Bridegroom on Approval

by Day Leclaire

  “Yes.”

  “You still have them.” It wasn’t a question.

  She evaded a response with a noncommittal shrug. “Why don’t we go in now?”

  “I’ll do better tonight, I promise.”

  She withdrew again, pulling inward to a place he couldn’t reach. At least, not yet. “I’d rather discuss this later.”

  He gave in with good grace. “Where should I put the luggage?”

  “There’s a small closet under the staircase. If you’d leave them there, I’d appreciate it. Then come on up and join the fray.”

  He assumed from her request that she wanted a moment or two to warn her staff of his presence. Fair enough. He could understand her need for privacy. As soon as they entered the building, she pointed in the general direction of the closet. “I’ll be along in a few minutes,” he assured. With a quick smile of agreement, she headed up a broad set of wrought-iron steps, giving him the opportunity to look around.

  Hanna was right. The place did appear better on the inside than from the street. Though not by much. Desks, frantically working employees, ringing phones and a bustling environment comprised the first level of her factory cum office building. Despite that, the work zone struck him as sterile. Scattering some plants and rugs about wouldn’t hurt. Hell, even some color would be an improvement. Perhaps after they’d been married a while he could offer some tactful suggestions using his family business, Salvatores, as an example.

  Deciding he’d delayed long enough, he ascended the iron steps. The upper floor was clearly the executive level, the stairs opening onto a large reception area—a reception area jammed with people who were arguing at the top of their lungs. Ahh. Just like home.

  Marc braced a shoulder against a convenient pillar and remained quiet, observing before acting, all the time wondering where the hell his darling wife had gotten to. He finally saw her in the very center of a circle of large male bodies, a fact that put him on instant alert. Considering the size of the men surrounding Hanna, he’d never have noticed her if it hadn’t been for a distinctive flash of red.

  “Don’t listen to Janus, Hanna. My guy’s better. Look at him.” A beefy arm waved in the direction of a plush couch where a bodybuilder sat perched on the edge of an overstuffed cushion. At least he tried to perch. Unfortunately, the couch wasn’t designed for either perching or steroid-enhanced jocks. He kept sinking into the ticking and floundering awkwardly in the cushy depths.

  “But, I don’t need him,” came Hanna’s voice. It sounded a bit testy, not to mention muffled, perhaps from trying to work its way through such an impressive wall of brawn.

  “You’re full of it, Jeb,” another of the men interrupted. “She doesn’t want her muscles on the outside. She wants them on the inside. Kip is perfect for her.” Another beefy arm—a different one—gestured in the opposite direction. Perched more successfully on the edge of a chair sat the human version of a praying mantis, his skinny arms and legs folded into awkward angles. “He’s smart.”

  “Boys, you don’t understand,” Hanna tried again. “I’ve already found—”

  “You’re both wrong,” came a third voice. “I got her one who’s pretty and smart. Top that!”

  Marc scanned the room, his gaze landing on the one he assumed must be Mr. Pretty-Smart. Blond, blue-eyed and solemn-faced, the man potentially had more than two brain cells functioning at the same time. The only remaining question was what the hell was going on around here. Who were these people and why were they busily offering a selection of men to his wife? Somehow he doubted it had anything to do with financial advice.

  “Boys! I told you. I’m not interested in—”

  “But, Hanna. You need a husband. We’re just trying to help out.”

  It was all Marc had to hear. Straightening from his lounging position, he waded into the circle, neatly cutting an opening between the three giants and just as neatly extracting his wife.

  “Heyl” one of them protested—Jeb perhaps. “What are you doing?”

  “And you are?” Marc asked.

  “Maybe I should introduce you,” Hanna began nervously.

  “Don’t trouble yourself, bellissima mia. We’re grown men. I’m sure we can straighten this out between us.” He flexed his fist. At least, he certainly hoped to have that opportunity.

  “What the hell did he say?” demanded another of Hanna’s guards. “He called her a funny name! You want me to pound on him, Mother T?”

  Mother T? “I called her beautiful,” Marc was only too happy to explain. “It’s an Italian term of endearment. It’s one I often use when addressing my wife.”

  It took several minutes for that to sink in. Apparently their brain cells were as limited as the muscle-bound jock on the couch. Finally the information must have filtered along the underused path from their ears to their brains because the three men ringing his wife dropped identically squared-off jaws. They glanced first at Hanna who sighed, then at each other, exchanging narrow-eyed looks. Turning as one to glare at Marc, they said in unison, “Your wife?”

  “Why yes,” Marc confirmed. “I believe that’s the correct term for the woman one marries.” He turned to Hanna. “Do I have it wrong, my sweet? Sometimes my English, it’s not so good.”

  “Cut the Zorro act, Marco. Your English is fine and you know it!”

  “First Don Juan, now Zorro. Both fine Spaniards. But I, cara, come from solid Italian stock.” He bared his teeth, laying on the accent good and strong. “So. If my English is good, that means I have my terms right. You’re my wife and I’m your husband. That only leaves one question.” He gestured toward the giants. “Who the hell are these cafoni?”

  Hanna released another sigh. “I’m not even going to ask what that means, since I’d rather not have my office ripped apart once we hear the translation. But to answer your question, this is Jeb, Janus and Josie. They’re...they’re my sons.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MARC TOOK A SPLIT SECOND to absorb what she’d said. “Your sons?” he repeated in patent disbelief.

  “You tell him, Mother Tyler,” the “sons” in question cheered from the sideline.

  “Salvatore!” Marc didn’t take his eyes off his wife, hoping to impress her with that fact as much as he impressed the three giants. “She’s Hanna Salvatore now.”

  “Whatever. Want us to take him out back and explain it to him, seeing as his English is so bad and all?” Jeb-Janus-Josie offered.

  She turned in a flash. “No! I do not want you to take him anywhere. I know I should have warned you—”

  “Not to mention your husband,” Marc inserted smoothly.

  She winced. “All right, fine. Not to mention my husband. But I didn’t expect everyone to be here waiting for me. Us.”

  Her explanation didn’t appease him even a little. “And I didn’t expect our welcoming party to consist of a line of potential husbands.”

  “Are you two really married?” one of her “sons” asked.

  “We married last night.” Her brow wrinkled. “Or maybe it was early this morning. I’m not sure.”

  For some odd reason her comment caused a full thirty seconds of silence. Strange and stranger. “You’re not sure?” the middle one finally asked. “You?”

  She gave an feigned apologetic shrug. “I wasn’t really watching the clock.”

  That seemed to shock them even more. “You weren’t watching?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that tears it,” the largest of the three growled. “Now we know it was a mistake. How about we give you a quickie divorce to match your quickie wedding? Or better yet, an annulment. Any chance that’s still possible?”

  Color flamed in Hanna’s cheeks. “Job—”

  That tore it! “Apologize. Now,” Marc rapped out.

  Jeb folded his arms across his massive chest and grinned. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Not even a little.”

  “Tell you what. You can feel free to make me, if you’re up to it.
Otherwise—”

  Before he could even finish what he’d been about to say, Marc had Jeb flat on his back, struggling for breath, the reverberation from his hitting the floor still echoing through the building. Marc planted a booted foot in the middle of Jeb’s chest. “You were saying?”

  “How the hell did you do that?” the smallest of the three asked. Josie perhaps.

  He laid the accent on good and strong. “It’s an Italian thing.”

  “Maybe I should go to school and learn me some Italian.” He whistled in appreciation. “I never met anyone who could take down Jeb.”

  Marc smiled coldly. “Now you have.” He returned his attention to the brother spread across the floor. “I believe you were about to offer your... mother an apology.”

  “Yeah, right.” Looking both abashed and extremely uncomfortable, he said, “Sorry, Mother T. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  Hanna glanced at Marc with huge pleading eyes. Now why did she have to go and make him feel like a heel when it was his duty to protect her? He folded his arms across his chest and waited her out. It didn’t take long.

  Her attention switched to the Tylers. “I’m sorry, boys, I really am. I hate violence, you know that.” She twisted her hands together. “But as much as I prefer calm, rational discussion over physical action—”

  “In Jeb’s case it flat-out doesn’t work,” the middle one finished for her. “He doesn’t agree with anything unless it’s bigger or stronger or harder than he is.”

  “I understand this comes as a shock, but you’ll have to accept that I know what I’m doing.” She eyed the other two boys. “That goes for all of you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” they said in unison.

  She glanced at her husband. “Marco, please. Let him up now.”

  “Very well, my sweet.”

  He removed his foot and pivoted, wrapping an arm around Hanna’s waist as part of the same swift maneuver. Before she could utter a single word of protest, he swept her toward a door he hoped led to her office. It would have been a damned shame if he’d ushered her into a closet. To his relief, he guessed right.

  Once inside her office, he turned, blocking the doorway. “Just so it’s clear,” he addressed Hanna’s family. “Hanna is no longer Mother T. She’s now Signora Salvatore.” And with that, he slammed the door and threw the lock. Not even the solid oak could keep the muffled sound of the ensuing argument from worming a path through the wood.

  Hanna hesitated in the middle of the room and stared at her brand-new husband. This wasn’t quite the homecoming she’d planned. For a long moment, he simply stood with his back to her, the muscles along his spine and shoulders corded with tension. Hanna watched as he collected himself before facing her. He smiled pleasantly enough, but she suspected beneath the surface he was flat-out furious. Perhaps if they’d been married longer, she’d know how to handle an irate husband. Unfortunately, she didn’t. Her former husband had never lost his temper with her. Come to think of it, no one ever had.

  Until now.

  “I guess I should have mentioned the boys,” she began, taking a hasty step backward.

  “That might have been a good idea,” he agreed, approaching.

  To her disgust, she found herself continuing to retreat. This was becoming a habit, and a bad one. First last night, now today. “I wasn’t quite sure how to broach the subject.”

  “How about... I married a man who had three sons, all of whom are at least five years older than me.”

  “I...I guess that was one way to have said it.” She bolted behind her desk. “Although Josie and I are the same age.”

  “The one who wants to take Italian lessons?” he paused long enough to ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Which means Papa T was substantially older than you.”

  “Do you always do that accent thing when you get upset?” Maybe one of these days she’d learn to keep her mouth shut. A frown settled on his brow and his eyes grew so dark, it reminded her of an angry storm blotting out the midday sky.

  “Are you insulting me?” he asked very, very softly.

  “No! You... you just start talking with a teeny-tiny bit of an accent every time you get upset.” She pinched her fingers together to show him teeny-tiny. “I noticed it at the hotel this morning.”

  He inclined his head, his anger abating somewhat. “I suppose it’s possible. Whenever we argue at home, we switch to Italian. My youngest brother, Pietro, often found himself at a disadvantage since his Italian was almost nonexistent. But it’s improved immensely since he married Carina. Now he can yell with the best of us.”

  “Yell?” Hanna tried to swallow her nervousness. Not that it worked. She couldn’t remember a time anyone had ever yelled at her. Or argued, for that matter. People tended to explain things to her—a lot and at great length. They always had. But raise their voice? Never. “I’m not sure I’d enjoy yelling.”

  “With hair like that?”

  She folded her arms across her chest and glared. “Red hair does not mean a person has a temper. That’s a stereotype. Like...like a dumb blonde.”

  “You don’t need to explain to me about stereotypes. I’ve had my fair share of experience with them.” He cocked a sooty eyebrow. “Are you done avoiding the discussion?”

  “What discussion?” Another bad question. Maybe she should try another tack. Before she could come up with one, he planted his hands on her desk and leaned toward her.

  “The one where you tell me what the hell is going on around here.”

  “Are you shouting?” she demanded indignantly—and in as loud a voice.

  “Damn right I am. You brought me here without giving any advance warning of what to expect.”

  “I thought we’d have an opportunity to discuss it once we got—”

  “No!” He cut her off with a sweep of his hand. “You waited because you were afraid I wouldn’t come otherwise.” Someone started pounding on the door and he swivelled to glare at it “Would you like me to handle that?”

  After what he did to Jeb? Not a chance. “I’ll buzz through to my secretary’s desk and ask what the problem is.”

  “Your secretary?”

  “She was out of the office when we arrived. Usually she’s quite good at guarding the door, but for some reason today...” Hanna frowned in suspicion. “I wonder if they sent her off on a fool’s errand so they’d have a chance to jump me?”

  The level of pounding increased. Realizing that if she didn’t do something about it, Marco would, Hanna went to the phone and buzzed Pru’s desk. It was answered promptly, though not by her secretary. “Hanna?” a concerned male voice asked. “Are you all right? We thought we heard shouting.”

  “Yes, Janus. Everything’s fine.”

  “Maybe we should come in and make sure.”

  Not a good idea. “I don’t need you to come in. There’s a few things I neglected to mention to Marco—”

  “Like us?” It was Josie now. Apparently they’d found the speaker button.

  “Yes, like you three.”

  “And Dad?” he asked shrewdly.

  “That, too. So, if you’ll all leave and take your latest offerings along with you, I’d appreciate it.” With luck they’d read “offerings” to mean the three suitors they’d dragged in for her inspection.

  There was a brief, low-voiced argument and then, “Not a chance,” Jeb retorted. “We’re staying right here until we know you’re safe.”

  Just great! She shot an uneasy glance toward Marco, who was growing visibly more impatient by the minute. He crossed to a wall chart that displayed her five-year goals and pretended to give it his full attention. Or perhaps it really had captured his interest, since he leaned closer to study something. “I’ll be fine if you’ll give me some time to discuss the situation with my husband.” Although clearing out the reception area would also help. Too bad she couldn’t convince Jeb of that. “I’m going to hang up now and I want the three of you to be quiet.”

&n
bsp; “If we hear any more shouting, we’re coming in.”

  “We won’t shout.” She gave her husband a pointed look. Not that it did much good, since he stood with his back to her. “So you won’t need to come in. Jeb... I have to go. I’ll talk to you in a little bit.” With that she hung up the phone.

  “Now where were we?” he asked, facing her.

  “I believe we were working our way toward shouting in Italian. Fortunately for us both, I don’t know any.” She held up her hands in surrender. “So you win.”

  “excellent”

  “And as a gracious winner, you’ll now allow bygones to be bygones.”

  “Ah. Is that how it works?”

  She nodded, a tentative, conciliatory smile playing around her mouth. “Absolutely.”

  “Tell me something, Hanna. This wall chart...” He gave it his full attention again. “What is it?”

  “My five-year plan. See?” She pointed. “It says so at the top.”

  Humor gleamed in his eyes at her gentle teasing. “You do that a lot? Plan things?”

  Her entire life revolved around a schedule. It always had. “Oh, I suppose I do have a tendency to plan,” she conceded blithely. “It helps keep me on track.”

  To her dismay, he flipped to the page behind the one displayed on the wall. The one she preferred to keep hidden from prying eyes. Did those prying eyes include her husband’s? Apparently, not. “And this page?” he asked, his voice reflecting an edge.

  She stiffened, as she remembered precisely what was on that chart. “It’s personal.”

  He studied the chart for an interminable minute. “Interesting.” The top sheet dropped back into place with a soft whoosh and he turned to confront her. “You have goals for your personal life, as well as your business. And you say you only have a tendency to plan?”

  She shrugged. “Blame it on my upbringing.”

  “I would except for one small problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  His smile held a dangerous quality. “You haven’t bothered to tell me about your upbringing. In fact, you haven’t bothered to share more than the bare-bone facts of your life. Including that you had a five-year plan to find a husband.” He glanced toward the chart again and cocked an eyebrow. “Me, I assume?”