This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First edition published by St. Martin’s Paperbacks
“Reservations,” The Honeymoon Suite anthology
Copyright © 1995 by Jennifer Blake
Second edition by Steel Magnolia Press, 2012
Praise for the Author
“Jennifer Blake…a master story teller.”
~Long and Short of It Reviews
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“Jennifer Blake is a veteran of the romance novel industry, and it shows. She definitely knows how to write a…romance!”
~Reader to Reader.com
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“Blake’s writing style remains the standard in historic romance; lyrical, effortless and a delight to readers who savor the subtlety of prose.”
~Amazon.com
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“…a master writer.”
~Harriet Klausner
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“Ms. Blake’s storytelling brush paints a picture for the mind’s eye that is both strikingly clear and true to life…truly a Master of her craft.”
~A Romance Review
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“I look forward, as always, to further creations by this wonderful author.”
~Genre Go Round Reviews
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“She builds a strong background, creates three-dimensional characters and weaves sexual tension into a lively love story.”
~RT Book Reviews Magazine, 4.5 Stars Review
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“The prose is like butter, and it is very hard to stop reading! I loved the descriptions and the skill Blake has to bring her reader into this medieval world.”
~Heather Hiestand
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“Each of her carefully researched novels evokes a long-ago time so beautifully that you are swept up into every detail of her memorable story.
~RT Book Reviews
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“Blake…has rightly earned the admiration and respect of her readers. They know there is a world of enjoyment waiting within the pages of her books.”
~A Romance Review
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“Jennifer Blake is a beloved writer of romance—the pride and care she takes in her creations shines through.”
~Romance Reviews Today
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“…another satisfying read by the Incomparable, Jennifer Blake”
~A Romance Review
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:: Chapter One ::
The knock that fell on the door of the honeymoon suite was firm and commanding. Gina Madison swung toward the sound with her nerves rattling like Mexican jumping beans.
She was alone and not expecting company. It had been at least a half hour since Chad, the breezy, fresh-faced bellman, had deposited her suitcase and whistled himself from the rooms. She had put out the Do Not Disturb sign the minute the door closed behind him.
No person with any decency would ignore the message on the doorknob sign. That meant it was probably her ex-fiancé waiting outside in the hall.
Gina turned back to her contemplation of the Dallas skyline which lay before her, half-hidden in the gray-blue haze of distance and June twilight. Giving her chin a defiant tilt, she willed herself to relax while she enjoyed the last rays of sunset glinting across the fourth floor balcony where she stood. She was not going to open the door. Bradley Dillman could wait out in the hall all night. Or forever.
Her former fiancé just wanted to snoop; she would bet her life on it. He didn’t believe she could possibly be tucked into the honeymoon suite of the Glass Garden Hotel with a substitute for his own conceited self. That kind of thing was his game.
He was right, of course. She had no groom.
Oh, but how she wished she did. She would dearly love to be able to flaunt a drop-dead-handsome, outrageously sexy new husband in front of Bradley. How grand it would be to have someone with her for the next week, someone to watch her with love and joy in his face, to reach out and touch her as if he couldn’t keep his hands off her. That would show Bradley a thing or two.
Depression welled up inside Gina, and she clasped her arms around her waist. The loving closeness of marriage, the warm affection and sweet, unending desire had been a major attraction for her when she thought of being married. She had looked forward to it with bone-deep yearning. Now it was gone. She was beginning to think she missed its promise more than she missed Bradley-the-Skunk.
It was the doorbell for the suite that pealed out a summons next, playing the first bars of “Lara’s Theme” from Dr. Zhivago, of all things. The music lingered in the air as if the button had been pressed with extra strength.
Bradley did not give up easily.
In fact, her ex-fiancé was perfectly capable of camping outside her door until the place fell down around his ears. Or else he might call on the hotel staff for a pass key, pretending he thought she was in trouble inside. She wouldn’t put anything past him; he was addicted to having his own way. It was one of the things about him that had always bothered her.
Once more the bell pealed out its tune. With a sharp exclamation, Gina turned and marched through the open French doors into the sitting room. Crossing the foyer to the suite’s outer door, she applied her eye to the peephole.
She caught her breath. The man standing outside was not Bradley. No, not by a long shot.
This guy was taller by a good six inches, and his wide shoulders strained the seams of his faded chambray shirt in a way her ex-fiancé had never come close to matching. His hair gleamed silver-blond instead of Bradley’s nondescript and thinning brown, and his skin was glazed with the rich bronze that came from healthy outdoor labor. The blue of his eyes was as fathomless as a cobalt sea, a tint both darker and richer than Bradley’s pale aqua.
The man outside the door was, in fact, a knock-them-dead gorgeous hunk. A hunk who appeared tired, grimy, and in no mood to wait for anything or anybody. A hunk who was about to give the doorbell a knockout punch.
Pure instinct made Gina reach for the handle and open the door a few inches. She saw now that the man, confident in his poise, was wearing stained jeans and rough work boots that her ex-fiancé would not have touched with a ten-foot pole. Jeans and boots that marked him as a true Texas cowboy.
“Yes?” she asked, as she made certain the safety latch remained fastened.
“Eugenia Madison?”
She gave a wary nod. The more formal version of her name appeared only on her birth certificate and driver’s license. How had this man come by it?
“Evening, ma’am. I’m Race Bannister, and I understand you’re in need of a groom.”
Gina blinked, stunned by both the effect of a smile on the man’s strong, classical features and what he had said. As he reached into his shirt pocket for a business card and then handed it through the crack of the door, she accepted it automatically.
Rent-A-Gent.
The name was emblazoned in bold letters on the thick white paper. In the lower left-hand corner was the tiny silhouette of a gentleman in a tailcoat bowing low, sweeping off his top hat while holding a cane under one arm. In the upper right corner was a street address and phone number. Dead center was the business name. Underneath was a line of explanation: Model and Escort Agency.
This Race Bannister was a male escort.
“I think there’s some mistake.” The words were cool as she pushed the card back toward him.
Race made no move to take the piece of white cardboard. Voice quiet, he said, “No mistake, ma’am. The contact was made by a third party. They indicated you needed someone to escort you to dinner and make a fuss over yo
u to throw some guy off track who’s been giving you a hard time. The fee has already been paid. I’m your man.”
Her man. The words ignited an odd, glowing warmth around her heart—one that threatened to spread.
This would not do. No, not at all. Logic was what she needed here.
Diane, she thought with relief; it had to be Diane who had sent him. Her friend who lived in the apartment next door to her own was the single person in the world who knew Gina was checking into the hotel and the only one she’d spoken to after Bradley called to say he was getting married to someone else and wanted the suite still reserved in her name. Still, Diane had been more than a little distracted at the time; their conversation had been interrupted often as she scolded her five-year-old son Corey for playing with her new toy-size camcorder. That her friend had even heard her as she laughed and moaned over her stupidity in telling Bradley she had a use for the suite herself was a surprise. That Diane had actually sent the rent-a-groom she had wished for so fervently at the time was nothing short of amazing.
It was also the last thing Gina would have expected. She had only known Diane a few months since moving in, but she’d thought her neighbor level-headed and practical beyond most. More than that, she’d been sure Diane understood she was only kidding.
“I’m sorry,” Gina said in some embarrassment to the man on the other side of the door. “But I really don’t think I need you—need your services.”
“Neither do I.” He flashed a wry glance before his gaze moved from the burnt-sienna brown of her eyes to the smooth oval of her face, then brushed over the shining autumn bronze of her hair and down her slender shape. “An attractive woman like you would never need a hired escort under normal circumstances. But there’s a first time for everything.”
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I just—”
He lifted a hand to halt her refusal. “If it’s me personally that’s bothering you, please don’t make up your mind just yet. I know I look rough, but I came straight from the ranch; what you see isn’t necessarily what you get. I brought a tux and a few other things with me. If I could use your bathroom for a quick shower, you’ll see I clean up fairly decent.”
She could just imagine. Seizing on the one word he had spoken that was not loaded, she asked, “Ranch?”
His smile was immediate. “That’s my real line of work. Jobs like this help pay the vet bills.”
Staring down at the card she still held, Gina gave the idea of hiring this cowboy two whole seconds of serious thought. Then she shook her head. “I hate to do you out of a job, but I don’t think it would work.”
“It’s just a single evening, not a lifetime commitment.” His voice dropped to a note of husky persuasion as he braced a hand on the door frame and leaned closer. “I don’t bite, I promise. I’m no sex fiend or axe murderer. You’ll be safer than at a Sunday morning church service. We’ll have dinner at the Terrace downstairs, talk a little, get to know each other. Afterward, maybe we’ll dance or stroll around the Glass Garden. I don’t say it will be a dream date, but it should be pleasant. At least, I know it would be for me.”
He was good at the charm stuff, she had to give him that; the sincerity in his voice was totally convincing. Moreover, the evening he had outlined sounded much better than the one she’d planned, which included ordering room service and going to bed with a murder mystery. And she would dearly love to see the look on Bradley’s face if he should catch sight of her with this outstandingly handsome male model.
Still, Gina hesitated. The falseness of the whole thing bothered her. On top of that was the expense, a major consideration to her frugal accountant’s soul. Diane might have made the arrangement, but she couldn’t let her friend actually foot the bill.
Down the hall and around the corner there came the discreet chime that announced the arrival of the elevator on this floor of the West Tower. Race Bannister glanced in that direction then swung back to her with some urgency. “When I passed the registration desk down below, there was a man and woman checking into the Emerald suite next door. I’m not sure it’s the guy giving you problems, but the name sounded about right. You want to take this up inside, just in case?”
Gina reached quickly to release the brass safety latch and pull the door wide. Race picked up the black duffel and suit bag at his feet then stepped smoothly into the suite’s foyer. She shut the door and turned to face him.
Race was standing in the middle of the floor with a stunned expression on his face as he took in the pink marble under his feet, the mirrored walls, and the luxuriant fern on an antique brass stand that filled one corner. He eyed the bronze bust of Mitsy Packard, the lady for whom the enormous conservatory-atrium that gave the Glass Garden Hotel its name had originally been built. Then he cast an eye toward the Victorian rose-bower of a sitting room, with its wallpaper on which flowers bloomed in profusion. He scanned the flowering chintz, rococo extravagance of gilded picture frames, the carved wood, porcelain clocks and fringed cushions.
“Good Lord.” The comment was as stunned as his face.
“It’s supposed to be romantic.”
“Right.” The word was laconic, but the glance that went with it carried a sudden spark of interest.
“I’ve heard about this suite for years,” she said defensively, “read about it in Bride’s magazine—and also about the hotel built by a tough cattle and oil millionaire for his fragile flower of a wife. I always wanted to spend my honeymoon here.”
Race studied her while warm appreciation gathered in his cobalt eyes. “Yes, and I’ll bet you picked out one of those old-fashioned nightgowns to match the place, didn’t you? White silk, maybe, and down to your ankles? Ruffles and lace? About a thousand buttons somebody should have the fun of opening one by one.” He smiled with a slow shake of his head. “The guy who disappointed you must be a terminal idiot.”
She could get used to the way this man thought. He was right, of course. He knew it, too, and maybe guessed at the whole waiting-for-the-wedding-night romantic notion that went with it. That was plain from the way his grin widened as he watched the flush that climbed to her hairline.
She cleared her throat. “Look, I—”
“No, you look,” he interrupted, leaning to put his bags down before he straightened and put his hands on his hips. “This is not a big deal. I’m here, you’re here, and it’s just a few hours out of our lives. We’ll have a good time showing off for the idiot’s benefit, then I disappear. Mission accomplished. You can spend the rest of your week holed up in here letting empty room service trays pile up outside the door.”
“But I’ve never done anything like this before.” She winced and closed her eyes immediately as she realized how that sounded.
“I didn’t think you made a habit of it,” he drawled with a wicked undercurrent of suppressed humor.
“What I meant to say is, this isn’t the kind of thing I would ever consider in my wildest—” She stopped as she recognized she was making matters worse.
“So try it for a change. Live dangerously. Step out and do something a little reckless—or maybe a lot reckless.” His voice dropped to a lower note. “Who knows? You might enjoy it.”
“I don’t think that’s likely. I dislike jumped-up decisions or awkward situations. When I do something, I want it planned and organized down to the last detail.”
“Like your wedding? Not to mention your honeymoon?” There was a shadow of sympathy in the dark blue of his eyes but no relenting in his voice.
Her embarrassment shifted to resentment. “What can you possibly know about it?”
“I know you made reservations for this suite in your name, on your personal credit card, then neglected to cancel it when you canceled the wedding. I know you wouldn’t give up the place to your former bridegroom when he had the nerve to get himself hitched to a new bride on your original wedding date. What I’m not sure about is whether you’re here now to spite him or only because you hate to let the suite go to
waste since you’ll have to pay for it anyway.”
“And it’s none of your business!” The words were so sharp they seemed to scrape her throat.
“No? Not even if I’m supposed to be helping you out of a fix?”
“I’m not in a—” Gina stopped as she saw what she was about to say was patently untrue. At the same time, her annoyance seemed to drain away before the quiet reason in his voice and in his eyes. “You must be good at what you do,” she said evenly. “You certainly have the gall for it.”
He lifted a gold-dusted brow. “I’m not afraid of taking a chance for something I want, if that’s what you mean.”
The Rent-A-Groom Page 1