The Rent-A-Groom

by Jennifer Blake

  “I can stand it this once.”

  “But things aren’t supposed to work this way.”

  “How do you know? Maybe it’s part of the deal; maybe I send you a bill later for all the extra services.”

  There was a lazy, half-insinuating tone in his voice that struck a note of caution in her mind. She drew back a little. “All of what extra services?”

  His eyes took on a silvery, slumberous glint while his smile deepened. “Whatever you please,” he said simply. “For you, there are no limits.”

  Did he mean what she thought? Her breath caught in her throat.

  No. No, he couldn’t have been indicating such a thing. That would be like saying he was a hustler, that he hired out as a—well, a gigolo was the polite term for it. She wouldn’t believe that. She just plain refused.

  Nevertheless, Dallas was a town with more than its share of wealthy widows—lonely older women who might be willing to pay for the attentions of an attractive, entertaining, virile man. Race Bannister could certainly command any price he chose if he decided to make a career for himself that way. What woman could resist an evening with him that included a passionate finale in a darkened bedroom like the one upstairs in the honeymoon suite?

  As he watched her face, his smile deepened. “My sweet Gina,” he said softly, “whatever are you thinking?”

  “Nothing!” She drew air into her lungs with a small gasp before repeating more quietly, “Nothing important.”

  He didn’t believe her; the narrowing of his eyes said so. But at least he had the decency not to call her on it.

  “Dancing was next on our agenda, I think,” he suggested in a deliberate change of subject. “Or maybe a walk around the garden. Which shall it be? It’s up to you. Lady’s choice.”

  The Terrace, where they had eaten, located on the lower level of the hotel’s East Tower, was dedicated to serious dining. It had a Steinway tucked away in one corner, where a pianist in black tie sometimes played show tunes and classical pieces as an aid to digestion, but there was no dance floor. Dancing, then, took place at the hotel’s other eating place, over beneath the West Tower. Montague’s, as it was called, catered to the steak-and-potatoes, hats-and-jeans, two-stepping crowd, with a live band featuring twin fiddles and electric guitars. The atmosphere there was lively, and the music was loud.

  To Gina’s mind, it was a little too much of both. She and Race in their evening clothes didn’t fit in. Though they wandered through, they kept right on going until they were on the patio outside.

  That cool, open space was an excellent compromise between the formal and informal. A night wind rattled the green-black leaves of the magnolias overhead and wafted the scents of gardenias and flowering tobacco that grew in raised beds. Beyond the paving of Mexican tiles lay the walkway leading to a small ornamental lake and the gazebo that centered it. Somewhere among the cypress trees and weeping willows that edged the water, a peacock cried in raucous shrillness, a counterpoint to the music drifting from inside.

  Among the shifting tree shadows cast on the patio by a high-riding moon, Race turned to her and held out his arms. It was a moment before Gina realized that it was only an invitation to dance.

  They moved together across the tile floor to a slow tune of aching nostalgia. Race hummed snatches of it in a rich baritone. He moved well to the music, which wasn’t surprising, all things considered. Gina almost wished he had been a little less smooth, a little less assured. A little less professional.

  All the same, it was necessary to keep reminding herself that he was holding her so near for the sake of appearances. That the way he gazed down at her, as if she were the most lovely thing he had ever seen, was just one of the tricks in his bag. That the firm circle of his arms was not meant to feel protective, nor was the taut musculature of his thighs moving against her intended to ignite the flare of response inside her.

  Of course, Bradley was nowhere around. As far as she knew, he was still inside stuffing himself. It was possible, however, for him to appear, and that was enough.

  The song playing was one she knew well. Called “The Dance,” it was a country-western paean to love that had been recorded and made popular by Garth Brooks. To chance the pain that could come of loving was a choice, according to the lyrics; the pain could be avoided, but only if you missed the dance of love itself.

  It came to Gina, as the evening wind blew around her and she breathed the hidden scents of the night while moving in Race Bannister’s arms, that this was one particular dance she was glad she had not missed. There was a subtle magic in it, a magic that ran swift and beguiling in her veins.

  She was alive, wonderfully alive, and she was whole within herself in spite of a near miss at the altar and Bradley’s betrayal. She had taken a wrong turn on the way to romance, but it was only a detour, not the end of the road. There was nothing wrong with her; she was eminently capable of feeling love and desire again. Someday, somewhere, she would find a man who was worthy of her trust and devotion, and he would love her in return.

  Race had given her that sense of confidence and hope by the simple act of being himself. In a few short hours, he had made her feel attractive again, had shown her that she could respond to the right man, at the right time and place. He could not know it, of course, and she didn’t mean to tell him. Still, she was grateful.

  But it could go no further. Seeing that it did not was something she must do for herself, from sheer self-protection. She was too vulnerable just now to risk an entanglement. Gratitude, however sincere, was no substitute for real caring.

  At the same time, it was difficult to believe that she could be so affected by a caressing manner and a handsome face; it seemed there had to be something more behind it. Or perhaps she only preferred to think so.

  Drawing back a little in his arms, she said, “You mentioned that a third party contacted you about this job, I think. Who was it?”

  “I didn’t get a name. The office took the call and passed the information on through my answering service.”

  Was he telling the truth? His face was open, he met her gaze without evasion, and yet she could not tell.

  “So you showed up at my hotel room? Isn’t that a little dangerous? I mean, what if it turns out to be somebody’s idea of a joke, and an irate husband meets you at the door with a gun?”

  “Then I’d do some fast talking, I expect. So far, it hasn’t happened.”

  She thought it likely he could take care of himself in any case; certainly she had no call to worry about him. Reverting to the first subject, she said, “Since the Rent-A-Gent office made the arrangements, they must have the name of whoever called on file. I imagine they would give it to you if you asked.”

  “Probably,” he agreed, his gaze resting on her lips, “But why should I bother?”

  “I’d like to know, even if you wouldn’t.”

  “You want to take all the mystery out of life,” he complained, humor shifting in his face. “There are some questions that should go unanswered.”

  “Not this one,” she said with determination. “I intend to find out exactly—”

  She got no further. One moment Race was moving with her to the music, the next he was sweeping her against his hard form. He hesitated a single instant, then bent his head and pressed his lips to hers.

  Shock rippled over her in a tingling wave. She stiffened against it with her lips parting in surprise. Then she was caught in a rushing moon-tide of fervent impressions. The surfaces of his mouth were smooth and vibrant upon hers, setting off a delicate pulsing between them. He tasted of sweet-tart cherries and the richness of cream and desire. The swirl of his tongue into her mouth was a heated invasion that changed to achingly deliberate exploration. Their breaths mingled, increasing in tempo. His hold tightened as he probed deeper.

  Then she felt a shuddering reflex run over him. Suddenly, she was free. He whipped away from her with lithe and dangerous grace, though he retained an arm around her as she swayed in the effo
rt to regain balance. Narrow-eyed, he faced the man who had approached from behind him.

  “Hey, now!” Bradley threw up his hands in a defensive gesture. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” Beside him, Sandra, Gina’s former friend and maid of honor, looked everywhere except at Gina.

  “What did you mean to do?” Race demanded. There was no compromise in his voice, no relaxation of his taut stance.

  “I just wanted to meet the man who managed to sweep Gina off her feet in two short weeks. My hat’s off to you, pal. We were engaged over a year and she never let me lay a hand on her in public—and hardly ever in private, come to think of it.”

  “Your loss,” Race said succinctly.

  Gina sent the man at her side a quick glance, her attention snared by an undertone of fierce dislike in his voice. His eyes were as hard as polished turquoise, his jaw taut. As he stared at Bradley, it almost seemed that the challenge and enmity stamped on his features was personal.

  Collecting her wits with an effort, she stumbled through the necessary introductions. At the same time, she puzzled over the fact that Bradley and Sandra had sneaked up behind them from the direction of the Terrace, the opposite direction from which they should have appeared. She had assumed that Race’s kiss had been a part of the act, brought on because he had seen Bradley coming. That could not be.

  Either Race had kissed her as part of the services he’d mentioned, or else he had reasons of his own. It would be foolish to assume it was the last, but she wished with sudden fervor that she could.

  There was another thing. Though Bradley did not appear happy at seeing her in Race’s arms, Gina herself didn’t care that he had discovered them. There was heady freedom in the knowledge, which was something else she owed the man standing next to her.

  Her voice was clear and cool as she turned to her former fiancé. “Tell me something, Bradley. Why in the world did you choose this hotel for your honeymoon?”

  He glanced at his companion before he shrugged. “Sandra remembered all the stuff you spouted about the special suite, so I called. When I found out your still held the reservation, I thought I might as well take it off your hands. You could have knocked me over with a feather when you said you meant to stay in it yourself.”

  His tone was a shade glib, making Gina wonder if there wasn’t more to it than he was telling. “Why not go somewhere else, then?”

  “I have as much right to be here as you do. Anyway, I was curious. Like I said, I wanted to see this new groom of yours.”

  He wanted to spy on her. Made reckless by the surge of anger, she gave him a blithe smile as she said, “Oh, Race and I aren’t married.”

  Bradley’s eyes bulged. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  “Not at all. Now I’m sure you’ll excuse us if we say good night.” She threaded her hand around Race’s arm, clasping it as she eased closer against his lean form. Lowering her voice to a more intimate note, she raised her gaze to his in limpid invitation. “I think I’ve danced enough, darling, don’t you? Isn’t it time we headed up to bed?”

  :: Chapter Four ::

  Darling…

  Race felt the shock of Gina’s endearment and the suggestion that went with it clear down to his heels. She was playing up; he knew that had to be it. Still, it took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to show his amazement.

  God above, but what would it be like for her to say those words and mean them? He would risk a lot to find out.

  “Good idea,” Bradley said. “My bride and I will walk along with you, if you don’t mind the company.”

  The man’s smile was affable, his manner suggestive of civilized acceptance of an awkward situation. Race didn’t believe it for a minute. The guy wasn’t the type.

  Gina’s ex-fiancé had a polished air that might appeal to some women. His brown hair was carefully barbered to suit his thin face, a skinny mustache made a winged shape under his nose, and his clothes were custom-made and expensive. Of medium height, his body shape had the artificial contours that came from working out instead of working for a living, and his tan was straight from a sun bed. To Race, it all added up to fake. His dislike for Bradley Dillman was instant.

  It was also mutual, he thought. Somewhere in the back of the ex-fiancé’s ice-blue eyes was a look that said he thought he could take Race Bannister. Yeah, well, he could try. Any time.

  And Race definitely did mind the company. He minded more than he could have imagined. At the same time, he recognized the advantage for himself in the situation. There was no way Gina could dismiss him at the door of her suite while the idiot and his bride tagged along with them, not and still pretend they were a couple. It might even be possible to parlay these peculiar circumstances into an invitation to stay the night.

  To start with, though, this meeting was a chance to ask a few pointed questions. He couldn’t forget that angle, no matter how easy it was becoming.

  Gina’s greeting for the new wife, Sandra, had been cool, he noted, which was not surprising, considering she was the Other Woman in the case. If the two women had been on closer terms, no doubt they would have taken up more of the conversational slack. Since they were not, he was left with room to maneuver. Turning with Gina, he strolled in the direction of the rear entrance to the Glass Garden. As the other two fell in beside them, he launched his attack with what he hoped was offhand casualness.

  “So, Dillman, what do you do for a living?”

  “This and that,” the other man answered in the same tone. “Few pizza franchises, one in Shreveport, others in Kilgore and Longview. Some import and export out of Houston. You?”

  “Beef cattle. A spread north of town.”

  “Prime acreage up there. Must be nice.” Dillman gave him a sharp glance.

  “Might be,” Race answered with a smile meant to be both disarming and deprecating, “if it ever pays its way.”

  “I’m sure,” Dillman said in dry tones.

  The other man didn’t buy the poor-mouth routine. Race didn’t mind. The family fortune hadn’t been based on beef cattle alone for a couple of generations now. The ranch still produced purebred Herefords, but was dedicated primarily to a rare breed of cattle from Britain that were solid white, had lyre-shaped horns, and weren’t for sale.

  Reaching for the heavy glass door into the garden, he held it for the others to enter. The quick, conspiratorial grin Gina gave him as Dillman and Sandra went on ahead sent a shaft of purest pleasure zinging through him. That tingling lodged just under his pants zipper, where it became a troublesome discomfort that warned of a tough night ahead. He drew a deep, silent breath and let it out with slow care.

  The water music of the fountain filled the soaring three-storied Glass Garden. Lights twinkled among the foliage and turned the spray from the cascading water to atomized diamonds. Hibiscus and impatiens glowed in broad, curving strips of color, while the white perfection of peace lilies waved like magic wands in the air currents wafting through the open space.

  On impulse, Race took the winding pathway that went through the center and past the fountain, instead of the faster passage around the outer rim. He recognized his need to prolong the evening, and didn’t even try to fight it. It would be convenient, however, to know how long he might have to keep up his act.

  Closing in on the Roman extravaganza of a fountain imported by the old cattle baron Packard, Race turned to Dillman, “You two here for the weekend, or are you making a week of it?”

  “Depends,” the other man replied. “We reserved for the weekend, but might extend that a day or two if we’re having a good time.”

  Gina and Sandra had moved ahead on the narrow path and were exchanging comments about the coins shining in the fountain’s basin. Gina reached for a small evening bag she carried. “It seems making a wish must be tradition,” she said with a smile. “We may as well give it a try.”

  Dillman, catching the comment, shot her a cynical glance. “It’s throwing your money away, you know. Must amount to a c
hunk of change, all the coins people like you drop in there. Nice extra for the hotel.”

  Race, seeing the light of enjoyment fade from Gina’s face, felt irritation rise inside him. “The money goes to a list of different charities,” he said in clipped tones.

  “Yeah, I’ll bet.” The other man gave a short, sarcastic laugh.

  Race wanted to nail Bradley Dillman right then and there. It startled him, just how much he wanted it.

  Coins were something Race never carried if he could help it; he had none in his pocket at the moment. It was a real shame. He just might have to change his ways.

  “Go ahead and make your wish,” he said, his voice quiet as he met Gina’s gaze. “We’ll wait.”

  “Never mind,” she answered as she turned to walk on. “I—I’m not in the mood anymore.”