The Rent-A-Groom

by Jennifer Blake

  To wake with a man around was a new experience. If this was the way it was going to be, she thought she might get used to it. Easily. Too easily.

  Something about the way he was watching her made her abruptly self-conscious. She glanced down at the front of her white silk gown, wondering if the material was more transparent than she had thought, if maybe the darker aureoles of her nipples were visible through the soft cloth. She could see nothing. Regardless, she crossed her arms over herself as best she could without being too obvious about it.

  At the same time, she could not help wondering what it would be like if the two of them really were honeymooning. How would it be to have him lounging at her feet in whatever he wore to sleep? What would happen if, when they finished their coffee, she shifted to stretch out beside him, reaching for him, pressing close? What would it be like to fit herself to the hard musculature of his body? Would he wrap his arms around her to pull her nearer before he pressed her down into the softness of the bed? How would it feel to know that all barriers between them had been set aside, that they had all day, all week, to make love?

  A warm and turgid longing flooded over her, cresting somewhere deep inside. Painful in its pressure, it threatened to swamp her good sense, never mind her better intentions. She held her breath against it, and against the ache of need for that kind of deep, enduring acceptance, that human connection.

  This would not do. It would not do at all.

  Clearing her throat, she said, “Is there some reason you’re so bright-eyed and busy this morning?”

  “Not exactly. Except I’ve already shocked the maid out of her pink socks, had a run-in with Bradley-the-idiot, and splashed half the water out of the hotel pool. I thought it was time to let you in on some of the fun.”

  She stared at him. “Come again?”

  He explained, and was so droll about it she couldn’t help laughing. She conquered her amusement by taking quick swallows of coffee. When he finished, she asked, “You think Bradley sent the maid in on purpose?”

  “What else? He sure didn’t see us going out.”

  “True.” She narrowed her eyes. “We really ought to retaliate.”

  “We could nail his door shut,” Race suggested hopefully.

  “The hotel might not appreciate the nail holes. But maybe we could send people to his room as he did ours, order towels and ice and a TV repairman. Or we could call room service and have a huge breakfast sent to them—Bradley doesn’t eat breakfast.”

  “You have a diabolical mind,” he said with a slow smile. “I love it. And it would be a great plan, except that your late groom and maid of honor are having lunch even as we speak.”

  “Lunch!”

  Irony crept into his eyes. “It is that time of day.”

  “You’re joking.” She gazed at him with her cup suspended halfway to her lips.

  “You must have needed the rest,” he said, tipping his head a little as he watched her.

  “Yes, I—must have.” That she had slept so soundly and long while he was close by was amazing. It seemed having him in the next room had made her feel more secure rather than less.

  “Overwork leads to sleep deprivation,” he suggested. “Ditto worrying. And stress. Depression. You have something on your mind lately? Other than a canceled wedding, I mean?”

  “Nothing special,” she answered, though she turned her gaze toward a table draped in ruffles and the window behind it, where daylight made a bright noon glow at the edges of the draperies.

  He was quiet a long moment, staring at nothing while he drank his coffee. Then his gaze focused on her once more. “So what’s on the agenda for the rest of the day? A leisurely brunch on the balcony? A walk around the lake? Golf? Shopping? Museums? You choose, and I’ll make the arrangements. Or the other way around. I’m easy.”

  So was she easy, or so it seemed, since she did not refuse immediately to go along with him. The agreement had been that he would stay the night to throw Bradley off the scent. Nothing had been said about the morning after, or the afternoon.

  Still, what were a few more hours after spending the night together? How much difference could it make?

  Race Bannister had kept his word; he had not tried anything during the night. If he wanted to forget that they had a deal, then so could she. For a little while. Just a little while longer.

  They ate on the balcony while sharing the Sunday paper. The warm breeze rustled the masses of ivy and the leaves of the potted shrubs in glazed pots that created islands of privacy along the open space. It lifted the edges of the pink linen tablecloth and brought the scent of new-mown grass drifting up from below. Sparrows winged to join them, hopping around under the table or perching hopefully on the railing. The food was delicious, the coffee perfect. Peace and tranquility and an odd sense of comfort flowed between them.

  Gina had not bothered to dress, but only thrown one of the hotel’s white terry-cloth courtesy robes on over her gown. She tried at first to keep it securely belted and closed over her chest and knees, but finally gave up the struggle. Once, she caught Race’s gaze resting on the lace and tiny pearl buttons revealed between her breasts as the heavy robe fell open. The smile he gave her then seemed lazy, almost sleepy, yet she glimpsed hypnotic intensity in its depths before his lashes flickered down to conceal it. He looked away, and did not make the same mistake again.

  Talk between them was sporadic and based mostly on bits and pieces culled from the paper. The easy comments were punctuated by long periods of silence broken only by the rustle of pages and the clink of a cup on a saucer.

  It was the Sunday comics, after they had pushed back their plates and were finishing the last of the coffee, which brought up the subject of cartoon movies. They fell into a mild argument about the effects of cartoon violence, with Gina maintaining that movies such as Beauty and the Beast or Aladdin were far better for kids than simplistic kick-and-slash shows with heroes like the Ninja Turtles. Race would not be convinced. While admitting the excellence of Disney productions, he claimed that the values of loyalty and cooperation portrayed in the turtle movies made up for their emphasis on action. Besides, he maintained, nobody ever stabbed the turtles in the back, and no giant tiger’s head opened up and swallowed them whole, as happened with Disney animation.

  Gina had to laugh and agree. At the same time, she was struck by his knowledge of children’s cartoon fare. The only reason she was familiar with the stories was because of Diane’s son Corey, a pint-sized genius with a passion for electronic gadgets who was usually watching some kid’s cartoon on his portable DVD player while Gina visited her friend. What excuse could a man like Race have? Unless he was married and had children?

  But no, he had said he was unattached. That didn’t make it the truth, of course; men had been known to lie about such things.

  As Gina thought of Corey and Diane, she realized with a start that she hadn’t phoned her friend again, as promised the night before. Diane would be frantic. It was a wonder she hadn’t called the police, or at least sent someone from hotel security to check on her.

  Gina set her section of the paper aside as she got to her feet. “Excuse me a second, if you don’t mind. I need to make a call.”

  Race nodded toward an extension of the suite’s phone half-hidden behind a pot of greenery. “There’s one over there.”

  “That’s all right. My cell is in the living room, and I’ll make a pit stop before I come back.” Before he could reply to that hasty improvisation, she opened the French door and stepped inside.

  Diane answered on the second ring. Gina rushed into her explanation since she was half-afraid she might have to cut her call short if Race decided to move back in from the balcony. Diane heard her out without interrupting. When Gina stopped speaking, a small silence fell.

  “Well,” her friend said finally, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Actually, I’m not so sure,” Gina answered on an uneven laugh, “but I don’t care. Race is so fine
, you wouldn’t believe it—even I don’t believe it. And you should have seen Bradley’s face when he met him! He was dumbstruck. I mean literally. And he sounded so two-faced. I don’t know what I ever saw in him.”

  “Praise be. At least some good seems to be coming of all this. But you won’t do anything silly like falling for this Race character, will you? I mean, you’ve had enough of men who aren’t exactly marriage material. The last thing you need is another one.”

  Gina couldn’t help a quick laugh. “How do you know Race wouldn’t make an excellent husband? Stranger things have happened.”

  “Don’t say that!” Diane’s tone was sharp. “You don’t know a thing about this person. I mean, a male model, for heaven’s sake!”

  “He’s more than that,” Gina protested. She went on to tell her friend about the ranch.

  “I don’t care if his spread covers half of Texas, it still doesn’t make him a good risk. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Oh, Diane, he’s a nice person, really he is.”

  “I’m sure his mother would be happy to hear you say so, but that doesn’t make it right. You should get rid of him, pronto.”

  “Well, I meant to, but we both seem to be at loose ends. It’s just one more afternoon.”

  Diane made a sound that was both disgruntled and despairing. “Well, if you won’t, you won’t. At least be careful.”

  “Diane,” Gina began, troubled by the other woman’s doubts and strictures.

  “I’ve got to go. Corey was saying something just now about hooking up my computer to the stereo speakers, and now he’s entirely too quiet. But you take care of yourself, you hear? And don’t believe a word this Race character has to say, because you can bet your boots it doesn’t mean a thing!”

  Gina ended the call, then sat staring at the cold gas logs inside the fireplace. It wasn’t like Diane to be so brusque or so edgy. She was usually the most laid-back of women, never in a hurry, infinitely tolerant of people’s little quirks and always ready to see the best in them. At the same time, she was open and plain-spoken to a fault.

  Her friend had been most of those things this time, of course, yet something had been different. She had asked almost no questions about Race, for one thing. For another, she had condemned him sight unseen. And she really hadn’t wanted to talk about the whole thing except to issue warnings.

  Something was wrong. What was it?

  Gina realized, after a moment’s thought, that the short time she had known Diane was not enough for an educated guess at the problem. Diane was originally from the Dallas area; she spoke of it often and had actually stayed at the Glass Garden Hotel for her own honeymoon. Near Gina’s own age, Diane was a widow whose engineer husband, her childhood sweetheart, had been killed while working on an offshore oil rig. Diane had little family other than her young son. There was only an elderly aunt, a slightly older brother who was in politics, and a younger sister she worried about because she was mixed up in some kind of ultraconservative, high-achievement cult in California.

  Gina’s own parents and siblings were country people who seldom left their Louisiana delta farmlands. Because she and Diane were both virtually alone, they had established an instant rapport. More than that, something had clicked between them in the way it sometimes did with two people; they simply liked each other on sight.

  On the strength of that affection, Gina had somehow expected more alarm and concern from Diane, more of the kind of panic she had shown last night. It hadn’t been there. In some peculiar fashion, Gina felt cut off, even abandoned. It was disturbing.

  It was also appalling, because she could think of only one reason Diane had stopped caring what happened to her. That reason was directly connected to Bradley Dillman. Yet if Diane had discovered it, then any number of other people could know about it also.

  Any number. Including Race.

  Yes, but how? And why would he care? He was a rancher and a part-time model.

  Wasn’t he?

  On the table beside her was the business card he had given her the night before, lying where she had put it before she called Diane the first time. Gina glanced at it, her gaze focusing on the number printed across the bottom. She looked at her phone again. Then she touched the numbers on her keypad.

  The model agency seemed to be legitimate; the phone was ringing on the other end. Once, twice, three times. Nobody was going to answer.

  Of course they weren’t going to answer. It was Sunday. She should have remembered.

  She started to end the call. Abruptly, the fourth ring ended and there came the familiar hollow noise of a line open to an answering machine. Gina snatched the receiver back to her ear.

  “Thank you for calling the Humane Society of Greater Dallas-Fort Worth. Please leave your message at the tone—”

  She had made a mistake; that had to be it. She broke the connection. She touched the numbers again.

  Four rings. An answering machine. The same announcement.

  She ended the call with a fast flick of her thumb. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears, see it vibrating the thick terry-cloth of her robe over her chest.

  “Gina?” Race stepped through the door from the balcony that she had not heard him open. He came toward her with concern in his face. “Is something wrong?”

  Everything was wrong. Every single thing in her life had turned out totally, impossibly, unforgivably wrong.

  It wouldn’t do to say so, not now. She couldn’t afford to be that forthright. Or that honest.

  Her gaze was open and vulnerable as she met the blue darkness of his eyes. She moistened her lips as she tried to find some answer that might satisfy him, at least for a little while. Then she had it.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I just hate answering machines.”

  :: Chapter Six ::

  “Oh, my stars, was I ever embarrassed! I must have turned three shades of red. But such a man, honey! Not too many strip that well, I expect, though I shouldn’t be sayin’ such a thing. And makin’ his bed on the rug like that is so romantic, like in my favorite romance, Desire Under the Stars, where the hero sleeps on the floor for seventy-five whole pages. Oh, but then! Let’s just say he makes up for it.”

  The maid rattled on while she cleaned the suite’s bathroom with quick, practiced motions. Gina glanced at her from the corners of her eyes as she applied mascara at the dressing table. Etta was quite a character, with her spun-sugar hairstyle, a pin on her breast pocket in the shape of a giant pewter heart, and a proprietary air as if she were straightening her own home. Her comments and snatched glances in Gina’s direction indicated curiosity, but were robbed of offense by their warmth and down-home frankness.

  Gina had reached the makeup stage in her dressing when the maid checked the suite the second time. Since Race had gone downstairs to reserve a court for tennis and she would be leaving in a few minutes to join him, she had told Etta to go ahead with her job.

  In a carefully offhand manner, Gina said, “The—uh, sleeping arrangement is only temporary.”

  “I should hope so.” Etta gave her a quick grin as she polished the shower faucet. “You wouldn’t want to keep a man like that layin’ around on the floor too long. I noticed him bringin’ coffee up a while ago, too, you know. Now, I like a strong, take-charge type as well as any, but the man who sees to his woman’s comfort like that is something special.”

  “You think so?” Gina reached for her lip gloss and applied it with more quickness than precision.

  “You’d better believe it. Yes, and another thing. Heaven help me if I had been up to no good when I walked in on him earlier. I expect I’d still be picking myself up. Protecting his own, that’s what he was doing.”

  “Oh, I don’t think it was anything quite that dramatic,” Gina said uneasily.

  Etta stopped in the middle of hanging fresh towels to give her a straight look. “You didn’t see his face before he cottoned to who was comin’ in on him.”

&n
bsp; No, nor the rest of him, either, Gina thought, which seemed a shame. “That’s all well and good, but some men just aren’t cut out to be married.”

  “No, but this one will be one day. Oh!” Etta turned with a hand to her lips. “I shouldn’t have said that; now I’ve gone and done it. Tyrone—the concierge, you know—told me that you and this watch dog hero of yours don’t know each other too well. But he wasn’t gossiping. He just wanted me to keep an eye on you since he was worried he led you to do the wrong thing.”

  “Because of his advice, you mean.” Gina could not be too surprised that Etta knew what was going on. It seemed typical.

  “He’s a great one for solving guest’s special problems,” Etta allowed, lowering her voice to a confidential mutter. “That’s so long as it’s arranging for limos, having major jewelry delivered, or filling a Jacuzzi with champagne. But he can’t get it through his head that some things are not that easy.”