The Rent-A-Groom

by Jennifer Blake

  “I suppose so.” There was something here she did not quite understand. Still, she could not deny her basic beliefs.

  A shadow crossed Race’s face. His voice low, he said, “I should have known.”

  “So should I, right from the start,” Bradley agreed. “No second chances, huh, Gina? No forgiving, not from you.”

  She stared at the man she had almost married, noting the weakness in his face and, just possibly, a faint trace of regret. In spite of the last, there could be only one answer. “No, not often.”

  Bradley looked at Race. “See what I mean?”

  It seemed to Gina’s heightened imagination that some flash of understanding passed between the two men. Her head began to throb. What if Diane had been right? What if it was Bradley who had hired Race, had instructed him to wine her, dine her, flatter her silly, then find out just how much she knew?

  With the months of their engagement to give him insight, Bradley must have guessed there would be no groom eloping with her to the hotel. He had decided to use that fact for his own ends, plus have a little fun at her expense.

  And she had fallen for it. She had let Race into her suite and into her life. The mistake was going to cost her; she knew that already. The only question was how much.

  Earlier, when she had seen Race coming from Bradley’s rooms, he had not just stepped inside the open door from idle curiosity as he had implied. No, he had gone to talk to his…what? His buddy, his pal, employer? The two of them must have been setting up this restaurant meeting.

  Bradley could not be sure she knew of his illegal operations; she had never told him, since he had presented her with such a fine alternative for calling off the wedding. But possibly he had suspected it. That was what Race’s innocuous question about amateur athletes had been about, then; it had nothing to do with sports, but was a test of her scruples. It had been a trap.

  Gina put down her fork and pushed her plate away. Her gaze were steady as she divided a glance between Bradley and Race, then returned her attention to the man she had almost married. “What other answer could there be?” she asked simply. “Right is right and wrong is wrong, and I could never remain in a relationship of any kind with someone who doesn’t recognize the difference. A person who ignores the rules should expect to face the consequences. That’s the way I see it, and I refuse to apologize for it.”

  Bradley gave a short laugh. “Sweet and simple, though not very practical. You may get lonesome out there on a limb by yourself with nothing but your principles.”

  “Could be,” she answered quietly, “but I’ll chance it.”

  What now? Bradley had connections, some of them dangerous ones. If she had ever doubted it, she had only to look at the man across from her. Still, this was a public place. She could hardly be taken out of it without someone noticing. Could she?

  Race was watching her with his face set in taut, unrevealing planes. She wondered what he was thinking, wondered if he knew how fast her heart was beating. Did he have any idea of the pain inside her? Could he even begin to guess how much it hurt to think of what he had done?

  He could do no more harm. She wouldn’t give him the chance, not if she could prevent it.

  Yes, but could she?

  He was supposed to be her lover, if not her husband. She had told the concierge otherwise, and the maid Etta also knew, but everyone else who had seen them coming and going from the honeymoon suite would naturally assume they were a couple. He could take her anywhere he wanted; he had the strength, and then some. Who would interfere? Who would prevent him from leading her upstairs and doing whatever he pleased with her?

  Diane had been right about everything; Gina saw that with sudden, blinding clarity. She really should have run like hell while she had the chance.

  :: Chapter Eight ::

  At that moment, Sandra caught Gina’s eye. “I’m going to the ladies’ room,” she murmured. “Come with me?”

  The invitation seemed to have a special intensity. Was it possible that Sandra realized what was happening and was trying to help her? If she was, what would the two men do about it?

  There was only one way to find out. Moving with care, Gina got to her feet.

  No one objected, no one tried to stop them. Neither Bradley nor Race said a word. Gina’s knees felt weak as she followed the other woman. At the same time, she was puzzled. Was it possible she had been wrong? Had the whole standoff between Bradley, Race, and herself been a figment of her overactive imagination?

  The restroom was behind the main lobby, convenient to both Montague’s and the Terrace. An extravaganza in cream marble with warm gold tracery, it featured freestanding sculptured-marble basins, crystal chandeliers, scented soaps, and a pink rose in a holder attached to every mirror. The vast space was virtually empty; a woman drying her hands at the electric air dryer nodded and left as Gina and Sandra entered.

  “Look, Gina,” Sandra said as she turned to face her in front of the basins, “I just wanted a chance to say I’m sorry. I know you don’t care for me much anymore, and I don’t blame you. But I never meant to make a mess of things for you with Bradley. It just…happened, and I feel so bad about it.”

  “Not to worry. I expect I should be thanking you.”

  The other woman’s face tightened a fraction as she studied her acrylic nails. “I don’t think Bradley’s overjoyed with how things worked out.”

  “I can’t help that.”

  “It’s driving him nuts, you know, you being next door with this guy Race.”

  Gina allowed a grim smile to curve her lips. “I’m not so sure of that, but if so—well, fine.”

  A surprised laugh left Sandra. “Lord, Gina, I never knew you had it in you.”

  “No?” Gina considered an instant. “You know, neither did I.”

  The other woman gave her a small shrug, then said abruptly, “I’m leaving right after dinner, going back to Shreveport. I have to be back at work in the morning, and I need the job because I don’t think this marriage bit is going to work. Bradley only proposed to get back at you, because you walked out on him.”

  Sandra was in pain not so different from her own, Gina saw. That was cause enough to be kind. “Oh, I doubt that was the reason. The two of you were already involved.”

  “Last fling stuff.” Sandra tapped her nails on the marble basin. “You scared him, you know. You ask a lot from a man.”

  “No more than I’m willing to give.” The words were soft and fretted with pain.

  “That’s just it, don’t you see?” Sandra said earnestly. “With you it’s all or nothing, and Bradley wasn’t sure he could live up to that.”

  “So he proved he couldn’t.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe it was easier than trying to change. But I know he wishes he had made the effort.”

  Gina stared at the other woman. “You aren’t suggesting he’s here because—because he wants to get back together?”

  Sandra scrubbed at a nonexistent spot on the marble. “Maybe not that, exactly. But he was worried about you, afraid of what you might do.”

  “Oh, come on!”

  “No, really,” Sandra said, looking up with worry in her eyes. “Going off like this isn’t like you. You’re practical, solid; you always do the right thing. You would never go running off to a high-class love nest with some guy you don’t know from Adam.”

  Gina all but snorted. “Give me a break, Sandra! How am I supposed to believe Bradley is all worked up because I’m here with Race when he’s the one who sent him?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding! Bradley’s frothing at the mouth because he’s here. He really expected to find you alone.”

  Gina stared at the woman who had been her friend, then gave a quick shake of her head. “That’s just what he wants you to believe.”

  “I swear it’s exactly what he thought. He was laughing all the way out here about how he planned to make you admit there was no other man. When he saw you with Race in the restaurant last night, he nearl
y passed out.”

  It didn’t make sense, Gina thought in confusion. Yet, if Sandra was right, she was going to have to readjust her thinking. The only trouble was, she couldn’t see how.

  She said finally, “This hasn’t exactly been a wonderful honeymoon for you, has it?”

  “Pre-honeymoon. We were going to a justice of the peace in a day or two, or maybe head out to Vegas.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “Now I’d as soon not.”

  “I’m sorry.” Gina meant it.

  “Yeah,” Sandra said with a weak smile as she turned and started toward the toilet stalls. “So am I.”

  Race noticed their return toward the table well before they reached it. The smile he gave Gina sent a small shiver down her spine. She suppressed it with determination, but it was a real effort.

  “Did you want dessert?” His gaze upon her was intent, though studiously polite.

  She shook her head. She had barely touched her barbecue and beans. The thought of anything sweet was positively nauseating.

  “Then it must be time to call it a night,” he said, and signaled for the check.

  She should have asked for ice cream, cake, pie, coffee, anything. Her time, she saw, had just run out.

  Bradley protested, suggesting they take his car, head over to the West End tourist haunts and wander around. Race was polite but firm in his refusal. Gina didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when her ex-fiancé subsided without a fight. It seemed unreasonable to be inclined to do both.

  She could have refused to leave the restaurant, of course. But that would have meant forcing a confrontation. She wasn’t ready. She had no idea what to say, what to think; she could not even decide the right questions to ask. She was afraid of appearing dumb by jumping to the wrong conclusion, but just as terrified of being a bigger fool by not standing up for herself. Paralyzed by the clamor of doubts and possibilities that whirled in her brain, she allowed herself to be escorted toward the elevators.

  She didn’t want to know the truth.

  That was it, she realized as they left the elevator and moved along the hall toward their suite. She didn’t want to listen to Race saying it had been a sham, that none of it had meant anything to him. Whether he was Bradley’s hired hand or just a hustler, she just didn’t want to hear it.

  Was this the way it was for all those women who wound up victims of violence from lovers or friends? Could they not believe in their melodramatic fears? Did they not run for safety because they could not bring themselves to accept that someone they loved would hurt them? Or because the wound inside from that betrayal, when it came, would be worse than anything that might be done to them?

  Love. It was a simple word, yet so complex.

  She didn’t love Race; why, she barely knew him. You had to know someone to love them, didn’t you? That sure knowledge took time, the careful exploration of feelings and ideas, the diligent search for compatibility. It didn’t come in an instant, with a look, a touch.

  Did it?

  There were small heart-shaped candies lying on the pillows where Etta had turned down the bed. Gina was touched by the maid’s small hint at romantic possibilities. Etta had certainly been taken with Race. And she had been so sure that he was being protective by sleeping on the sitting room floor. No doubt he was—protective of himself, that is.

  Gina wished with sudden fervency that Etta could have been right. What a difference it would make. But she didn’t believe in romance, not anymore. After this, she would never be romantic again.

  “Are you all right?” Race spoke from behind her, his voice deep and a little rough.

  She turned her head to see him standing with one hand braced on the bedroom door frame. The frown of concern between his brows seemed genuine. He was a good actor.

  “Yes, fine,” she answered without inflection.

  “I’ll lock up.” He waited an instant, but when she made no reply, moved back inside the sitting room. After a moment she heard the click of the dead bolt on the outer door.

  He had been waiting, she realized, for her to protest, or at least question, his presence in the suite for a second night. She hadn’t the time or energy; there were other decisions to be made that were far more important.

  She didn’t want to be locked in, suddenly couldn’t bear it. Moving to the French doors to the balcony, she pushed the draperies aside and let herself out. Walking to the railing, she clung to it while she stood breathing fast and deep as she stared out at the glimmering city skyline.

  “Gina?”

  The darkness around her lightened then dimmed again as Race swept the drapes open and let them fall into place behind him. She refused to look at him, though he moved to stand beside her with his hands thrust into his pockets.

  The night air was soft and cool. The arc of the sky overhead was gray-black and starless, washed out by the city lights that lay like fallen planets in the distance. Race was silent. There was something calming in the size and solidity of him there, so near yet so undemanding. As strange as it seemed, his very presence gave her courage.

  Her voice not quiet natural, she asked, “Who are you, really?”

  His sigh was quietly accepting, a tacit admission. “Just a man who wishes that things had been different—that he was different. Or that you were.”

  She had known, yet had still hoped she was wrong. She began, “You aren’t—”

  “I’m a lot of things,” he interrupted, turning to put his back to the railing, “some of them even legitimate. The part about the ranch is true enough. I run it, work hard at it.”

  “That’s something, anyway.”

  He glanced away, his face stiff, before he turned back to concentrate his attention upon her once more. His voice lower, he said, “Do you know anything about the rodeo?”

  “A little.” She waited, knowing there was more to come.

  “I used to follow it, riding the bulls, years ago when I was young and stupid and full of vinegar. I love the challenge and, yes, the death-defying charge of the danger. You have only eight seconds to prove yourself, eight seconds that can be a lifetime. The ride is dangerous and soon over, but it’s a heart-pounding glory. And if you can stay on, if you can make the buzzer, then you win the day and the silver buckle that says you’re a winner. You take home the prize.”

  “And what,” she asked quietly, “if you fall off?”

  “Then you hit the ground hard and the bull puts his foot in your ribs or your face and—well, you have the pain and the defeat.” His voice turned rough. “But, God, you also had the ride.”

  “Yes, I see,” she said, and she did, somewhere inside where logic could not reach and instinct took over. Where the mind stopped and the heart began.

  They were quiet, while from the restaurant far below them music floated upward. It was a sweet ballad, one about love and loss.

  Race tilted his head, listening. Then he removed a hand from his pocket and held it out with his gaze unwavering on the pale shape of her face. His voice deep and steady, he said, “Dance?”

  She could not refuse, nor did she want to; that much was suddenly clear. To accept the dance, to ride the bull, to take a chance on love—for all these things you had to be willing to risk the pain.

  Some people never managed it. They preferred to play it safe, to avoid being hurt at all costs. But to avoid being hurt was to avoid living. And life, like bull-riding, was a heart-pounding glory too precious to be missed.

  She had vowed to live dangerously, and she would. There was no other way.

  She turned to gaze at him there in the dimness. He was a warm shadow, yet solid. Real. She put her hand in his then went into his arms. They closed around her, drawing her firmly against the muscle-clad planes of his chest. Accepting, absorbing his hard strength, she closed her eyes.

  Together, body to body, they shifted, drifting slowly around the narrow space of the balcony. It was an ancient instinct, the urge to move in seductive rhythm. They accepted it, sustained
it, used it. They held each other until nerves and sinew sang to the music and the moment, until flesh and blood could stand no more. Until the music ended.

  Race brushed the silk of her hair with his lips, grazed her forehead, sought her lips as she lifted her face blindly for his kiss. Inside, she felt a sweet, warm yielding. With infinite courtesy, she let him see it, allowed him to feel it.

  His chest expanded on a deep-drawn breath, then he bent to place his arm under her knees, lifting her against his chest. In that close embrace, he moved inside, where he placed her on the wide, soft surface of the bed. His knee dented the surface beside her before he joined her in a smooth, controlled glide.