Stand-in Groom

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Her graceful lips quirked upward in a smile and she snorted, trying not to laugh. “I hate to break it to you, but you sound like Mr. Roarke from Fantasy Island.”

  He gave her a mock scowl. “No, I don’t. I sound like Emilio.”

  “Hmmm. Do you speak any Italian?”

  Johnny rubbed his chin. “Only a few phrases. And definitely nothing I can toss out at your wedding reception, believe me.”

  She began searching for something in her purse, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “I guess Mr. Roarke will have to do.”

  Johnny stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed his ankles. “So which of my tuxes do you want me to wear on Sunday? The light blue polyester or the maroon velvet?”

  The look on her face was priceless. She actually believed he was serious.

  “I’ve got this pink ruffled shirt that goes great with either of ’em. …” he continued, unable to keep from smiling at her look of total horror. “Chelsea, I’m kidding. Black. My tuxedo is black. I was just getting back at you for saying I sounded like a character from a bad TV show.”

  “But I loved that show. I adored Mr. Roarke. … Until he turned into Khan and killed Mr. Spock in Star Trek II.” She paused. “You did say your tuxedo is black, right?”

  “Black and only a year old. Right in fashion. Designer label. Fits like a glove. Women faint when I wear it in public.”

  “I’ll bet.” She found whatever she was looking for in her purse, pulled it free, and handed it to him. “Here, Don Giovanni, try this on for size.”

  It was a jeweler’s box, covered with soft black velvet. It was a ring box. Johnny popped it open, and there, inside, was a gleaming golden band. He looked up at Chelsea, suddenly subdued. She, too, had fallen silent.

  This was a wedding ring. An age-old symbol of commitment and love. But Chelsea was joining him in holy matrimony on Sunday, and neither of them was expecting either.

  “I tried to guess your size,” she said softly.

  The ring was gorgeous in its simplicity. Johnny ran one finger lightly over it, but when he pulled it from the box he fumbled and dropped it on the plush carpeting.

  Chelsea bent over and picked it up. “Here,” she said, reaching for his hand.

  She slid the ring onto his finger.

  It seemed far too intimate an act. Far too personal for two people who barely knew each other. Chelsea looked up into his eyes, and for Johnny, time seemed to stand still.

  “It fits,” she whispered, still holding his hand.

  It did fit. Snugly. Perfectly. About as perfectly as her hand fit in his.

  “Good guess,” he said. His voice sounded odd too. Breathless.

  “Mr. von Reuter will see you now,” Mrs. Mert announced, appearing suddenly, like a specter from the mist.

  Chelsea jumped and dropped Johnny’s hand as if he’d burned her.

  Johnny looked down at the ring he was wearing on his left hand.

  Married.

  On Sunday, he was going to get married. He should be searching his soul, questioning the moral implications of so casually entering into one of the holy sacraments. He was, after all, at least half-Catholic.

  But instead, all he could think was how much he couldn’t wait to kiss the bride.

  FOUR

  CHELSEA LIKED HIM. She honestly liked Johnny Anziano.

  He was charming and smart, and he had a good sense of humor, thank God. And he certainly wasn’t difficult to look at, that much was for sure. As if he felt her watching him, he glanced in her direction and she quickly looked away.

  She found Johnny much too attractive. This was a huge mistake. How on earth was she going to live with this man for a week or two without getting in too deep?

  Control. Willpower. She took a deep breath. She could do it. She was going to have to do it.

  Tim von Reuter droned on, explaining the terms of the prenuptial agreement as Johnny read over the documents.

  “I have a question,” he said in his smoky voice when Von Reuter stopped for a breath. God, even his voice had the power to send shivers up and down her spine.

  This had to stop. Johnny Anziano was just a man. She’d had working relationships with men before, with absolutely no shivers up or down any part of her anatomy.

  Johnny glanced at Chelsea again. “About the annulment … You mention annulment as a means of ending the marriage, but … Clue me in here, Tim. If annulment is so much easier and faster, why does anyone bother with divorce?”

  Von Reuter cleared his throat. “We have connections to a judge who will grant unopposed annulments provided the marriage has not been consummated. Most marriages are consummated.”

  Chelsea looked up and met Johnny’s gaze. Instant fire. He didn’t smile this time—was it possible, he, too, couldn’t manage to move any of his muscles at all?

  Somehow she managed to pull her gaze away and she heard him shift in his chair as if he, too, had suddenly been freed.

  Her lawyer leaned toward Johnny. “This marriage is going to be a business partnership. You do understand that you’re going to be married in name only?”

  Johnny nodded. “I understand that. But …” He paused, as if searching for the right words. “What if …?” He cleared his throat. “I’m not saying that it’s going to happen, but if something does happen, I mean …” He was embarrassed, but this was clearly important enough for him to plow on through. “If something happens of, um, an intimate nature between Chelsea and me, then we’ll have to go through the whole divorce procedure, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Nothing’s going to happen.” Chelsea wished she felt as confident as she sounded.

  Von Reuter put in his two cents. “Such an … event would be difficult to prove, if you know what I’m saying.”

  “In other words, if we slipped and ‘accidentally’ had sex—if such a thing is possible—we could lie about it under oath when it comes time to end the marriage?” Chelsea snorted and shook her head. “That’s unacceptable. I won’t do that.” She turned to Johnny. “If a sexual relationship is an important part of what you’re hoping to get out of this deal, you may as well walk out the door right now.”

  God, were they actually sitting here in her lawyer’s office discussing sex? Chelsea could hardly breathe.

  Johnny was sitting back in his seat, obviously going nowhere as he gave her one of his extremely potent smiles. “It’s no big deal. I was just wondering how many cold showers I’d have to take over the next few weeks.”

  “As many as you need,” she told him. But how many would she need? As many as it took, she decided grimly. There was no way she was putting this deal in jeopardy.

  She made a mental note to take a vast amount of work with her to St. Thomas. And she’d call the hotel again this afternoon to be absolutely certain that the connecting rooms she’d reserved had a door with a working lock between them. Control was always easier when temptation was reduced.

  Johnny sat forward, reaching for a pen, and glancing once more in her direction, he signed the agreement.

  Chelsea felt giddy as the document was passed to her. “I don’t have your card,” she said to Johnny, thinking aloud as she initialed the pages and added her signature to the bottom.

  “I don’t have a card,” Johnny told her as they both shook Von Reuter’s hand and rose to leave the room.

  “Do you have a phone number?” she asked, opening her appointment book to the back as Tim walked them out to the reception area. She jotted down the numbers Johnny gave her for both home and work. “The wedding’s at noon on Sunday at the First Congregational Church. Do you have a fax at work? I can send you directions. …”

  “I’ll see you both on Sunday,” Von Reuter said, disappearing toward his office.

  Johnny held the door to the street open for her. “I know where the church is.”

  It was raining in earnest now, and Chelsea slipped on her raincoat and opened her umbrella. It seemed so odd. She and this stranger
had just signed a marriage agreement. She and this stranger were going to be married in a matter of days. …

  And the marriage would be annulled in a matter of days after that, she reminded herself.

  “There’s a rehearsal and a dinner scheduled for Saturday evening.” Chelsea held the umbrella up high enough so he could stand underneath it too. What a mistake. Now he was standing much too close. Whatever the faint cologne was he was wearing, it should have been illegal. It was impossibly enticing. “But I know that you have to work.”

  “There’s no way I can get that time,” he apologized. She could feel his body heat even though they weren’t quite touching. “My boss nearly had a heart attack when I told him I needed a few days off after the wedding.”

  “It’s probably better this way,” she said, her mouth remarkably dry. She gazed out at the street, afraid to look up into his eyes. He was so tall and so … close. She tried to sound casual, matter-of-fact. “I’ll cancel the rehearsal and the dinner and we’ll just … wing it on Sunday. Just be ready for the minister to call you Emilio, all right? We’ll use your real name in Vegas. Oh, do you have a copy of your birth certificate?”

  Johnny nodded. “Yeah. I’ll bring it. Look, can I give you a lift somewhere? My car’s right around the corner.”

  “No. Thank you. I’m heading all the way out to Brookline. It’s out of your way—I’ll just catch a cab.”

  “It’s not that big a deal.”

  “No, I don’t want to make you late for work.” What she really didn’t want was to spend a fifteen-minute ride through heavy traffic sitting next to Johnny in his car. With the rain drumming on the roof and the windows steaming up, it would be far too close quarters.

  “How about we get together for lunch tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow …” She let him take hold of the umbrella as she flipped open her book, already knowing what was written there. “No, I’m sorry. I’m doing lunch with my parents.”

  “Saturday?”

  Chelsea shook her head, grateful that she had another excuse. “My mother’s made me promise her the entire day,” she told him. God knows she’d be spending enough time with him immediately after the wedding. Why start testing her willpower any sooner?

  “I guess I’ll see you Sunday, then.”

  “Call me if you’re going to be late, or … something.”

  “I won’t be late.”

  She looked up into his eyes and found him smiling at her.

  “Really,” he said again. “I won’t be late.”

  His gaze flickered down to her mouth, but when he leaned forward, he kissed her gently on the cheek.

  Chelsea’s heart was drumming in her chest. This was insane. This was totally crazy. How was it possible that one little chaste kiss on the cheek could make her feel as if she were going to explode?

  Johnny stepped out from underneath the umbrella, pressing the handle into her hands. She almost dropped it.

  Control. Willpower.

  Chelsea forced her mouth up into a friendly smile, forced herself to turn and walk toward the street, forced herself to lift a hand to beckon to one of the cabs that were racing by.

  She could feel him watching as a cab jolted to a stop beside her. He was still standing there as she got in and the cab pulled away. She let herself sag back against the seat.

  Control. Willpower. Something told her this was going to be her mantra over the next week.

  “I remembered what it was that I didn’t tell you.”

  Johnny gazed blearily at the red numbers of the digital clock on his bedside table: 3:40 A.M. “Chelsea?” he said into the phone.

  “Yeah, it’s me. I know I probably woke you, but all I could think about was what if I waited until the morning to call, and then you weren’t home and …” He heard her draw in a deep breath. “I’m sorry, John. God, I’m really losing it. Please, will you do me a favor and call me first thing in the morning? It’s really important.”

  He reached over and turned on the light, squinting in the sudden brightness. “No, it’s all right,” he said, running his hand over his eyes and the roughness of his cheeks and chin. “I haven’t been asleep for that long. I only get home from work at twelve-thirty on a Friday, and then I’m usually too wired to go right to bed. And tonight I was bouncing off the walls. Too much coffee, probably.” Tonight he’d stared at the ceiling for a solid hour after he’d gotten into bed, thinking about the fact that he was getting married day after tomorrow. “What’s up?”

  “Can you really talk now? I mean, you’re not busy, I mean, you don’t have company?”

  Johnny had to laugh. “Maybe after we get to Vegas there’ll be time for us to talk—get to know each other a little bit better. And then I can tell you things about myself like, I don’t do one-night stands, and that I certainly wouldn’t start an affair two days before I was planning to marry someone else.”

  Chelsea was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “Hey, no offense taken—it takes more than that to offend me. But of course you wouldn’t know that either, would you?”

  “We don’t know each other at all,” she said quietly.

  Johnny leaned back against his pillows, tucking the phone under his chin. “So let’s make a date for Vegas. Whaddaya say?”

  Another pause. “Maybe it’s better if we just … don’t get to know each other.”

  “Aren’t you curious about me?”

  “Well, yes, but …”

  He could hear rustling on her end, as if she, too, were settling back in her bed. The thought brought all sorts of incredible pictures to mind and his throat suddenly felt tight. His voice was husky when he spoke. “But what?” he asked.

  “It’s not like we’re really getting married,” she pointed out. “It’s a business deal. I’ve done business with people I’ve known absolutely nothing about.”

  He cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, you haven’t had to go on a honeymoon with them, have you?”

  She laughed. “No, thank God.”

  “I’m way curious about you,” he said. “I don’t even know your favorite color.”

  “You also don’t know anything about my family—and that’s why I called.”

  “You called at three-forty in the morning in a near panic to tell me about your family? That’s … interesting.”

  She laughed again. She had an incredibly musical laugh. Johnny closed his eyes, letting it wash over him. He wondered what she was wearing, wondered if she slept naked, the way he did. Forget about her favorite color—there was a whole hell of a lot of other things he was dying to know about this woman.

  “It occurred to me that you would be arriving at the church on Sunday morning,” Chelsea said, “and my entire family would be there—except for me. You won’t see me until I’m walking down the aisle. I won’t be there to introduce you to anyone.”

  Johnny forced himself to concentrate on her words. She would be walking down the aisle, coming to meet him at the altar. … “Are you going to be doing it up, you know, wearing a fancy wedding dress?”

  “It’s a gown,” she said. “And yes. It’s extravagant. I don’t even want to tell you how much it cost.”

  “I bet you’re going to look beautiful.”

  “I bet you say that to all of your fiancées. John, about Sunday morning …”

  “I’ll be there, tuxedo clean and pressed, shoes shined, hair back in an extremely conservative ponytail.”

  “But I’m not supposed to see you until after the wedding, so who’s going to introduce you to my parents?”

  “I think maybe since I’m the groom, your father would probably take it upon himself to approach me and shake my hand.”

  “Yes, but he would expect my fiancé to already know my brothers’ and sister’s names. But I forgot to tell you, and that’s why I called and woke you up.”

  Aha. Now it all made sense. “How many brothers?”

  “Two. Michael and Troy
. Michael’s going to be your best man. He’s the one with glasses.”

  “Michael. Glasses. Best man.” Johnny grabbed a pen from his bedside table. There was no paper around, so he jotted the words on the side of a tissue box. “And Troy. Got it.”

  “Maybe you should write it down.”

  “I’m already a step ahead of you, pen in motion,” he said. “Sisters?”

  “One. Her name’s Sierra.”

  “Like the mountains?”

  “Well, that’s one memory aid. She’s eight months pregnant, and kind of reminiscent of a mountain range.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell her you said that.”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  “Husband?”

  “Absolutely. We don’t do unwed pregnancies in our family. Sierra got married the day after she turned twenty-two. Her husband’s name is Edgar Pope and you’ll recognize him right away too. He looks just like his name.”

  “Big pointy hat, long robe, funny way of waving his hand?”

  Chelsea laughed and he could hear her relaxing. She had obviously envisioned an incredible screwup on Sunday in which he was exposed as a fake after failing to know her family’s names.

  “No,” she said. “Little wire glasses, receding hairline, two-thousand-dollar hand-tailored suits—although he’ll probably be wearing his tuxedo. He looks kind of like a 1930s stereotype of a millionaire—without the yacht.”

  “Is he a millionaire?”

  She snorted. “If he’s not, he should be. He’s the international vice-president of some Fortune 500 company, and he works about twenty-two hours a day. These days he’s always flying off on business trips to Japan and Australia and Outer Mongolia. He’s never home—it’s a wonder Sierra managed to get pregnant at all this time. My theory is that they met for a quickie in the airport ladies’ room between his flights.”

  Johnny nearly choked.

  “This is their third demon offspring,” Chelsea told him. “They come already equipped with two junior-model Popes. An Ashley and a Skippy.”