Within a couple of minutes, he had the shopping center in sight, and the stalled car wasn’t hard to find considering the line of traffic detouring around the sides. Impatient drivers delivered punctuated honks at the woman sitting inside behind the wheel, apparently waiting out the worst of the summer storm. Despite his hardened resolve, Clay experienced a pang of compassion, thinking he certainly wouldn’t want his sister—if he had one—to be in the same predicament.
While he waited to turn in, she suddenly sprang from the car and ran through the rain in the direction of a nearby bank, ducking beneath the drive-through canopy to shake herself like a dark, wet collie. He hated the protective feelings that welled in his chest at the bedraggled sight of her. Clay pulled into the drive-through corridor, then buzzed down his window, forcing surprise into his voice. “Annabelle?”
*****
Annabelle winced when she recognized Clay’s voice, then slowly turned. It was him, all right, tucked inside his splendid luxury sedan, gorgeous, grinning…and dry.
“Hello,” she said with as much nonchalance as she could muster while shoving long wet bangs out of her eyes. Her cotton shorts and thin T-shirt clung to her.
“Having car trouble?”
“Yes.”
He looked at her for a few seconds, then beckoned her with a jerk of his head. “Well, get in.”
Torn between exasperation and gratitude, she ran around the front of his car and slid into the passenger seat. The door closed with a vacuum seal. Her wet skin squeaked against the gray leather seat, and her chest rose and fell quickly as she recovered from the brief exertion. She felt like a drowned cat. Clay, on the other hand, was unruffled and impossibly handsome in jeans and a navy polo shirt. Seeing him again both soothed and rankled her in a way she couldn’t explain, so she reasoned she wasn’t glad to see him, but simply glad she wouldn’t have to wait on a wrecker for a ride.
“Thanks,” she murmured, smoothing a hand over her hair. “Out running errands?”
“I, um, had to make a deposit,” he said, gesturing to the bank.
“Nineteen thousand nine hundred dollars?” she asked sweetly.
Clay frowned. “You’re soaked.”
Realizing her dripping self wasn’t exactly good for the interior, she said, “Sorry about your upholstery.”
He shook his head to dismiss her worry, then leaned toward her. For a split second, Annabelle’s breath caught in her throat—he was going to kiss her again. Her mouth twitched in anticipation.
“I usually keep a golf towel in here,” he said, unlatching the glove compartment. “Ah.” He withdrew a small white cloth and offered it to her.
Her embarrassment slowed her reflexes.
He shook the towel. “It’s clean.”
She accepted it with a tight smile and sopped up the wetness on her arms.
“What happened to your mother’s car?”
“The engine light has been coming on lately. This time it came on and the engine died.”
“That doesn’t sound safe.”
“No, but Mom’s getting a new car soon.” She was taking Belle to the car lot tomorrow to get that used sedan, whether she liked it or not.
He pulled out into the rain and maneuvered his car nose to nose with the Buick. “In case your battery just needs to be jumped,” he answered her puzzled look.
“I don’t think it’s the battery,” she said. “The engine won’t turn over.”
“Could you be out of gas?” His tone held a note of amused chauvinism that needled her.
“No, I’m not out of gas,” she assured him in an appropriately sing-songy feminine voice.
“I’ll take a quick look under the hood unless you’d rather I take you home first.”
She lifted one eyebrow. “Wow, a venture capitalist and a mechanic.”
He belted out a hearty laugh that surprised her, throaty and lingering. A rush of pleasure pulsed through her to be able to evoke that laugh from such a guarded man. Immediately, she wanted to hear it again.
Clay held out his hand, giving her a good look at a perplexing row of calluses. He hadn’t gotten them from carrying around his briefcase. “Your keys?”
She dug in her canvas purse, finally fishing the keys from the farthest corner. “Actually, Mother is waiting for me at the caterer’s. I was going back to pick her up as soon as I, um, ran a couple of errands.” She gave in to a clammy shiver, embarrassed anew at the picture she must present—the man probably thought she was the most accident-prone person walking.
“Here,” he said, reaching into the back seat where a stack of clothes lay in plastic dry cleaner’s bags. He removed a black cotton sweater from a hanger and handed it to her. “A little big for you, but it’ll keep you warm.”
“Th-thank you,” she stammered. The sweater was soft and welcoming, but she bit her lower lip, hesitant to put on an article of the man’s clothing, especially after she glanced at the label. I-yie-yie.
He turned a knob that warmed the blast of air coming from the vents. “Stay put and I’ll see what I can do.”
When the door closed behind him, she draped the sweater around her shoulders as she watched him in the side mirror. If possible, the rain was coming down even harder. He circled around to the back of his car and withdrew a ball cap from the trunk, which he jammed on his head. Then he strode to the driver’s side of her mother’s car where he unlocked the door, and lowered himself inside. A minute later, he exited and raised the hood of the Buick. His back muscles moved under the damp shirt, making her very aware of the contained power of his body.
Protected…she felt protected.
Shaken by the realization that such a simple act of assistance could affect her, Annabelle busied her hands drying herself with the towel he’d given her. She even managed to squeeze some moisture from the ends of her hair, then unfolded the towel and stared at the pale green logo. Kenton Keys Country Club, Atlanta. She shook her head at the reminder of a lifestyle to which he was so accustomed, wondering how much he spent on greens fees in a year’s time. Different worlds, she reminded herself. A relationship between them would never wor—
The driver’s door opened, startling her, and Clay swung inside, shrugging off moisture, then tossed his cap onto the back floorboard. His face looked grim, and water dripped from the end of his nose. “The engine won’t turn over.”
Annabelle laughed and passed him the towel. “Told you so.”
“Might be the alternator,” he said, wiping his neck. He held up his phone. “I can call a repair shop I’ve used.”
“If they work on Mercedes, they might not take Mom’s car.”
He shook his head as he put his car into gear. “It’s not a dealership—they fixed a fuel line on my pickup.”
She blinked. “Pickup? You own a pickup truck?”
“You sound surprised.”
“No,” she said quickly. “Well, yes. You just don’t strike me as someone who would need a pickup.”
He gave her a pointed look. “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.” He punched in a phone number, then proceeded to arrange for the car to be towed and repaired as soon as was humanly possible.
His words vibrated in her head as she watched him talk and move, noting the way his wet dark hair curled over his forehead and around his ears. Maybe I don’t know you…and maybe I’d like to. The revelation stunned her, and her defenses immediately sprang up. The most stupid, destructive thing she could do to herself would be to fall for Clay Castleberry.
“Someone will be here in a couple of minutes,” he said, putting away his phone. “Then we’ll pick up your mother, unless you need to run more errands.”
Annabelle’s gaze involuntarily flew to her mother’s ring twinkling on her left hand. “No, I was finished.”
“Hey,” Clay said mildly, following her glance. “That’s new.”
“Um, not really.” She was hesitant to tell him she’d accepted her mother’s old ring since he might see it as a sign o
f relenting to the idea of a union between their families.
“Oh?” he asked, then reached forward to grasp the knuckle of her ring finger. His touch sent a bolt of awareness through her hand as he eyed the modest but brilliant stone. “I hadn’t noticed you wearing it before.”
“I, um, had to have it resized.”
“Ah. I’m just surprised—I assumed your occupation had turned you against marriage.”
Annabelle almost frowned in confusion, then realized with a start that he thought she was engaged. Laughter bubbled in her throat—although the idea was absurd, what perfect insulation to cool the increasing heat between them. Because even if Clay entertained the slightest intention of kissing her again, he certainly wouldn’t waste his time on a taken woman. “Well,” she said breezily, tucking a strand of wet hair behind a wet ear, “maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”
“Touché.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “I assume you were informed about our plans this evening.”
So he wasn’t looking forward to having dinner, she realized with the most irksome little tickle of disappointment. Annabelle managed a casual shrug. “Since our parents insist on dragging us along, perhaps we can try to reason with them and put a stop to this ridiculous wedding.”
“Right,” he replied as a wrecker pulled up next to them. “Let’s try to make the best of an unpleasant situation.”
Annabelle manufactured a shaky smile. “Yes, let’s.”
Chapter Nine
“PROMISE ME, CLAY,” his father said as they stood at the restaurant bar, “that you’ll be on your best behavior tonight.”
Clay scowled. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Dad, I’m no longer a child to be reprimanded.” Not that his father had reprimanded him as a child, either—Martin hadn’t been around enough to dole out discipline.
Martin sighed. “Son, if you’re angry with me over this marriage, fine, but don’t take it out on Belle, and more specifically, Annabelle.”
“Annabelle?”
His father arched an eyebrow. “Belle and I would like for the two of you to try to get along.”
“Gee, I thought it was just this afternoon that I gave her a ride when her car broke down.”
“And you’ve been in a foul mood ever since.”
Clay banged his drink glass down on the bar. “I can’t help it—there’s something about that woman I don’t like.”
Martin looked past his shoulder, then stood abruptly. “I can’t imagine what on earth it would be.”
Alerted by the tone in his father’s voice, Clayton turned, and all the moisture left his mouth. Annabelle and her mother stood in the entrance to the restaurant bar, and while Belle was certainly attractive for her age, every male head in the room had turned to admire Annabelle.
She wore a yellow sleeveless dress that hit her lean leg well above the knee, and high-heeled silver sandals with an ankle strap. He had never fancied himself as having a shoe fetish, but he was riveted to those ankle straps—although admittedly the slim ankles they enclosed might have provided the allure. And her hair…her hair was pulled back smoothly from her face and formed a loose knot at the nape of her neck. Unframed, her face was radiant, notwithstanding the little frown that furrowed her brow as she swept her gaze over the room. His pulse quickened absurdly at the fleeting realization that she was looking for him.
A square of colored paper he recognized as the valet ticket floated unnoticed from her hand to the floor and at least a half-dozen men moved toward her, spurring him into action. He covered the area in four easy strides and snatched the ticket from the hand of a hopeful looking fellow. “Thank you.”
As he turned to Annabelle, he was shaken by the urge to stake his territory in the room full of men who were on the prowl. “Hello.”
“Hi,” she said with the briefest of smiles. Her eyes glittered golden beneath the subdued lighting. She looked like a movie star.
He held up the valet ticket. “I’ll hang on to this for you.”
She nodded and he detected a wonderful clean scent floating around her—like floral soap and fruity shampoo. A woman’s grooming had always been the most intriguing mystery to him—the hours spent in the bathroom among fragrant potions to emerge soft-skinned and pink-cheeked and sweet-smelling. It was one of his fondest memories of his mother. Whether wearing an evening gown or an old gardening shirt, she always smelled like a lady. Annabelle’s skin gleamed with dewy moisture, evoking images of her shoulder-deep in a bubble bath, a vision that stirred him.
His father’s voice sounded behind him, and he forced himself to focus on the words. “… just called our name, son. Our table is ready.”
The spell broken, he turned to see Martin and Belle walking ahead of them. He swept his arm in front of Annabelle. “After you.” Then he fell in step a half-pace behind her, his hand skimming her lower back, just in case she lost her way following the hostess and their parents. “I see the airline found your luggage.”
Annabelle crinkled her nose. “Not yet. Counting that pink bridesmaid getup, this makes two useless dresses I’ve had to buy and will probably never wear again.”
“You don’t dress up for your fiancé?” he asked casually.
“W-well…”
“Then I’m flattered.”
She sniffed daintily, her gaze straight ahead. “Don’t be.”
On the other hand, he conceded wryly, good old Mike would be privy to that sheer little bra and panty ensemble. He glanced at her left hand, surprised to find it naked. “Speaking of which, where’s your ring?”
Her step faltered as she covered her left hand with her right. “I must have forgotten it.”
Clay pursed his lips, thinking Annabelle probably slid the ring on and off at whim. He wondered if Mike in Michigan knew what kind of fickle female he was engaged to. Then he frowned. Perhaps Annabelle’s betrothed was some poor unassuming older man who, like his father, didn’t realize he was being taken for a ride. Maybe her fiancé was indeed the source of the money Annabelle’s mother had seemed concerned about that first day by the pool.
“Is something wrong?” Annabelle murmured for his ears only as he held out her chair.
“No.”
“Then why are you looking at me as if I have horns?”
“For all I know,” Clay whispered in her ear as she sat, “under all that hair, perhaps you do.”
She snatched the white linen napkin from her plate and snapped it open over her lap as she whispered, “Are you actually admitting that you don’t know everything?”
He couldn’t suppress a smile as he took the seat to her left. “I refuse to incriminate myself, counselor.”
She was a beauty, he allowed, admiring the graceful column of her neck, noticing how the yellow dress reflected the gold in her eyes. Too bad the woman couldn’t be trusted. He glanced across the table, exasperated that the older couple was so immersed in each other. They clasped hands and exchanged words in lowered voices. At the light in his father’s eyes, Clay experienced a pang of resentment toward the woman whose affection for his father was most likely artificial, or at best, short-lived.
Clay knew his father’s endless string of affairs was a weak attempt to replace his mother, with whom Martin had been so in love. He felt sorry for his father because he himself wasn’t immune to the occasional twinge of loneliness. On the other hand, he refused to add to his father’s inevitable heartache by encouraging a marriage to yet another crafty fortune seeker. His gaze bounced back to the dark-haired enchantress who nibbled on the nail of her forefinger as she scrutinized the menu. Or would that be two crafty fortune-seekers?
*****
Annabelle felt Clay’s dark eyes on her, but refused to lift her gaze lest he see how nervous this entire situation made her. The aromatic, upscale restaurant, the romantic strains coming from the pianist, the pink lighting overhead—all of it a far cry from her typical rushed meals out with business associates. Having dinner with their lovebird parents just see
med too much like a double date. And Clay looked too handsome in a navy suit and a startlingly white shirt for her attention span, which seemed unbelievably short this evening. She’d read the menu at least three times and couldn’t remember a single dish.
“Would you like wine?” he asked, forcing her to look at him.
His blue eyes seemed to claim her. “No, thank you.” She wanted to keep her head as clear as possible.
“I called ahead and ordered a bottle of champagne,” Martin announced with a beaming smile at Belle. “To celebrate.”
Annabelle and Clay exchanged a split-second glance.
“Of course,” Clay relented in a low voice.
A waiter came to take their orders—Annabelle settled on mahi-mahi—and a young hostess wheeled a bucket of iced champagne to their table. Dom Perignon. To Annabelle’s ears, the sound of the bottle being uncorked was like a gunshot—an analogy not lost on her. The sparkling wine looked like liquid gold in her glass, the tiny bubbles a testament to the quality of the libation—a far cry from the carbonated grape juice her parents bought for celebrations.
She blinked back a sudden wall of tears and held her glass carefully, her resolve to protect her mother hardening.
Martin coughed lightly, and she realized he expected Clay to make a toast. Clay blinked, then slowly raised his glass. She could see he was struggling for something appropriate to say.
“To Martin and Belle,” he said finally. “May they each get out of life what they so richly deserve.”
His voice sounded cordial enough, but Annabelle picked up on the double entendre. Martin and Belle, on the other hand, were too giddy with their own togetherness to notice his lack of sincerity. They clinked crystal happily and drank deeply. When she touched her glass to Clay’s, their gazes locked. The distrust she saw there mirrored her own misgivings. Neither one of them wanted to be here. She lifted her glass to her lips and as the delicious champagne fizzed over her tongue, Annabelle dearly wished they were toasting a more deserving occasion.
Stop the Wedding! Page 9