Love So Tender: Taking Care of BusinessPlay It Again, ElvisGood Luck Charm

by Stephanie Bond

  A dull pain radiated out from his breastbone. If only—

  The ring of his cell phone split the air. He unhooked it from his belt and glanced at the screen—Karen. He pushed the connect button. “Yeah?”

  “Just checking in, partner. Any developments?”

  “Uh, no.” He rubbed stubbornly at the strange sensation in his chest. At least no developments relating to the case.

  “Got those descriptions of everyone who works there?”

  “I’m taking photographs. I’ll have them to you in the morning.”

  “Great. I can’t wait to see this woman with the amazing eyes.”

  He chose to ignore her. “Any more news from the informant?”

  “No.” Karen sighed. “She hasn’t returned any of my calls—I’m starting to worry that maybe she’s in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “If someone close to Lundy found out that she’s a snitch, she could be in danger. If she told them what she told us, Lundy could decide not to show.”

  “Or show up with firepower,” Steve said, his adrenaline kicking in. A sudden pain in his foot distracted him momentarily—H.D. had once again decided to park his fat butt.

  “That’s not Lundy’s M.O.,” Karen said. “He’s more likely just to lie low. The last thing he needs is civilian casualties at a Vegas wedding chapel—if he did something to scare off tourists, the city’s business leaders would form their own posse.”

  “You’re probably right,” Steve said, yet he pivoted his head to look all around—up and down the street, in the parking lot across the road—searching for anything suspicious, anything out of the ordinary.

  A wry frown worked his mouth. Such as a man and a hound running down the street chasing a woman’s thong?

  “Still, I wanted to let you know,” Karen said. “Let’s not panic—our informant might simply be out of reach for a while. For now, we stick to the original plan. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Okay.” He disconnected the call with disturbing what-if scenarios tumbling through his head—all of them involving Gracie getting hurt. He winced. The discomfort around his breastbone was back. With much effort, he dislodged his foot from underneath H.D.’s behind and limped toward the chapel, rubbing his chest.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  GRACIE PASSED the next couple of hours working on the costumes in between answering the phone, although her preoccupation earned her several pricks with the needle. She relived the degrading Marilyn-Monroe-standing-over-a-grate-gone-wrong incident over and over, until she was sure her face would be permanently flushed. To prevent an encore, she’d sewn curtain weights into the hem of her skirt. And she’d washed the bothersome black thong in the bathroom and used a hairdryer to dry it enough to put it on.

  From now on, she would wear nothing but tidy whities.

  “Oh. My. Gawd.”

  Gracie looked up to see Lincoln in the doorway. His arms were full of flowers and today his sunglasses were pink. She angled her head. “What?”

  His jaw dropped. “Steve is outside working on the Caddy.”

  “I know.”

  “Shirtless.”

  She smiled. “Oh.”

  “Gracie, the man is simply too gorgeous for words. You simply have to have sex with him.”

  She gave a choked little laugh. “I do not.” Besides, she’d tried.

  “You’re killing me,” he said. “If I were you, I’d wait to start looking for Mr. Right until after this guy left.”

  She laughed and helped him to arrange the flowers in the chapels and store the bouquets and boutonnieres in the refrigerator.

  When they were finished, he said, “I’ll see you tonight when I relieve Cordelia at the drive-through.” He grinned. “Want to follow me out to take a looky-loo?”

  She smirked. “No. And stop trying to get me into trouble. He has a girlfriend.”

  “Oh? You asked?”

  “It…came up.”

  “Still—no ring, will fling.”

  “Goodbye, Lincoln.”

  He left shaking his head. For her part, Gracie tried to tamp down the image of Steve, bare-chested, and get back to work. After a particularly frustrating bout with the sewing machine, she sighed and held up the black-and-white striped shirt of the inmate costume—so many pins had been dislodged during their frantic groping episode that she wasn’t sure she’d made the right adjustments. She checked her Betty Boop watch and stretched her arms overhead in a yawn.

  A break sounded good, so why not check on Steve and ask him to try on the shirt? She had to face him sooner or later. Besides, she was dying to see if he’d made progress on the Caddy.

  On the way, she stopped by the kitchen to grab two bottles of water in case he was thirsty. Her heart beat double time as she pushed open one of the doors leading to the back lot. Her breath caught in her chest.

  Steve was indeed shirtless, leaning into the engine beneath the raised hood, working either to loosen or to tighten something, considering the way the muscles in his arms bulged with exertion. His back was slick with perspiration. He stood and wiped his hand across his brow.

  If she lived to be one hundred, she would never forget the sight of Steve Mulcahy standing half-naked in the blistering sun, his developed pecs and six-pack abs glistening with sweat. He was simply the sexiest man she’d ever seen.

  H.D., on the other hand, lay in the shade holding a wrench in his mouth, which he happily discarded when he saw Gracie, and lurched to his feet to greet her.

  She smiled at Steve and lifted a bottle of water. “I thought you might be thirsty.”

  He nodded and reached for it. “Thanks.” He opened the bottle, lifted it to his mouth, and proceeded to down it in one long drink, the column of his throat convulsing as he drained the bottle. She was mesmerized—more so when he grabbed a towel and wiped his chest and neck. “Wow, it’s hot.”

  She couldn’t have agreed more. To derail her wicked train of thought, she opened her water bottle and poured half of it into a bowl for H.D. She resisted the temptation to douse herself with the rest of it.

  “Have you ever thought of getting a real watchdog around here?” Steve asked.

  Gracie pouted. “H.D. is perfect just the way he is.”

  “Tell me something—what does ‘H.D.’ stand for?”

  She grinned. “Hound dog, of course. What else?”

  “Oh. I get it.” He looked mildly amused. “Is he yours?”

  “He belongs to Cordelia, really, although we’ve all adopted him.”

  “He needs to lose some weight. I’ll bet this morning’s run is the most exercise he’s had in a while.” His mouth twitched with humor.

  She lifted her chin. “Let’s forget this morning happened, shall we?”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “Were they salvageable?”

  “Yes,” she chirped.

  “Good.” Laughter rumbled deep in his throat.

  Flustered, Gracie gestured to the car. “How’s it going?”

  He sobered and shook his head. “Slow. I replaced the battery and all the hoses, but there’s a lot more to do.”

  “But she’s fixable?”

  “Sure—eventually. But it’s going to take a lot of time.”

  And he wouldn’t be around that long. The unspoken words hung in the air between them.

  “I need for you to try this on again,” she said, holding up the striped shirt she had folded over her arm. “When you have time.”

  “Sure, give me a couple of minutes and I’ll wipe my hands.” He leaned back into the engine and applied a wrench to a thingamabob. “By the way, would you mind if I took a shower here instead of going home?”

  “No, that’s fine,” Gracie said, then wet her lips. “Where’s home?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Where do you live?”

  He swung his head around, then looked back to his handiwork. “In an apartment a few miles from here. Nothing special. How about you?”

  “Same,” she
said. “How did you learn to work on cars?”

  “My dad,” he said. “He always had a fixer-upper in the garage. There were five of us boys, so he said that the only way he was going to afford for all of us to have a car was if we all knew how to fix them ourselves.”

  Her eyes widened. “You have four brothers?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where are they?”

  After a few seconds’ hesitation, he said, “All over.”

  A sliver of disappointment sliced through her heart—secretly she had been hoping that Steve came from a big, boisterous, tight-knit family.

  But there she went again—projecting.

  Then a thought slid into her brain, one so shocking, she inhaled sharply: What if Steve Mulcahy was a criminal? An ex-con. That would explain why Cordelia was so worried about her getting involved with him, why she was so sure he would be moving on soon. Cordelia didn’t talk about her past much, but Lincoln had said once that he’d heard that Cordelia had been on the wrong side of the law when she was young. Maybe she was trying to repay her debt by giving an ex-con a chance.

  Which would explain some other things—like why he would be willing to take the low-prestige job in the first place. And him being in the office this morning, behaving suspiciously. And the fact that he wouldn’t talk about his family or where he’d lived or what he’d done for a living. And that question he’d asked about the chapel having a guard dog—did he plan to rob them? That would explain why he’d been taking so many pictures!

  Er, excluding the ones he’d taken of her.

  “Gracie.”

  At the sound of her name, she jumped and looked at Steve suspiciously. “What?”

  He lowered the hood of the car, sending the muscles in his back playing beneath smooth skin. “I said I can’t do anything more here without a few parts. I think I’ll take that shower now.”

  “Okay,” she said vaguely, wondering if he planned to steal the Caddy, and if she should share her theories with Cordelia. “What about…clothes?”

  “I have a change of clothes in the SUV.”

  Then again, Cordelia had hired Steve, so she would have performed a background check and would have known his past. If Cordelia had decided to hire him despite—or because of—a checkered past, then it was her business.

  “Gracie, are you okay?” He was frowning at her.

  “I’m fine,” she murmured, backing away. “It’s the heat. I need to get back to work.”

  “Hand me the shirt,” he said, gesturing. “I’m dry enough to try it on.”

  She looked down at the striped inmate shirt and handed it to him, her heart in her throat.

  He pushed his arms into the sleeves of the loose garment and made sure it met across the front. “Feels good to me. What do you think?”

  What did she think? At the sight of the cartoonish prison garb, Gracie thought she should see a therapist about her projection problem. She smiled, feeling foolish for the thoughts she’d been entertaining. “It’s great. When you finish cleaning up, come to the lobby and we’ll go over tonight’s bookings.”

  She called for H.D. and reentered the chapel, cursing herself for her active imagination. Her life wasn’t nearly interesting enough to include a criminal—all the more reason why she needed to move on and expand her horizons. But as usual, when she thought about having that conversation with Cordelia, she balked. She owed the woman everything…how could she walk out on her, especially with business being so iffy?

  Fighting a headache, Gracie put on her favorite Elvis CD—his 1968 comeback performance. Oh, sure it was nice to hear all the number one songs, but when she was feeling blue, she especially loved to hear the gospel medley featuring “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child.”

  Someday she would return to Oklahoma to visit her mother’s grave and let the rest of her family know she was still alive…if they even cared. Going down that road of memories was torturous so she looked for something to keep her mind and hands busy.

  Of course, Steve was just down the hall taking a hot, soapy shower.

  She closed her eyes and sighed in frustration, wondering how one man could make her feel so many things at the same time—lust, annoyance, suspicion, hope. She laughed—Elvis had a song for each of those emotions: “All Shook Up,” “Don’t Be Cruel,” “Suspicious Minds” and “The Wonder of You.”

  Elvis…now there was one romantic guy.

  She laughed at her musings and threw herself into unpacking a box of souvenirs—Elvis Teddy Bears and T-shirts.

  “Do you ever wonder what the King would think of all this?”

  Gracie looked up when Steve entered the lobby. He wore jeans and his standard baggy button-up shirt. His hair wasn’t completely dry, and his cheeks had the glow of a mild sunburn. His eyes…oh, those blue eyes. “Hmm?”

  He gestured to the souvenir racks and picked up a deck of Elvis playing cards. “Do you ever wonder what the King would think of all this? Do you think he’d feel exploited?”

  She squeezed a teddy bear to her chest. “I used to wonder. But honestly, very few people come here as a joke. Almost everyone comes because they love Elvis and his music, or because they’re looking for a little magic touch for their wedding.” She stood and gestured to the bulletin board. “All of these people can’t be wrong.”

  He joined her and surveyed the photo collage. Some of the pictures were yellowed, some curled, some featuring people with hopelessly outdated clothing and hair. “But how many of these people do you think are still married?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Most of them, I hope. Some couples send us a card on their anniversary. See this photo?” She pointed to a picture taken by the automatic cameras at the drive-through, this one of a young man with a military haircut and a dark-blond woman wearing a paper veil. “That’s Redford and Denise DeMoss. They met in Vegas and were married here over three years ago when Redford was on leave from the Gulf.” She sighed. “But they had the marriage annulled.”

  “I’m sure that happens a lot,” he said dryly.

  “Yes, but look at this picture.” She pointed to a five-by-seven of a chapel ceremony, the dark-haired groom resplendent in his Marine dress blues, the bride radiant in a gorgeous halter gown.

  Steve leaned closer. “It looks like the same couple.”

  She smiled. “It is. They came back a few months ago and got married again after reuniting. Isn’t that the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard?”

  He looked doubtful. “If you say so.”

  Disappointment shivered through her heart. “Well, think what you will, but I’m convinced that what we do here is fun and useful. We make people happy, and I think that’s a noble pursuit.”

  “You’re right,” he said, nodding. “And is this what you want to do the rest of your life?”

  She squeezed the teddy bear tighter. “It’s all I know.”

  His gaze locked with hers and she felt a strong, unexplainable connection with this man that went beyond his amazing sex appeal, as if he were offering her some of his energy. She was overcome with the urge to tell him her entire, sordid life story. When her throat was on the verge of bursting, she averted her glance to regain her composure.

  “Look at the time,” she said, bustling over to the file cabinet. “We have to get ready for five weddings.” She skimmed the appointment book. “The first two and the last one are the Aloha Las Vegas package. Think you can handle the ‘Hawaiian Wedding Song’?”

  He hesitated, then nodded sheepishly. “Lincoln gave me a tape of the ceremony songs to take home.”

  Gracie blinked. “That’s…great.” And not the M.O. of someone who planned to leave. Her stubborn heart took flight. “You’ll need to wear the Hawaiian shirt and white pants, and the first couple asked for witnesses, so we’ll have to do that as well.”

  He nodded, looking oddly intense. “When did you say the other minister was arriving?”

  The roar of a motorcycle split the air as a black blur
passed the window and zoomed down the side of the chapel. Gracie grinned. “Speak of the devil—there’s Roach now. Let’s go meet him—he’ll be thrilled to know you’re working on the Caddy.”

  Roach Hilton was a big, friendly bear of a man with a ZZ Top beard and a voice like thunder. He and Steve seemed to hit it off—Gracie was glad that Steve was beginning to relax. When Lincoln arrived to relieve Cordelia, Steve even took photographs of the group around the Caddy. Lincoln grabbed the camera and insisted that Steve be in some of them, which gave her the smallest amount of hope that he might stay long enough for something to develop other than film. At one point they were in a group shot standing next to each other and Gracie could feel his body speaking to hers. Their arms brushed, and they glanced at each other. Desire lurked in his gaze, but she looked away. They had an agreement, after all. And deep down, she was happy to know that he was being faithful to his girlfriend. It reinforced all the good things she thought about him…and the good things she wanted in her man.

  Soon everyone scattered to their respective places. Steve got into his costume, wig and sunglasses in record time, looking fun and fit in the Hawaiian shirt and white shiny pants. When the first couple arrived, he took the lead in making them feel comfortable, drawing out details of their lives, all in his fake accent—already much improved over the previous day.

  “Where did Cordelia find this guy?” Roach whispered. “He’s a natural.”

  Gracie shrugged. “I don’t know, but you’re right.”

  Roach winked. “And he looks better in the suits than I did.” He laughed and launched into the ceremony.

  Gracie and Steve served as witnesses and everything went smoothly—Steve’s lipsynching won rave reviews and later when Gracie witnessed how many pictures the couple wanted with Steve, she had the tingly feeling that business was poised to take an upward turn. Relief flooded every fiber of her being—if finances improved, she wouldn’t feel so bad about leaving TCB.