Wedding Roulette

by Leandra Logan

  “And of course it is strictly business in your mind, as well, is it not?” Rachel challenged Krista while ignoring her sister’s comments. “You’ll feel no real emotion in the playacting, will you?”

  “Certainly not,” Krista said slowly, unable to shake off the sparks she felt reliving their talk in her kitchen, the way he filled up the space and her senses. Michael had such authority about him, such strength, such sex appeal. With difficulty, she found her voice. “Even so, if I were to go through with this trip, I’d lose precious time at work.” She gestured nervously to her littered desk. “I would be letting so many people down were I to leave. It’s easier to never take a vacation. To keep hard at it. I have my plans, my schedules, my comfortable framework.”

  Rachel waved a jeweled hand. “You are exaggerating your importance around here, surely.”

  “Always were too intense,” Beverly concurred. “You think you have to oversee every little detail of every little job.”

  “Hello, ladies.” Judy eased through the door with an armload of files and a good-humored smile. “Is this some sort of holiday? Like ‘gang up on the nearest niece’ day?”

  Rachel smiled at Judy. “We’re only trying to convince Krista to keep her word.”

  “You have a nerve demanding it, after the way you twisted my words. I was to, sexy,” Krista mimicked.

  Beverly took rather impressed. “We threw everything in that we could think of,” she admitted. “Though we sure didn’t expect that particular line to have an effect on Mr. Snooze.”

  Judy shot Krista a shocked look. “It’s true. They don’t think Michael’s sexy.”

  “But we do think Krista would have fun,” Rachel said. “A getaway to a flashy town would be a lark for her.”

  “On that much we agree,” Judy said to Krista’s surprise. Easing a hip over the edge of Krista’s desk she added, “As usual, you’re thinking too much. Plainly, you’ve let your doubts overpower you. Last night, when I spoke to you on the phone, you were absolutely pumped about it.”

  “So Judy, she called you instead of us,” a wounded Beverly fumed.

  “I am her friend—”

  “Hey!” Krista cried. “This conversation is supposed to be about me, my situation.” Satisfied they were contrite, she continued. “You haven’t even given me the chance to tell you the worst part. Before we ever set foot in Nevada, Michael intends to mold me into the wife of his dreams. It’s the condition that holds me back most. I can’t even imagine allowing a man to call the shots that way, while I demurely cooperate!”

  The aunts exchanged an amazed look.

  “She still doesn’t get it.”

  “Too many years with her nose to the grindstone while her peers played the field.”

  Krista pounded her desktop. “What are you two rambling on about!”

  Rachel deferred to Beverly. “You explain it. You’re better with her.”

  “Make no mistake about it, Krista. Allowing Michael, or any man for that matter, to believe he’s in the driver’s seat, is the surest way to control him.” Satisfied with this nugget of brilliance, Beverly buffed her colorless fingernails on her coat lapel.

  Krista glanced at Judy for her reaction.

  “Bev does have a point,” Judy confirmed. “The idea will be to allow Michael Collins to believe he’s manipulating you, when, in fact, he’s totally relying on you. At this late date, you alone make his scheme possible. And unbeknownst to him, you already know exactly how to present yourself in an intelligent way to impress his peers.”

  Krista was uncertain. “I wish I could just tell him who I really am, who you really are. I would still go along,” she said above the aunts’ howls, “but at least I would get the respect I deserve as a fellow professional.”

  “Such a confession could blow the whole deal!” Beverly bellowed. “Don’t you know anything about a successful man’s fragile ego? After some kicking and screaming, Michael Collins has finally adjusted to the story we’ve carefully fed him, is by now most likely neck-deep in the fantasy of molding you into a proper lady. We can’t rob him of the chance to play Svengali.”

  Even Judy agreed. “It is a little late to backtrack. He’s under a lot of pressure and has this scheme set in his mind. He might just crack if he were to discover that Simona is just a couple of broken-down old women. Uh, sorry, ladies,” she finished awkwardly.

  Rachel tossed her golden head. “I take offense to that.”

  “Oh, sister, get real,” Beverly advised. “We’re in our sixties, on the autumn side of life. This young man would in fact be mortified to learn we’re the steam behind the Simona engine.”

  Krista fell silent. This was her own fault, really. She had had the chance to straighten him out last night, before things got out of hand. But she’d been too flattered by his interest to think straight.

  “Krista,” Beverly went on evenly, “if you are going to play at all, you must play it as it lays. You are Simona, flashy siren in need of a total redo.”

  “But exactly how to play it…” Krista looked uncharacteristically lost.

  “You must pretend to be impossible,” Rachel advised.

  “But not too impossible,” Beverly countered.

  “Flashy.”

  “But not trashy.”

  “Available.”

  “But not desperate.”

  “Flighty.”

  “But not stupid.”

  Krista still stared at them blankly.

  Judy snapped her fingers. “Hang on. I think I can help.” Pressing a button on Krista’s intercom, she summoned their receptionist. Moments later, Courtney appeared. Today’s outfit was orange leggings and a sheer jacket. The red hair was piled high on her head in a floppy knot.

  “What’s up?”

  “Please take Ms. Mattson’s water pitcher and refill it,” Judy requested. “Her aunts are thirsty.”

  “Oh, so you are the Code Red ladies.” Chewing hard on her gum, Courtney took a closer look at the pair. “Thought you might be. Don’t look much alike for sisters, though. Most of my aunts look like sisters, even the cousins. Though some look like their brothers who are my uncles. Except we don’t include Uncle Arthur because he did a little time in the workhouse for stealing a car. He still claims it was a misunderstanding, and I tend to believe him. It is harder for me, as his favorite, to pretend he’s not my uncle even though my grandparents cut him out of the will. I mean, you girls know how it is.”

  “The water, Courtney,” Judy urged.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “And ditch the gum.”

  She took it out of her mouth, pinched it between two fingers and marched over to get the water pitcher. “Be back in a flash.”

  “What did you notice about Courtney?” Judy asked after the girl left.

  Krista shrugged. “Nothing unusual.”

  Judy grew impatient. “Snapping gum. Hip-jerk walk. Inappropriate observations. Mouth runoff.”

  “All the things we try to tolerate because she is bright and devoted?”

  “Exactly. And isn’t it possible that she needs a little tune-up, as Simona might need one?”

  “Ah, I see,” Krista said with new understanding. “I will be on safe ground with Michael’s makeover campaign if I act like Courtney, then allow him to reshape me into the real me.”

  “Right. Just be careful not to overdo the real you.” Krista glared at her friend. “What do you mean?”

  “You will be tempted to tamper with his image of the perfect mate.”

  “That image is total bull.”

  “But it is his show. You are playing a role.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Satisfied, Judy dusted her hands together. “Follow these basic instructions and before you know it, you will be taming our Mr. Collins.”

  KRISTA WAS BREATHLESS when she answered her front door at ten o’clock on Friday morning. “Hello, Michael. Come on in.”

  He moved past her into the foyer with a boxy briefcase. “Did
I awaken you?”

  The query was sincere but incredibly naive. She’d risen at five, suited up, met Judy at the office forty-five minutes later, and worked three hours clearing her desk. Then it was on to Romano’s for some basic hair and makeup tips, then back home to slip into short white shorts and a small pink T-shirt worthy of Simona at leisure. As the doorbell rang she was popping some chewing gum, borrowed from Courtney’s desk, into her mouth.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said chewing hard. “I’m wide awake.”

  He smiled approvingly. “Great. Let’s have some of that coffee I smell.”

  Despite her lack of culinary skills, Krista did make a darn good cup of coffee. She filled two mugs and called out, “Cream? Sugar?”

  “No. Just hope it’s hot and strong.”

  “That’s exactly how it is.” Another trait they shared.

  He’d set up shop in the living room, sitting on the sofa, placing his briefcase on her coffee table. She dropped a coaster onto the table and put his mug on top.

  He sipped his coffee appreciatively. “Hmm, perfect. The brew on the plane was warm and bitter.”

  She stood over him with hands on hips. “You come straight from the airport, then?”

  “Yes. Won’t be needing a hotel room this leg. Bob Freeman is picking me up here later for my flight to Vegas.” He noticed that she was slightly taken aback by the news. “Anything the matter?”

  “No,” she lied. Poor Bob. She hated to see him anxious with his high blood pressure. But she understood. Until Michael was safely back in Chicago, post convention, there was the chance that he could blow the whistle on them, topple the column, the aunts and Bob himself.

  These consequences swam round Krista’s mind as she plunged deeper into her role with a snap of gum. It was bound to be a complete bust if she didn’t manage to relax a little.

  “So what’s in the case?” she asked. “Is it sort of a Pandora’s box?”

  “No.” With some amusement he unlatched the case’s brass locks and lifted the lid. Visible were some magazines and a yellow legal pad bearing some kind of list. He patted the sofa. “Come, sit beside me.”

  She obliged, deliberately giving the cushions a little extra bounce.

  He began by handing over her airline ticket. “I already brought Bob up to speed. Your flight is late Sunday morning. The convention officially starts that night, though, like me, a lot of owners are gathering early to spend the weekend together.”

  “Don’t you go find a replacement for me over the weekend,” she joked.

  “Not likely. You are one of a kind.” He reached for his legal pad and began to study his notes.

  She glanced over to find it was a checklist concerning her. The crazy control freak.

  “I don’t recall you chewing gum at the newspaper,” he remarked with a frown.

  She gaped at him. “Oh? Guess I was fresh out that day.”

  “You may want to leave it home altogether. None of the wives will be chewing.”

  She sighed laboriously. “All right.”

  He gestured to the magazines, Fashion Review and Businesswoman’s Monthly, lying in the briefcase. “I picked those up for you at an airport kiosk. They are chock-full of suitable clothing.”

  She set an issue on her lap and began to leaf through it. He leaned closer, looking particularly smug. “I circled some of the better bets.”

  “So you have.”

  “Darker shades are always nice, don’t you think? Take this green suit with the narrow skirt, for instance. It needs more than a scarf under the jacket, of course. Imagine, if you can, matching it with an off-white blouse. My accountant for the shop has something similar.”

  Truth be told, she liked the look. And with her long body she could carry it off—did so in similar suits all week long. The trouble was, she was being told she should like the outfit. As she figured, taking direction was proving to be irritating.

  He extracted a pen from his shirt pocket. “Can I put you down for a dark suit? Can I count on the green?”

  “I won’t agree to it in writing, if that’s what you mean.” She paged through the fashion magazine. “I suppose I’ll need some formal wear, some nicer dresses, some sportswear.”

  He tapped the fat fashion periodical. “Just follow the circles.” When she remarked on possible matches to her own clothes, he put pen to paper.

  “You don’t need to write all that down, Michael.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m accustomed to writing everything down.”

  All too frequently she was accused of doing the same thing, but that was beside the point. “You’re overdoing it. You’ve even noted, Check luggage.”

  “Thought I’d have a look at your suitcases.”

  “They are not polka dot or anything, if that’s what worries you.”

  His expression suggested as much. He quickly drew her attention back to the magazine. “So, what do you think of this dress?”

  “Green again?” She eyed it with Simona’s critical eye. “I’d say that if you stood me in the hotel lobby I might be mistaken for a potted plant.”

  He made an exasperated sound. “Are you going to challenge me on every point?”

  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t wear such an outfit,” she said with a gum snap.

  He growled. “I can’t think with that noise. Please, give me the gum.”

  Intent upon looking particularly pained, she removed the gum from her mouth. Most likely the palm he held out was an unconscious gesture, but she couldn’t resist dropping the sticky wad right in the center of his hand.

  He stared at it. “Why, thank you.”

  She stifled a smile as he looked around waving his hand, not sure what to do with the gum. In a fumble he sent it to the carpet between his loafers. “Oops. Sorry.” He leaned over to retrieve it, ever so reluctantly pinching it between two fingers.

  “So we’re clear on the clothes?” she asked sweetly.

  “I had planned…Thought I could take a look at your closet, if you don’t mind.”

  “No way!”

  “I don’t mean to pry. I just thought we could piece together…pieces. Together.” He faltered under her furious gaze.

  “Forget about it.”

  “Why?”

  Because he’d find about fifty suitable pieces to mix and match to perfection. “Well…” she hedged, lifting her chin high. “I simply don’t allow men in my closet.”

  “That’s silly.”

  It would seem an odd quirk for a temptress. She paused thoughtfully, drawing on something Courtney had once said about claustrophobia. “A fortune-teller once told me that because I’m a Taurus, I must never get into tight spaces with men. Tight dark spaces, in particular.” She fluttered her fingers and tried to look blank and helpless. “Something about the atmospheric condition…”

  Suddenly he threw his head back, roaring in laughter. “You really believe that?”

  “Of course. And I don’t care to be made fun of.”

  “I’m just fascinated.”

  Perhaps she could keep her sense of humor, after all. It was most flattering, the way he was watching her without another thought to the chewing gum he was unconsciously kneading to a mushy goo between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Will you feel better if I leave the clothing to you?” he asked kindly.

  Funny what a little seduction could do. The tables were turning in her direction, ever so slowly. “There’s no need to worry.” She patted the magazine on her lap. “I know what you want.” Fueled with her new sense of power she asked sweetly, “Is it all right if I bring the underwear of choice?”

  “If your fortune-teller doesn’t mind.”

  She smiled, he kneaded. Their eyes locked in a warm cozy place.

  “Moving on. Damn!” He stopped short, finally noticing the gum. He began to pick at it, only succeeding in drawing it into a web between several more fingers.

  “Let me get you a tissue—”

  “Some gum chewer you
are. That would only make it worse. I need some ice.” He popped up. “I’ll get it myself.”

  When he returned some minutes later, he was still a bit rueful. “Didn’t you notice the gum?”

  “Maybe I’m just a little fascinated with you, too.”

  He smiled faintly as he glanced at his list again. “Now, about your makeup.”

  “Too heavy?”

  “Seems so. I’m no expert, but I can imagine you with just a dash of blush and lipstick, in a lighter shade of rose than you are accustomed to.” He dug deeper into his briefcase and produced a cosmetic kit of subtle pinks. “I dropped by Marshall Fields on the way and picked this up.”

  Free makeup? The kit was nice, the kind she didn’t feel she could indulge in. “I’ll make good use of this, I promise.”

  “Great. Now, about your walk.”

  She reared in affront. “I’ve been walking for years.”

  “Yes. It’s just that your style is…mixed. I’ve seen you walk different ways.”

  She could offer no rebuttal. With all her different moods of the past few days, she’d most likely been all over the map.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like you to demonstrate your most comfortable walk.”

  She stood up, tugged at her short shorts and gave him a socket-popping shimmy across the room.

  As he watched her long bare legs scissor atop high cork-heeled sandals, a funny sound gurgled up his throat. “Okay. Now, that’s a whole lot of what we can’t use.”

  She whirled round, scurrying back to him in distress. “Oh. I thought that was good.”

  “It…is,” he admitted, tugging at his polo shirt collar as though he were choking. “But not appropriate for an executive wife-to-be. Would you mind trying again, easing up on speed and swing this time?” She turned and walked again, grinning as he added, “Think of your hips as frozen solid, so they can’t move at all. No, I still see movement.”

  She pivoted again to face him. “Then, maybe you are watching me too closely,” she taunted in a purr.

  He stood up. “Watch me.” He proceeded to glide across the room like a corporate giant in slow motion, on his way to bankruptcy court.

  She fell in behind him to do a fair imitation of his stiff, swinging arm gait. He turned short and she barreled right into him, crashing her nose against his chest. She spoke directly into his shirt pocket. “We’re perfect, if our last name is Frankenstein.”