On The Way To A Wedding

by Ingrid Weaver

  “It’ll rot your teeth.”

  His smile grew. “Not so far. And despite what you might have heard, overindulgence doesn’t make you go blind.”

  She gave a startled laugh. “I haven’t heard that since I was a teenager.”

  “Yeah? I bet the subject wasn’t chocolate.”

  Lauren shook her head. “Nick, you’re impossible.”

  “No, just hungry.” He broke off a chunk of his doughnut and reached across the table to offer it to Lauren.

  She eyed the piece of icing-covered calories for a few seconds before she took it from his hand and popped it into her mouth. The sugar burst across her taste buds like one of Nick’s kisses.

  “Have you thought about what I said last night?” he asked.

  She nodded as she chewed. She swallowed, then removed the napkin from her lap and carefully wiped her lips. “You said we’d continue to work together. I agree with that. Our priorities haven’t altered.”

  “No, they haven’t.”

  “As for the thing... I mean, about what happened between us personally, I’m not going to be a hypocrite about it. I’ve already admitted I’m attracted to you. I’m just not sure I’m ready to do anything more about it.”

  He leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. “What about during our time off?”

  “Don’t rush me, Nick. I’ve managed just fine for six years. You can’t expect me to change simply because we’ve been thrown together like this and you happen to be hungry.”

  His smile faded. “If I thought for one second that it was one-sided, I’d leave you alone. But it’s not, Lauren. And if you want me to take it slow, I’ll try. Other than that, neither one of us wants any promises.”

  For a long minute he continued to look at her, his expression sober. Then he reached for the printout she’d passed to him earlier and started to read.

  The trail had been skillfully buried. It took most of the morning to wade through the layers, but eventually they had the address of a condominium that was in a building on the same block as the parking garage. It was officially owned by one of Duxbury’s subsidiary companies, which in turn leased it to another company. At the end of the chain was a business that as far as Lauren’s research showed had only one employee, Wanda Smith.

  Nick knew in his gut this was the break he’d been waiting for. It all fit. If Duxbury had been visiting his girlfriend the afternoon Joey had been killed, that would have put him in the right place at the right time. It would also explain the ease with which he’d put together that phony alibi—if cheating on his wife was a regular occurrence, he’d probably had flunkies like Kohl swear to countless fictitious meetings over the years.

  Wanda Smith wasn’t home when they visited her condominium, but thanks to Lauren’s cool, low-key persuasion, they’d learned from the building’s superintendent that she was a singer. And thanks to the information Lauren had compiled, they also learned that the nightclub where Wanda worked happened to be owned by another tangle of subsidiary companies that led back to Duxbury.

  Drumming his fingers on the dashboard, Nick glanced at Lauren’s profile as she drove through the midafternoon traffic. He was starting to depend more and more on her help. And the closer they worked together, the more difficult it was to concentrate on work.

  He liked to see her hair down like that. It fell in soft waves to her shoulders, framing her face in a sensual caress, making him remember the silky feel of it through his fingers. But he liked to see it twisted up on the back of her head, too. Hell, he’d still like it if she cut it short and dyed it red.

  Of course, she’d probably claim that she’d never consider doing anything so reckless or spontaneous. Before last night, he’d have probably agreed. But as he’d said, that kiss had changed everything.

  Angling his long legs into a more comfortable position, he leaned against the door, propping his elbow on the base of the window as he let his gaze move to her lips. He’d focused on her mouth more times than he could count today. Technically, all they had done was kiss, but he’d never known a kiss could be so... involving.

  He knew she had a hang-up about marriage. It was understandable, considering her childhood and that bastard who had left her at the altar. He wasn’t interested in talking her out of it, anyway, since he wasn’t about to risk another commitment like that again, either. They both knew their association was only temporary, and that was fine, too. So exactly what was it that he wanted?

  Unlike the other questions that plagued him lately, the answer to that one was easy. One night with her. To get her out of his system. To release all this restless energy she inspired. To take up the challenge she’d been offering from the moment they’d met. To see her lying naked on that cool green satin bedspread.

  Oh, yeah, he thought. If she had melted in his arms with just a kiss, what would happen if they made love?

  No, it wouldn’t be if they made love. It would be when.

  Groaning under his breath, he shifted on the seat again.

  “Is it your knee?” Lauren asked as she pulled to a stop at a red light.

  “No,” he muttered. The source of his discomfort was somewhere else entirely. It was his own fault, for letting his focus wander. Trying to force his thoughts back to the task at hand, he looked at the intersection they had reached. They were only a few minutes away from the Painted Pony, the nightclub where Wanda Smith worked.

  “Nick, I’ve been thinking about what we need to do.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he murmured. “So have I.”

  “And we might be better off using a direct approach.”

  “I did. You said it was too fast.”

  She drew in a sudden breath. “I’m talking about what we should do when we get to the Painted Pony.”

  “Right.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension that knotted his muscles. “Okay, what’s your idea?”

  “We have a ready-made cover story. I’m a journalist working on a story, and I want to interview Wanda. I’ll say I’m putting together a piece on local entertainers.”

  He considered it in silence for a moment. “She’ll tell Duxbury.”

  “It doesn’t matter. He’ll think it’s just coincidence, as long as I’m careful to be subtle with my questions.”

  “How do you explain the lack of a camera?”

  “I’m doing background interviews. I’ll say I’ll arrange for a taping later.”

  “Okay, sounds good. Where do I fit in?”

  “Well, we could say you’re my assistant.”

  He glanced down at his jeans. “Think anyone will buy it?”

  “Gord dresses casually all the time. Just put on that jacket I brought home yesterday.”

  Twisting around, he dug through the bag of props she’d left in the back seat until he found the tweed jacket she meant. He shrugged it on, then leaned against the door again and scratched the corner of his jaw.

  They had made some adjustments to the phony beard before they’d left the apartment, trimming it to make it look less disreputable, but it was still as itchy as ever. Lauren had talked him into adding a pair of glasses as an extra precaution against being recognized, and he’d eventually agreed, but he found the necessity annoying. Some of his colleagues thrived on changing personas and going deep undercover, but he’d always hated it. He’d be glad when this charade was over.

  But when it was over he’d no longer have any reason to keep staying with Lauren.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  Good question. They were making progress. The case was his priority, right? He should be happy. At least, as happy as a dead man could be. But every minute he spent with Lauren his body reminded him vividly that he was very much alive.

  “Nick?”

  “Nothing. Just impatient, I guess.”

  The Painted Pony was in an old brick building, flanked on one side by a sporting goods store and on the other by a travel agency. A blue awning arched over the pair of froste
d glass doors at the entrance, shadowing the already dim interior. Recorded music of some old show tune floated from speakers recessed into the ceiling and a deep blue carpet speckled with gold stars covered the floor. It was still early, so only a small scattering of customers occupied the tables and the velvet-covered stools at the bar.

  Lauren’s idea to pose as herself was a good one—the bowtied manager, no doubt sensing free publicity for his nightclub, was all smiles and affability as he ushered them past the stage that jutted into the main room. He led them down a narrow hall to a door decorated with a pink painted heart and knocked smartly. “Wanda? You have visitors.”

  A few minutes later, the door swung open. Nick had already decided it would be best to let Lauren do most of the talking, but one look at her face told him she had been struck speechless.

  Nick followed her gaze. On the wall directly in front of them was a life-size, full-color poster. According to the glittering letters across the top, the woman pictured there was Wanda Smith. And aside from a pair of scarlet high heels and a strategically placed ostrich feather, the smiling image of Wanda Smith was completely nude.

  Chapter 9

  Lauren had been prepared to dislike Wanda Smith. Considering what she now knew about Duxbury’s character, she’d expected any woman who associated with him to be thoroughly unpleasant. She’d been wrong.

  There was something very likable about this earthy, uninhibited woman. In her late thirties or early forties, she had long, layered hair that was bleached the color of brass. Although there were signs of hard living in the lines beside her eyes and mouth, her dark brown gaze was honest and direct, and at times her smile seemed touchingly childlike.

  “So you see, I got my first big break in St. Andrew’s Church choir,” Wanda said, her face moving into another ready smile. She crossed her legs, swinging her foot through the gap in the front of her feather-trimmed pink dressing gown. The high-heeled slipper that dangled from the tips of her toes was trimmed with feathers, too. It seemed to be her trademark fashion statement.

  “And after that?” Lauren prompted.

  “Well, that was when I met my first husband. I used to dance as well as sing back then, so Ted took me down to Vegas, said he knew some people who could get me into one of those shows there.” She extended her leg, turning her ankle to admire it, then sighed and let it drop. “I was too short for the chorus lines, so I took up stripping.”

  Lauren’s gaze went to the poster on the opposite wall. What Wanda lacked in height, she certainly made up for in her other dimensions. Voluptuous was the best way to describe her. Had it been a lack of self-esteem that had led her into allowing her body to be exploited that way, or had she been too young and innocent to know any better?

  “I looked great there, eh?” Wanda stated. “That was six years ago.”

  “You’re very pretty,” Lauren said.

  “That’s what my Dad always said. He said, ‘Wanda, it’s a good thing you got looks, ’cause you sure don’t have brains.’”

  The cruel comment had been spoken in the same matter-of-fact tone as everything else. Lauren felt her sympathy for this woman grow. “I’m sure he didn’t mean—”

  “Oh, sure, he did. He was a real bastard.” She recrossed her legs. “I don’t care. I was a double-D cup from the time I was thirteen, and I was good at stripping. It’s ’cause of this body that I didn’t need to do any of that stuff with live snakes or with those poles that are stuck into the stage.”

  Snakes and poles? Lauren gripped her pen more tightly. “When did you begin singing professionally?”

  “When Ted and I split and I moved back home. I gave up stripping for good when I got this job—it’s a real classy place, so all I have to do is sing. I always wanted to be a singer.”

  “And now you are.”

  She nodded, drawing in a deep breath that widened the gap in her robe. Without hesitation, she sang a few bars of a popular ballad in a soft, throaty contralto. Her voice held the same touching mixture of hard living and innocence that was reflected in her face.

  “That was lovely,” Lauren said when she had finished.

  “Thanks.” She glanced at Nick. “Did you like it?”

  Since Lauren and Wanda were occupying the room’s only chairs, Nick was leaning against the door, his arms crossed over his chest, his weight on his good leg. Although he’d managed to disguise his looks to the casual observer, he hadn’t been able to suppress the aura of masculinity that always surrounded him. Despite the glasses and gray beard, he was still an attractive man.

  At least, he was attractive to Lauren.

  Beneath his beard, his cheeks moved into a smile. “You sound as pretty as you look, Wanda.”

  Her earthy laughter filled the small dressing room. “Thank you, Mr. Sweeny.”

  Nick held on to his smile while Wanda chattered on, but he started to drum his fingers against his elbow. “I suppose a girl as pretty as you must have a dozen boyfriends,” he asked when she paused for a breath.

  Not subtle, Lauren thought, frowning when she caught Nick’s eye. He lifted a shoulder in an almost imperceptible shrug, then tapped lightly at the watch on his wrist.

  At the gesture, Lauren felt her pulse accelerate. He was right. They couldn’t afford to stay here much longer. There was no telling when Duxbury might show up. She dipped her head in agreement and looked back at Wanda.

  Evidently, Wanda had missed the silent byplay. She stroked her palm down the feather trim that floated over her bosom in a slow, sensual movement. “Not a dozen, just one.”

  “Lucky man,” he said.

  “Lucky Ducky,” she said, her ready smile returning. “That’s what I call him.”

  Ducky? Lauren thought. If there had been any doubt before, the nickname clinched it. She would have to tread carefully here, not let Wanda know the true aim of their interview. “How do you manage to balance your personal life with your singing career?” she asked.

  “Oh, my boyfriend’s really busy. He can’t get away to see me that often because of his job.”

  “That’s a shame,” Nick said. “What does he think of your singing? Does he come to all your shows?”

  “Oh, no, but he loves my singing. That’s how we met. He’s...” She hesitated, a shuttered look coming into her eyes. “He’s wonderful. I’m really the lucky one.” She looked at the clock over the door and uncrossed her legs to rise to her feet. “Shoot. I’ve got to get ready. Will you excuse me?”

  Nick’s gaze was riveted to the widening gap of Wanda’s robe. Lauren felt a sudden stab of...what? Impatience? Disgust? Or jealousy? Clearing her throat, she took out one of her business cards and wrote her home phone number on the back. “I’d like to continue this conversation some other time, Wanda. Would tomorrow be more convenient?”

  She pursed her lips, her brow furrowing. “Tomorrow? Um, how about next week?”

  “Do you have a rehearsal tomorrow?” Nick asked, continuing his scrutiny of her visible flesh.

  “No, I get Sundays off, but I’ll be, um, busy in the morning.”

  “We’ll be taping interviews in the afternoon with some of the other local singers I’m profiling,” Lauren improvised. “I wanted to get footage of everyone’s home as well as where they work. Could we come over with the camera crew in the afternoon, Wanda?”

  At the mention of the camera, Wanda’s brow cleared. “Hey, this is gonna be great for my career. Sure. I’ll be free by the afternoon.”

  “Wonderful. We’ll see you then.”

  “Don’t you need my address?”

  She smiled, hoping Wanda hadn’t noticed the inadvertent slip. “Oh, Mr. Sweeny takes care of those details. You can give it to him.”

  Nick pushed away from the door and walked over to Wanda. He shoved the scribbled address she gave him into his pocket, then paused to shake her hand. It didn’t appear to bother her that he took advantage of their height difference to stare down her cleavage.

  Lauren felt another stab that
was uncomfortably close to jealousy. What should it matter if Nick decided to ogle another woman? Someone like Wanda was probably more his type, anyway. Her straightforward sensuality would suit Nick, with his impatient fingers and his blunt way of speaking. So it wasn’t her concern.

  He finished his inspection of Wanda’s breasts and glanced at Lauren, catching her gaze. The expression in his eyes surprised her. She had seen desire there often enough by now to know that wasn’t what he was feeling. No, judging by that steely blue glint, and the tight line of his mouth, he was angry.

  Angry? Why would ogling a former stripper’s cleavage inspire anger?

  It wasn’t until Wanda walked them to the door and said goodbye that Lauren saw what Nick must have been studying. The feather trim of Wanda’s robe stirred in the draft from the hall. On the upper curve of her breast, standing out starkly against her creamy white skin, was the edge of an ugly blue bruise.

  “I’m going to get him,” Nick stated. He raked his fingers through his hair impatiently, then jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “He thinks he can get away with anything, but I’m going to bring him down.”

  Lauren watched him move restlessly across the living room. He’d been like this since they’d returned three hours ago, using physical activity to channel the energy that always simmered just below the surface, like a panther measuring the confines of his cage. With every day since the crash, his strength and his vitality had been steadily increasing. And each day the apartment had been steadily shrinking.

  “He’ll be at her place tomorrow,” he said. “That’s why she doesn’t want us over there in the morning.”

  “Probably.”

  His frustration was evident in the tension that corded the muscles in his arms and hardened his jaw. He kicked aside a crumpled wad of paper as he limped back to where she was sitting on the couch. “This is going to be tougher than I thought. Even if we can get Wanda to break Duxbury’s alibi, she probably won’t testify against him in court.”

  “She might eventually,” Lauren said.