Not His Wedding! (Silhouette Reissued)

by Suzanne Simms

  “You will explain right now, this very instant,” she informed him in no uncertain terms. The fact that the man’s accent labeled him as a fellow American didn’t excuse his behavior. “Are you with Yale’s company? Where is Yale, anyway? Why isn’t he here to meet me himself?”

  “Yale?”

  “My fiancé, Yale Grimmer.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  Diana dug in her heels and attempted to bring them both to a screeching halt. “Now, wait just a darn minute, Mr.—”

  “St. Clair. Ross St. Clair.”

  He didn’t look like a Ross St. Clair to her. He looked like a Mack Bolan. Or a soldier of fortune. Or the spy who came in from the rain. Or a cowboy dressed up in khakis.

  Held close to him as she was, Diana found his eyes unavoidable. They were the oddest color. Not blue. Not green. Not brown. But a combination of all three. She had seen the identical coloring once in a piece of polished agate.

  There was a keen intelligence in the agate-colored eyes, as well. That surprised her.

  Still, her own eyes narrowed, she demanded, “Where are you from?”

  “Phoenix.”

  “Phoenix?”

  “Arizona.”

  “I know where Phoenix is, Mr. St. Clair.” After a moment Diana gritted through her teeth. “I suppose that explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  She sniffed, and with a certain show of indignation, said, “The cowboy attitude.”

  He laughed, but there was no mirth in his laughter. “Cowboy attitude?” He gave his head a shake. “Where do you come from?”

  “Grosse Pointe.”

  “Grosse Pointe?”

  “Michigan.”

  “I know where Grosse Pointe is, Ms. Winsted.” Then he muttered something under his breath.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “I suppose that explains it.”

  “Explains what?” Hadn’t they been through all of this once before?

  Ross St. Clair sniffed, perfectly mimicking her own show of indignation. “The debutante attitude.”

  She felt the heat rise to her face. “I am not a debutante.”

  His eyes bored into hers, two chips of hard, variegated stone. “Well, that makes two of us. I’m not a cowboy.”

  She could see he was steering her toward the nearest exit. “This has gone quite far enough, Mr. St. Clair. You’re hurting my arm. You will release me immediately.”

  To her astonishment, he did.

  He hadn’t really hurt her, but she did rub her skin, trying to get her circulation going again, “I am going back to collect my luggage and locate the driver who was no doubt sent to the airport by my fiancé.”

  “Like I said, we have to get out of here.”

  “Mr. St. Clair—”

  “Ross.”

  “Mr. St. Clair, I have been traveling for twenty-five hours straight. I have been in four taxi cabs, five airports and at least six time zones since I left home yesterday. Consequently I no longer have a sense of humor. I seem to have lost it somewhere over the Pacific Ocean.” She tapped the toe of her Maud Frizon pump. “You are either playing a rather bad practical joke on me, or you’re crazy. Frankly I don’t care which. I’m tired and I’m hungry and I’m not going one more step anywhere with you.”

  He stopped, then paced back and forth in front of her for a minute, running his hands through his hair in an agitated gesture and stating unequivocally, “You are in danger.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Only from you.”

  “Not from me, dammit,” he swore, seemingly out of frustration. “I’m the one person you can trust.”

  She pointed out, with what she considered impeccable logic, “You are a total stranger, Mr. St. Clair. You show up here at the airport and tell me I’m in danger. You push me around and you manhandle me. There is no earthly reason why I should trust you.”

  He lifted his broad khaki shoulders. “Look, lady, I’ve traveled for three days and three nights by boat, train, plane, bus and jeepney—” he ticked the various modes of transportation off on his fingers as if they were items on a shopping list “—in order to reach the airport in time. I have met every damn flight coming in from Los Angeles since midnight. Consequently I no longer have a sense of humor. I realize it sounds crazy, but you are in danger. Whether you believe me or not, you’ve got trouble, Ms. Winsted. Big trouble.”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, the only trouble I’m having is with you,” she said neatly. “Now you’ll have to excuse me, but I intend to find my porter and reclaim my bags.”

  “Listen—”

  “Keep away from me, or I will scream bloody murder.” Diana meant every word. Losing her dignity was one thing, but this was turning out to be serious business. This bordered on kidnapping. “I can and I will. Trust me.”

  He swore under his breath.

  Diana turned on her heel and purposefully walked away from him, her spine straight, her posture perfect, her dignity intact. She didn’t look back.

  To hell with her, Ross decided as Diana Winsted turned on her heel and marched away from him, her silk-clad back ramrod straight.

  God knows, he had done his duty. He’d tried to warn her of the possible danger she faced. She just didn’t want to hear what he had to say.

  Too bad. She had possibly the best pair of legs he’d ever seen on a woman. They were like those of a thoroughbred: long and sleek and lovely to watch in motion.

  Still, he’d known Diana Winsted’s type before. They tended to be a real pain in the butt.

  Ross watched her retreating from across the entire length of the Metro Manila Airport. A frown creased his brow. What had he called her earlier that had gotten her so riled? A debutante? Yup, that was it: a debutante.

  She was, too.

  Gut instinct told him that Diana Winsted was one of those women who spent their lives perfecting the “niceties” of correct social behavior. The kind considered essential among the “upper” classes, among “old money.” She undoubtedly knew which fork to use to eat seafood, what kind of glassware was appropriate to serve an after-dinner liqueur in and whether protocol called for a US. senator or a monseigneur to be seated to the hostess’s right.

  She dressed to absolute perfection, and with nary a wrinkle. He imagined, too, that her hair and makeup were always immaculate, whether the temperature outside was sixty or a hundred in the shade. She had the classic good looks—the cool, chic, haughty blond beauty—of an Alfred Hitchcock heroine.

  Another thought suddenly occurred to Ross. This one brought a speculative smile to his face. Perhaps like the Hitchcock movie heroines, there was a passionate and sensuous woman beneath the cool, chic facade.…

  Either way—icy debutante or warm, sensuous woman—who did he think he was kidding? One halfhearted attempt to warn Diana Winsted of the danger she was in wasn’t enough. He had to give it another try.

  With that, Ross turned to follow his quarry and, in the process, caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the glass of an airport window.

  He hesitated, staring at himself for a moment. Who could blame the woman for having her doubts about him? He scarcely recognized himself. He looked like hell.

  What he looked like, Ross St. Clair realized with a genuine sense of surprise, was a bum.

  First things first, he reminded himself, and the first order of business was finding out the name of the hotel in which Ms. Winsted was staying. To that end he took off after the porter who had handled her luggage. The twenty-dollar bill folded in his palm would buy him the information he required.

  Then he was definitely going to get a haircut. And a shave and a shower. Maybe a clean pair of khakis, as well.

  Yup, no doubt about it. Debutante or warm, sensuous woman, Diana Winsted had the best pair of legs he’d ever set eyes on.

  Three

  Diana didn’t recognize him at first.

  She was sitting at a linen-covered table in the restaurant of the historic Manila
Hotel, studying the dinner menu and minding her own business. When she happened to glance up, there he was, standing in the lobby.

  Somehow the man stood out from everyone else milling around the hotel entrance. It wasn’t just because he was tall. It wasn’t just because he had broad, muscular shoulders and a trim, lean waist. It certainly wasn’t because he was handsome, he was too tough and too hard to be considered good-looking in the conventional sense.

  Then she recognised him. It was the lunatic from the airport. The one who had tried to kidnap her. The one who’d claimed she was in grave danger. Ross St. Clair.

  Apparently he was more resourceful than she’d given him credit for. Somehow, some way, he had discovered where she was staying. No doubt he’d bribed the porter who had helped with her luggage. She wouldn’t put it past him.

  Diana raised her menu to eye level, she could clearly see him, but he wouldn’t—with any luck—see her.

  She had to admit that this Ross St. Clair was a definite improvement on the “first” one. He’d taken time to get a haircut, although the brown hair, streaked blond by the sun and the sea, was too long by most corporate standards. He was completely clean shaven, and his khakis appeared to have been washed and pressed.

  Still, there was something fundamentally uncivilized about him. Which added up to one thing in the end: Ross St. Clair was exactly the wrong kind of man.

  She knew the type well. Hadn’t she watched just last year, helpless to do otherwise, as her best friend’s heart was broken by falling in love with the wrong kind of man: a man who was irresponsible, a man unwilling to make a commitment, a man addicted to danger and adventure, a drifter?

  That was when Diana had vowed she would only fall in love with the right kind of man, a man like Yale Grimmer.

  Yale had it all, she thought with genuine satisfaction: good looks, a MBA degree from Harvard, enough money but not too much—too much was considered vulgar—social position, career ambitions that included his recent promotion to corporate vice president of operations for Asia and Pacific, and the unreserved approval of her parents.

  What more could any woman ask for?

  Indeed, Yale lacked only one thing—the right wife at his side.

  She would be that wife, Diana had determined several months ago. It was the reason for her trip to the Philippines, the reason she was joining her fiancé halfway around the world from home. Together they were going to find a house and make all the necessary arrangements for their life overseas. They would return to the States at the end of the summer, for just long enough to have the lavish wedding she’d always dreamed of, followed by a two-week Hawaiian honeymoon.

  No one was going to interfere with her plans.

  “And that includes you, Mr. Ross St. Clair,” murmured Diana as she lowered the restaurant menu.

  As if the mere mention of his name had somehow conjured up the man, he appeared at her table.

  “Where’s the boyfriend?” he inquired matter-of-factly.

  She took a deep breath, counted to ten and resisted the urge to wave the diamond engagement ring on her left hand in his face. “Yale is not my boyfriend, he is my fiancé.”

  “Where’s the fiancé?”

  She tried to appear unruffled. “I don’t know for sure.”

  Ross’s tone was one of cold amusement. “Have you lost him already? Or just temporarily misplaced him?”

  Diana knew there was a slight edge to her voice as she said, “Neither one. If you must know, there was a note waiting for me when I checked in. Yale has been called away on business. He’ll be back in Manila tomorrow.”

  There was a flash of white teeth. “How fortunate that I happened along, then, or you would have been forced to spend your first night in a new city and a new country all by yourself.”

  “There are worse things, Mr. St. Clair,” she muttered, each word dripping with sarcasm.

  “Ross, please.” He pulled out the chair opposite hers, sat down and immediately made himself at home. “You don’t mind if I join you for dinner, do you? Have you ordered yet? May I recommend the Lapu Lapu? It’s a very mild white fish native to the Philippines. You won’t have a chance to enjoy it anywhere else in the world. It’s quite delicious.”

  “Mr. St. Clair—”

  “It’s all right. I’ll order for both of us.” He turned to the uniformed waiter who magically appeared tableside. “We’ll start with the fresh seafood bisque, followed by Lapu Lapu.” He glanced up at Diana. “Do you care for rice?”

  She was too astonished by the man’s gall to do anything but shrug her shoulders.

  Ross continued ordering. “We’ll have some of the pansit and the pinakbet.” He frowned, then added, “Perhaps a little later, coffee and fruit.”

  “Pansit?” she repeated once their waiter had gone.

  “Pansit is a rice-and-noodle dish seasoned with lime and soy sauce. Pinakbet is vegetables—green beans, tomatoes, eggplant and okra—flavored with garlic, onion and ginger—three basic spices in most Filipino kitchens.” He gave her his full attention. “Did you know that the Tagalog language has at least one hundred sixty different words relating to rice, and every step of its preparation, every nuance?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “How long are you staying?” asked her dinner companion as if he were an acquaintance, or perhaps even an old friend.

  “Staying?”

  “Here at the hotel.”

  “I don’t know.” She wasn’t sure what arrangements Yale had made for her visit.

  “General MacArthur headquartered at the Manila Hotel back during the Second World War, you know. Of course, the rooms have been completely refurbished since then. It’s very elegant, very first class, very much the place to stay.”

  Diana unfolded the linen napkin beside her plate and draped it across her lap. “My fiancé prefers everything to be first class.”

  “Including his women?”

  She met his insinuating gaze. “Especially his women.” Then she asked, a shade haughtily, “Tell me, Mr. St. Clair, how long have you been out here?”

  “Ross.”

  She finally gave in and said, “Ross.”

  Her reward was a charming, masculine smile. “You mean how long have I been in Manila?”

  She was merely trying to make polite conversation. “I mean the Pacific, the Philippines, these islands, this general part of the world.”

  “Awhile.”

  From his appearance, it had been more than a while. Ross St. Clair had the look of a man who’d gone native. She continued to probe. “Years?”

  He gave his answer some thought. “Not that long.” Picking up his soup spoon, he dug into the seafood bisque set in front of him by their waiter. “These islands will change you, Diana, if you stay.”

  She tried to appear unperturbed. “There’s no doubt about it. I am staying.”

  He shrugged. “Then you’ll find that living in this part of the world peels away the veneer of civilization. It cuts right down to the bone and exposes each of us for exactly who and what we are.”

  She reached for her glass. “And exactly who or what are you, Ross?”

  His eyes became hooded. “I’m a man. Just a man.”

  Diana didn’t believe him for a second. “A man who accosts a complete stranger in the airport and claims she’s in some kind of danger?”

  He went very still. He searched her eyes. The words came out hard and uncompromising. “Give me ten minutes, Diana. That’s all I ask. If you don’t believe me after I tell you the whole story, at least I can say I tried. At least my conscience will be clear.”

  Diana opened her mouth to reply, but no sound came out. She had to admit she was surprised by his outburst. She was also intensely aware of him, of the long line of his thighs so near to her own beneath the intimate table for two.

  She left an eloquent pause, then heard herself repeat, “Ten minutes?”

  “Ten minutes.”
>
  Diana glanced down at the elegant gold watch on her wrist. “You’d better start talking, Ross St. Clair. You’re down to nine and a half minutes.”

  Ross stroked the jawline that usually sported several days’ growth of beard and mumbled half under his breath, “Where in the hell do I begin?”

  “Why not try beginning at the beginning?” suggested his table companion with a sweet, sarcastic smile, a smile that Ross would dearly loved to have wiped off the beautiful face with the age-old male solution: a kiss.

  He was abrupt with her. “Too long. Besides, too much is irrelevant. I’ll start where you enter the picture.”

  “An excellent idea, since you only have nine minutes left,” she said.

  Somehow Diana Winsted managed to be both polite and impolite at the same time. Ross wondered how long it had taken her to perfect that particular social skill.

  Then he concentrated on relating his story, beginning with the evening when he had overheard the conversation between the two men on the beach, and concluding with his arrival at the Metro Manila Airport. Under pressure he managed to convey it all in eight minutes flat.

  The woman across the table from him glanced down at the plate of Lapu Lapu being set in front of her and, when he was finished talking, said in an amused tone, “That is a very interesting and exciting bedtime story, but it is a bedtime story all the same.”

  The little fool didn’t believe him.

  He couldn’t believe it.

  Ross swore softly, then said in what he knew was a blatantly condescending manner, “In case you hadn’t noticed, Ms. Winsted, you’re one hell of a long way from home. This is the Pacific, not Grosse Pointe, Say-Yes-To-Michigan. Anything can and does happen here. Things you couldn’t imagine happening back home in a thousand years.”

  He watched as the tips of her ears turned a bright pink. “I’m well aware of that. I’m not totally naive,” she informed him.

  He didn’t mince words. “Everything I’ve told you is the absolute truth.”

  The food was aimlessly pushed around on her plate with a silver fork. “I don’t doubt you believe it is.”