky, too. My granddad was there for me and I didn’t have to go back.” She picked up her glass and drank a little more wine, wishing the whole subject had never come up. “This is really very good. So is the food, and this place…” She set the glass down and glanced around the room. “It’s classy, the food and wine are great, it has a fabulous view. Whatever you decide to do with the building on Folsom Street, it’s bound to be popular.”

  “Thanks.” He was looking thoughtful now, and she couldn’t be sure what he was thinking. She just hoped he’d stopped feeling sorry for her and her rotten childhood, and that he’d given up on the idea of turning her place into a wine bar, because that was never going to happen.

  Chapter Eight

  Michael pulled up in front of the Whiskey Sour and parked behind Jess’s Vespa. It was a cute little thing. He hoped he’d get to see her ride it sometime. She was already reaching for the door handle when he touched her arm. She swung to face him, eyes wary. She only had agreed to this evening because it was a business dinner. Things had almost gone south after he’d mentioned she should consider selling the bar, but he had salvaged the evening by letting that drop and getting her to open up about herself.

  His hand was still resting lightly on her arm. “I’m glad you agreed to have dinner with me tonight.”

  “Thanks for taking me to Morgan’s at the Wharf. The food was great.” She didn’t say she was glad to have spent the evening with him, but she didn’t move her arm away, either.

  “You’ve given me some good ideas for the new place. I appreciate it.”

  “Glad I could help.”

  He would rather not talk, especially if meant prolonging a mundane conversation. He’d wanted to kiss her when he’d watched her struggle with the strapless bridesmaid dress, when he saw her in the T-shirt, blue jeans and high-tops in the bar last week, and tonight he just plain old wanted to kiss her. Lexi was right. He wanted it all. Jess’s directness was challenging, her unpretentiousness was sexy, her real estate was exactly what he was in the market for.

  He now understood Jess’s self-consciousness and her preference for inconspicuous clothing. What he didn’t understand was how a mother could endanger her daughter by bringing abusive men into their lives. Jess hadn’t said much about what had happened to her, and she hadn’t had to. He’d watched her momentarily slip back into the past, and for those few seconds he knew she had gone to a bad place. If he wanted her to trust him, he had to move slowly.

  “We could do this again sometime.”

  Her wariness faded. “I hate to admit it, but we’ve alread
y exhausted everything I know about running a business.”

  He took her cynical self-evaluation as an encouraging sign and, not being one to miss an opportunity, he lightly ran his hand up her arm to her shoulder. “We haven’t exhausted everything I know.”

  “I didn’t ask for your advice.” She said it with the same tone she’d used when she declined his invitation to dance.

  “Fine. Just dinner, then.” He kept his hand moving until the nape of her neck was cradled in his palm, gently held her chin with the thumb and forefinger of his other hand and then he moved in.

  Her initial reluctance was evident in the firmness of her mouth. Undeterred, he gently worked her lips with his until they went soft. His body had the exact opposite reaction.

  She didn’t push him away—another good sign—and after a little light prodding from his tongue, her lips parted slightly. He took his time, testing her willingness to let him explore further.

  Her indecision was short-lived and when she joined in with a little tongue action of her own, his self-control faltered. In the space of a heartbeat his need accelerated from desperately wanting to kiss her to desperately wanting…her.

  She brought her hands up to his chest but didn’t apply any force, so he brought her closer, as close as two bucket seats and a stick shift would permit.

  Don’t rush her. It was good advice, and although the light touch of her fingertips on his neck made stopping almost impossible, he knew he had to. If he moved too fast, she’d bolt like a scared rabbit. Still, he took his time ending the kiss.

  “Wait here,” he whispered against the soft skin in front of her ear. “I’ll get the door for you and walk you inside.” Even in the dim light from the streetlamps, there was no mistaking the ragged rise and fall of her chest and her desire-darkened eyes. At this stage of a relationship, the best strategy was to leave them wanting more. Stopping now was the right thing to do. He brushed one last light kiss across her lips. This time he could live with doing the wrong thing, but there was no way Jess could.

  JESS STOOD INSIDE THE DOOR of the bar and watched Michael get back into that racy little car of his and drive away. As he’d asked, she had waited until he opened the door for her—even though letting a man do things like that wasn’t in her nature—and walked with him to the door of the bar. She’s wondered if he would come in, but didn’t want to ask, and he didn’t suggest it.

  Instead, he’d taken her hand and squeezed it. “I’ll call you.”

  Oh, please. Guys said that all the time, even when they had no intention of ever calling again.

  “I’ll call,” he’d repeated. He’d let go of her hand and tweaked her nose.

  Now, as she watched him drive away, she knew he would. Michael Morgan seemed like the kind of man who didn’t say things he didn’t mean. She moved inside and let the door swing shut. Eric was watching her. “How was your date?” he asked.

  Until five minutes ago, it hadn’t been a date. They really had talked business most of the time and even when the conversation had strayed to personal stuff, like why she’s left home at fourteen, he had seemed attentive only in a polite kind of way. And then that kiss. Holy crap. That had been a kiss to end a first date. Exactly the kind of kiss she’d imagined when he’d compared it to tasting wine for the first time.

  “It was good,” she said in reply to Eric’s question. “The dinner, I mean.”

  Eric was grinning. “Sister, I know exactly what you mean.”

  Was it that obvious that she had just been kissed? She peeked at herself in the mirror at the back of the bar. Her hair looked fine and her clothes were still on straight. Michael hadn’t even touched them and yet she felt as though she’d been ravished—in a good way, of course—and she hadn’t been anywhere near ready for the kiss to end.

  Eric slung an arm across her shoulders, the way he’d been doing since they were kids. “You should have let him take you back to your place instead of dropping you off here. You could have invited him up for a nightcap.”

  “My Vespa’s here, and all my other stuff.” She waved toward the office. “And I figured I’d help you close up.”

  “Gee, thanks. I’ve been rushed off my feet, as you can see.”

  Two tables were still occupied by a handful of patrons. “Did it get busy at all?”

  “Busier than usual.”

  “Any trouble with the plumbing?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “So let’s hear it. Did your hot date make you an offer you couldn’t refuse?”

  She knew what he meant, but her face still went warm. “You know, I was sure that’s what he was going to do, but he took me to look at the place he’s thinking about buying…” She paused and rolled her eyes. “Total disaster, but I guess anything’s possible when you’re loaded. Anyway, then he took me to his place at Fisherman’s Wharf and we drank wine and ate seafood and talked.”

  Eric gave her a knowing smile. “I knew it.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not the bar he’s after, darlin’. It’s you.”

  She’d like to believe that, especially after that kiss, but she couldn’t let that cloud her judgment. There was a good chance he was trying to soften her up—but there had been enough magic in his kiss for her to want to believe Eric might be right. She also had to consider the mysterious coincidence of the health inspector’s visit. Michael didn’t seem petty enough to do something like that—besides, it wasn’t the sort of thing that could force her to sell the Whiskey Sour—but someone had ratted her out. If Michael hadn’t done it, who had? And why?

  MICHAEL POURED HIMSELF a glass of wine, settled onto the sofa and turned on his laptop. It was late, but he had a few business matters to clear up and he’d sleep better knowing they’d been taken care of. He clicked on the report Lexi had sent earlier in the day and gave it another quick read. The Folsom Street building needed a lot of work, but his sister’s sketches of the proposed floor plan had exceeded even his expectations.

  He opened a new email and addressed it to her.

  Lexi,

  Great work, as always. Thanks for being so quick and thorough, but I’ll hold off on putting in an offer for as long as possible. Haven’t given up on the Whiskey Sour. I’ll work on the owner if you’ll continue looking into things at city hall. Appreciate your help.

  Michael

  If Jess was as cash-strapped as she claimed to be, it was no surprise that the bank wasn’t forthcoming with a loan. In theory, the bank could accept the building as collateral. In practice, a financial institution wouldn’t want to be stuck with a run-down old building if she defaulted on the loan. Not in this economy. Given her self-professed lack of business acumen, that scenario was entirely possible.

  Now he needed to come up with a good reason to see her again, although he had a hunch that if he simply called and invited her to dinner, she wouldn’t say no. He had hoped she’d be open to a good-night kiss, but he hadn’t expected her to be such a willing participant.

  Lexi’s warning ran through his mind. You’ve got a good shot at buying the building or at landing the girl, but there’s no way you’ll get both. He wanted one thing—a location for his next business venture.

  If you change your mind and decide you’d rather have the bartender, you should buy the building on Folsom Street.

  That wasn’t going to happen, although next time he saw Jess he would definitely work on getting her to let her hair down. Now he just had to make sure there was a next time.

  THE BAR HAD BEEN QUIET for a Saturday afternoon, but Jess was still looking forward to having Eric start his shift at six o’clock. Her friends were coming for drinks that evening and she was eager to join them. Rory and Mitch were back from their honeymoon, Nicola was bringing Jonathan, Paige had smoothed things out with Andy, and Maria and her husband, Tony, were driving over from Sausalito.

  Michael had called yesterday to thank her for all the advice she’d given him. She knew he wasn’t basing business decisions on anythi
ng she said but she was curious to find out if he’d given up on buying the Whiskey Sour, so she mustered the courage to extend what she hoped sounded like a casual invitation to join her and her friends. Michael had said he’d love to.

  Once again that created the quandary of what to wear, and she’d had to give herself several stern lectures about the pitfalls of dressing to please a man. Still, she wanted to look good. Okay, she’d kind of like to knock his socks off, but that wasn’t going to happen, so she’d settle for looking presentable. As soon as Eric arrived she would run home, have a quick shower and, with a little luck, piece together something decent to wear from her meager wardrobe.

  Eric arrived a little before six. He looked pale, except for the dark circles under his eyes. Even his gorgeous curls, which were usually primped and bouncy, looked limp.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she asked. “You look like hell.”

  He pointed to his neck. “Laryngitis,” he croaked. “You’re one to talk. What happened? Did you just get out of surgery?” He was looking at the front of her T-shirt.

  “Ha, ha. I had a run-in with a ketchup bottle.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “You sound like you should be home in bed. Why didn’t you call?”

  “Didn’t want to mess up your plans to hang with your friends.”

  This made a significant mess of her plans, but she sure didn’t expect the poor guy to work when he was sick. “Go home. I’ll manage.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll call your friend Aaron. If he can’t come in, I’ll manage on my own.” Aside from her friends, it likely wouldn’t be that busy anyway.

  Thank you. He mouthed the words without actually saying them.

  “Go. Feel better.” Soon. She gave him a gentle push toward the door. “Call me tomorrow and let me know how you’re doing.”

  She dug out Aaron’s phone number, dialed and got his voice mail. She left a message, even though he probably wouldn’t hear it till tomorrow morning.

  “Damn it.” Why hadn’t she asked Eric to stay for half an hour so she could run home and change her clothes? She could freshen up here in the ladies’ restroom, but it hadn’t occurred to her to bring extra clothes with her.