3, 2, 1...Married!

by Sharon Sala

  Even now, hours after their conversation, he couldn’t get the thought out of his mind. Bennie with a secret lover. Sharing a cosy dinner for two. Spending the night together. Making passionate love.

  Cursing a few heated obscenities, Holt beat one big fist into the palm of his other hand. Who was this guy, this secret lover? And why keep him a secret? Was she seriously involved with this man?

  If Bennie got married, she might leave Jackson Construction—she might leave him. No, Bennie would never give up her job. She liked working for him, liked running his life and keeping him in line. But if she had children someday, she’d want to stay home with them, wouldn’t she?

  The image of a very pregnant Bennie flashed through his mind. She’d be beautiful pregnant. She had the kind of body made for— Dammit, Jackson, what the hell do you think you’re doing, fantasizing about Bennie again? And this time, you’ve got her pregnant.

  Okay, so he found Bennie attractive. He always had. But he’d never acted on that attraction. And maybe that was what was wrong with him now, the reason why he kept daydreaming about her. Usually when he wanted a woman, he had sex with her and got her out of his system. But Bennie was his assistant and his best friend. Sex with her could ruin their working relationship and end their friendship.

  But dammit all, he couldn’t help being concerned about her lover. Bennie deserved only the best and something told Holt this guy wasn’t the best. If he were, why would she keep her affair with him secret? He knew one thing for sure and certain—if this man hurt Bennie, if the guy broke her heart, he would break him in two.

  Rummaging through his closet, Holt pulled out a clean pair of jeans and a dark-green button-down shirt. Bennie had tried for years to put him in a suit, but she’d finally given up and settled for his wearing a sport coat and tie. Would his mystery lady dislike his casual attire? Was she looking for someone who was more of a gentleman in appearance and personality? If so, why had she specified a self-made man? Most self-made men weren’t Southern gentlemen. Most were, as he was, rednecks who had clawed their way up from the bottom of the heap.

  Checking his watch, Holt saw that he had more than enough time for a workout before he showered and shaved. In the four years he had lived in this one-bedroom apartment he had made few changes. Although he could afford the best, he remained in this inexpensive apartment and all his furniture was still secondhand. Bennie had helped him convert the small storage room off the kitchen into a minigym.

  How many times had she sat on the floor, blueprints spread out before her, a cola in one hand, and discussed a new project with him while he exercised? How many times had she stayed with him until the wee hours of the morning, the two of them laughing and talking and enjoying being together?

  When he married, what would happen to those special times they often shared? Even in a marriage of convenience, he doubted his wife would approve of his spending so much of his free time with Bennie. And what about Bennie’s husband, if she married her secret lover? He’d want all Bennie’s attention when she wasn’t at work.

  Holt didn’t especially like the idea of losing those fun times with Bennie. But that was exactly what would happen when they each married someone else.

  Forget marriage. Forget the mystery lady. Forget the secret lover. And forget Bennie! What he needed right now was a good workout—something to clear the cobwebs from his brain and burn up some of the frustration he felt. Holt stripped down to his briefs, then headed for the minigym, intent on vanquishing all thoughts of Marianne Bennett from his mind.

  Bennie laid out the dress she and Rene had chosen for her date tonight. The most important date of her life. She backed several feet from the intricate oval and floral designed iron bed that dominated her apartment bedroom. The red dress shimmered brightly in direct contrast to the pale cream damask coverlet on which it rested. The snug-fitting little knee-length dress looked great on Bennie, or so Rene had said. She supposed it did. As a child her mother had dressed her in reds and pinks and yellows—bright, warm colors that she’d been told looked good on brunettes.

  The dress accentuated every curve of her body, making her full breasts look even larger and her small waist appear tiny. Remembering how round her curves looked encased in the dress made Bennie wish for the impossible. If only she were twenty pounds lighter or six inches taller. But she wasn’t. She was as she’d always been—five foot three and plump.

  Bennie scrambled in her jewelry box, seeking the right accessories for tonight’s outfit. Finding nothing suitable, she pulled out a small velvet drawer in the box and lifted a pair of sparkling diamond earrings into her hand. The oval diamond hoops had been an eighteenth-birthday present from her father. Her dear, sweet, humble father, a man she had both loved and pitied. Robert Bennett had been mild mannered, highly intelligent and the product of a mutually beneficial marriage between third cousins. He had made a smooth transition from being dominated by his mother to being dominated by his wife, and yet he’d seemed perfectly content with the arrangement.

  Poor Daddy! Bennie thought. He had died of a heart attack, peacefully in his sleep, when she was twenty.

  The earrings would be all the jewelry she’d need to enhance the simplicity of the dress. She wanted to be not only beautiful for Holt, but also elegantly sexy.

  Glancing at the clock on the European luggage rack she used as a nightstand, Bennie noted that she had exactly four hours and fifteen minutes until she was to meet Holt at Wildwood Lodge. Four hours to pamper and prepare. Four hours to convince herself that she could pull this date off without making a fool of herself.

  After drawing a bubble bath, she immersed herself in the water and reclined her head, resting it on the rim of the tub. Closing her eyes, she began thinking about what might happen tonight. As she allowed her body to relax, her mind created several different scenarios—everything from Holt laughing himself silly the minute he saw her to his sweeping her into his arms and carrying her off to one of the private rooms in the lodge.

  Thoughts of Holt’s lovemaking sent shivers through her body. A throbbing tingle began in her feminine core and slowly spread upward and outward until she ached all over.

  Grabbing the rose-scented soap from the soap dish, she lathered her face, then using her washcloth, scrubbed vigorously.

  Holt wasn’t going to make love to her. Not tonight! Not ever! She had been living with that hopeless dream for years now and where had it gotten her? The minute he saw her tonight, he was going to be angry—once he recovered from the shock. And she could hardly blame him, could she? After all, she had perpetrated a hoax on him. He thought he was going to meet a stranger, a woman with whom he had no emotional ties. But instead he was going to get a surprise, possibly an unpleasant surprise.

  Once he realized his date was good old Bennie, would he leave her sitting there alone at the restaurant?

  Bennie jumped at the sound of nearby thunder. Great, just great, she thought. That’s all she needed. Rain. Humidity. Her naturally wavy hair would curl in the dampness and she wouldn’t be able to do a thing with it. And she had planned a sophisticated French twist, a style that would show off her long neck and highlight the diamond hoops.

  Don’t rain! Don’t rain! she chanted silently.

  She could see herself now, her hair frizzed, her shoes muddy and her clothes damp. By the time Holt saw her, she’d look like a drowned rat!

  Call him and tell him the lady canceled at the last minute. Tell him she changed her mind, that she got a better offer. Tell him anything, but call him and end this farce before it goes any further.

  She finished her bath hurriedly, got out, dried off and slipped into her robe. Just as she headed toward the cordless telephone she had earlier tossed onto the antique leather-and-wicker chair at the foot of her bed, the doorbell rang.

  Who could it be? Probably Rene, even though she wasn’t due here to fix Bennie’s hair for another thirty minutes.

  Bennie raced through the living room and to the front doo
r. Peering through the viewfinder, she saw a delivery woman carrying a vase filled with two dozen cream-white roses. She had forgotten all about the roses—the ones she had insisted Holt have Rene send to his date.

  Bennie opened the door, accepted the roses and thanked the delivery person. When she tried to tip the woman, she was told that the tip had been included in the payment for the order.

  After placing the roses in the center of her coffee table, she gazed at the beautifully arranged bouquet. She had always loved white roses. Her father had cultivated and grown his own hybrid roses. In her honor, he had named a cream white rose, fringed with yellow gold, The Marianne.

  The doorbell rang again. This time she knew it had to be Rene. And sure enough, when she opened the door, there stood her best gal pal, a carryall thrown over her shoulder.

  “I know I’m a little early. But we want you to look your best tonight. I brought makeup, hot rollers, styling gel—the works.” Rene unzipped the carryall as she walked into the living room. “Wow, the roses are gorgeous. I told the florist not to spare any expense, that Mr. Jackson wanted the very best.”

  “I suppose you know that everyone in Fairmount will know by tomorrow that Holt Jackson sent his personal assistant two dozen white roses.”

  “So, who cares?”

  “I’ll care and so will Holt, if tonight backfires on me.”

  Rene grabbed Bennie’s shoulder, whirled her around and headed her toward the bedroom. “No more negative thoughts. I forbid it.” She hurried Bennie across the room, then shoved her down on the padded stool in front of the small vanity table in the corner. “Once Holt gets a look at you tonight, he won’t be able to resist you.”

  A loud clap of thunder shook the windowpanes. Rene gasped. Bennie huffed.

  “It’s going to rain and you won’t be able to do anything with my hair.” Bennie gazed into the mirror and saw that her hair was already beginning to curl around her face. Dammit, she’d look like an overaged, brunette Shirley Temple by the time she arrived at the restaurant.

  Lifting Bennie’s long wavy locks, Rene studied the dark mass. “You’re right. A French twist is definitely out.” She dropped the carryall on the floor, then bent over and retrieved a brush, a comb and a plastic container filled with bobby pins. “But just leave everything to me. What I have in mind will be even sexier.”

  “I’m having second thoughts,” Bennie admitted. “Maybe I should call Holt and cancel the date.”

  “You’ll do no such thing!” Rene brushed Bennie’s hair with vigorous strokes. “You’re going to meet Holt at Wildwood Lodge if I have to hog-tie you and carry you there.”

  Bennie drove her four-year-old Grand Am over the bridge that crossed the winding Noxubee River, a deep, narrow waterway that followed the county line and separated the Wildwood community from the rest of civilization. Booming thunder and streaks of brilliant lightning followed her path. Just as she parked her car at the lodge, raindrops began splattering onto the pavement and nearby brick walkway.

  After opening the car door, she stuck out her red umbrella and lifted it above her head, then exited the car and made a mad dash to the lodge entrance. A hostess greeted her the minute she entered.

  “Good evening and welcome to Wildwood Lodge.” The woman held out her hand. “May I take your umbrella?”

  “Thank you.” Bennie handed the wet umbrella to the hostess, then glanced past her to the elegant dining room. “I’m meeting someone here. We have reservations for seven.”

  “In what name?” The hostess asked, as she hung Bennie’s wet umbrella on a wooden coatrack.

  “Jackson. Mr. Holt Jackson.”

  “Ah, yes. Mr. Jackson’s secretary gave us very precise orders for tonight. I’m sure you’re going to be pleased.” With a mannerly sway of her hand, the hostess invited Bennie to follow her.

  She’d had lunch here six months ago during her mother’s last visit and had immediately fallen in love with the place. The restaurant possessed a rich yet casual elegance, with its dark wooden floors and wainscoted walls, deep jewel-tone upholstery fabrics and antique-style lighting fixtures. Sparkling crystal, gleaming silver and delicate china comprised each inviting place setting. Crisp white linen tablecloths and matching napkins, secured with brass rings, graced each private table. Sturdy wooden chairs with cloth-covered seats were arranged in even numbers, ranging from two to ten, depending upon table size.

  The hostess led Bennie to a secluded table in the corner, near a window overlooking a large patio and flower garden, illuminated by lampposts reminiscent of a bygone era. A bouquet of white roses served as a centerpiece for the table and atop one of the china plates lay a small golden box of Bennie’s favorite chocolates.

  Rene had thought of everything! Bennie halfway expected to see a band of gypsy violinists appear out of nowhere.

  “Would you care for a drink while you wait for Mr. Jackson?” the hostess asked.

  “Water with lemon, please,” Bennie said. She certainly didn’t want anything alcoholic this early in the evening. When Holt arrived, she’d need all her senses sharp and her mind alert.

  By the time Holt turned his Jaguar off the main highway and onto the two-lane road leading to Wildwood Lodge, it was raining so hard he could barely see two feet in front of him. He’d heard a flash flood warning issued when he’d been flipping through the radio stations trying to get a weather report. A September storm was brewing and this one followed two earlier gully washers that had hit the area the previous week. Creeks and rivers ran high and if more rain fell tonight, some could overflow their banks.

  The storm fit Holt’s mood. Dark. Gloomy. Miserable. The closer he got to Wildwood Lodge the more he dreaded the evening. If he hadn’t agreed to this blind date, he could be home right now, warm and comfortable, with a beer, a pizza and Carmel curled up next to him on the sofa. No, not Carmel. They had parted, by mutual consent, over a month ago and she already had a new boyfriend. Well, maybe Lori. No, not Lori. She’d moved from Fairmount a couple of months ago, hadn’t she? So what about Tiffany? He could have called and asked her to drop by after her shift at JoJo’s Bar ended. They could have shared a late supper and then some enjoyable sack time.

  Come on, Jackson, he said to himself. Admit it. What you’d like to be doing is spending time with Bennie. You’d like her to be the woman sharing your beer and pizza. And the woman sleeping in your bed tonight.

  Over the years, every time he’d allowed sexual thoughts about Bennie to creep into his mind, he had always run toward the nearest available female as a means of protection. So, maybe this woman—this perfect woman—he was on his way to meet could solve that problem permanently. Once he was married, he’d have no choice but to keep Bennie at arm’s length. Even if he wouldn’t be in love with his wife, he intended to be faithful to her. He’d seen too many marriages wrecked because of infidelity. His parents’ for one. And his thrice married younger brother for another.

  He and his two brothers had grown up without a father’s love, financial support or presence in their lives. His mother had worked herself to death raising three boys on her own. She’d died when Holt was in the army. She’d been forty-one. As far as his old man went, Holt had no idea where he was or if he was dead or alive. Jerry Don Jackson had left town with another woman twenty-five years ago and hadn’t been heard from since.

  Damn! If the rain got any worse, he’d have to pull off the side of the road and wait until it slacked up a bit. If he had to do that, he’d wind up being late for his date with Ms. Mystery Woman. Maybe he should go ahead and call the lodge to let her know he’d be late. Or he could call and cancel, tell her the road conditions were terrible. No, he couldn’t do that. He wasn’t the type of guy who’d stand up a lady, especially on such short notice.

  Fifteen minutes later, Holt parked his car. He scanned the floorboard for an umbrella. Then he remembered he’d left the thing at the office this past week. Oh, well, a little rain wouldn’t kill him. He’d probably wind up a little
less presentable, but what the heck. The lady might as well see him soaked to the skin, irritable and less than his usual charming self.

  As he entered the building, an oil painting of the lodge that hung in the vestibule caught his attention. He realized the structure, which in fact was a huge old farmhouse, had been remodeled and turned into an inn. A one-story addition housed the restaurant.

  Within two minutes after Holt sloshed his way into the dining room, he noticed two things simultaneously—the attractive young hostess heading his way and the scarcity of dinner guests. Not more than six of the two dozen tables were occupied.

  “Good evening, sir,” the hostess greeted him.

  “I’m Holt Jackson,” he said. “I’m supposed to meet a young lady for dinner.”

  “Yes, of course. Right this way, Mr. Jackson. Your date arrived about twenty minutes ago.”

  “I ran into some bad weather,” he explained as he followed the hostess. “Doesn’t look as if many people came out tonight.”

  “Business is slow. We’ve had numerous cancellations.”

  “I can understand why. I almost canceled myself.”

  “That would have been a shame, considering we’ve made all the special preparations your secretary requested to make this a perfect evening for you and your date.”

  All the preparations his secretary had requested? Just what sort of instructions had Rene given these people? he wondered.

  The hostess paused when they reached a secluded table in the far corner. The woman waiting there faced the opposite direction. All he could see was the back of her dark head; her long slender neck and her shoulders encased in red silk. Before he could round the table, a violinist, playing some asinine romantic melody, approached. No doubt this fiddle player was one of the special preparations Rene had requested.

  Holt slipped a couple of fingers under his collar in an effort to loosen his tie. He hated the damn things, but Bennie had convinced him that the lady would expect at least a sport coat and tie. He didn’t own a suit and had no intention of buying one!