“Skippy, huh?”
“His birth certificate says Edgar Pope, Junior, but his real name is Monster. Have you heard of the terrible twos?”
“Yeah.”
“Monster’s going for his fourth consecutive year of the terrible twos.”
“I guess you don’t like kids, huh?”
“I don’t like what my sister has let Edgar do to her life. She’s some kind of a trophy wife, and she won’t even acknowledge it! She does nothing besides take care of Edgar and the kids.”
“Maybe she’s happy doing that.”
“Maybe she’s had a lobotomy and everyone forgot to tell me,” Chelsea huffed. “Do you know that five years ago, she and Edgar were living in San Francisco? It was just after the Monster was born, and Sierra auditioned for a really fabulous semiprofessional community chorus. She was so excited about it—it was an interracial, intercultural, inter-everything group that did all kinds of music and it was a really big deal that she got in. She told me it was a chance to unite the diversity of the community through music, without homogenizing the cultural differences. She was so into it—she majored in both music and anthropology in college. After about three years she was elected to sit on the board of directors, which was one heck of an honor. But then two weeks later Edgar was transferred back to the Boston office. Just like that, she had to give it up.”
“But that’s part of being married,” Johnny said. “You know—compromise.”
“Exactly,” Chelsea countered hotly. “Women and men get married, and the women are the ones who have to compromise. We lose our individuality and our importance along with our identity—even our names are taken away. I’m never getting married.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong here, but aren’t you getting married in less than forty-eight hours?”
“Don’t remind me.”
There was real trepidation in her voice. Johnny pushed himself up, resting his weight on one elbow as he held the phone closer to his ear. “You’re scared about Sunday, aren’t you?”
“Hell, yes. Aren’t you?”
“I guess I’m a little nervous,” he told her honestly. “But I’m excited too. It’s funny—it’s kind of like I’m taking you to a Halloween party for our first date. You’re dressing up as a bride, and I’m going as a groom.”
“This isn’t a date—it’s a business deal,” she said.
She could call it a deal—he was going to call it a date.
“Have you still got your pen handy?” she asked. “Because my parents’ names are Howard and Julia.”
Dutifully he wrote the names down. “Got it.”
“Whatever happens on Sunday,” she said, and he got the feeling she was saying this as much to herself as to him, “just grit your teeth and smile.”
FIVE
“BREATHE,” MOIRA SAID as she adjusted Chelsea’s wedding veil. “Come on, Chels, in and out. Focus only on that. Oxygen into the lungs, then exhale. Atta girl.”
“What if he doesn’t show?” Chelsea asked. “Oh, God! What if he does?”
“He’s here,” Sierra announced, coming into the little room in the back of the church. “Chelsea, you never told me Emilio Santangelo was a hunk.”
“I gotta get a peek at this guy.” Moira went to the door and opened it a crack. “Whoa!” She turned to Chelsea in disbelief. “This is your truck—”
Truck driver. She’d almost said, “This is your truck driver,” right in front of Chelsea’s sister, who still believed that Johnny was Emilio, the investment banker from Italy.
“Sierra, will you please go and check on the flowers?” Chelsea could hear the desperation in her voice, but there was nothing she could do about it. “And run interference with Mom? She’s the last thing I need right now—criticizing my makeup and hair. You know how she gets when she’s tense.”
“You only have about three minutes before you have to get out there,” her sister warned as she closed the door behind her.
Three minutes. “All right,” Chelsea said weakly. Three minutes. And then she’d have to walk down that aisle on her father’s arm. It was the kind of symbolism she really despised—being “given” by one man, her father, to another, her soon-to-be husband, as if she were some sort of booty or prize.
It wasn’t going to be real, she tried to tell herself. It wouldn’t be legal. Johnny Anziano wasn’t Emilio, and this ceremony wouldn’t bind them in the eyes of the law or God or anyone. They were going to do the legally binding ceremony later this afternoon, in Las Vegas. And in Vegas no one was going to give her to anyone. She was going to meet Johnny Anziano as an equal, as a business partner, and together they would stand before a justice of the peace and set in motion a business deal.
“This is the guy you manage to scrounge up only three days before your wedding?” Moira asked, opening the door again and peering out at Johnny again. “I think I’m going to steal your wedding gown, lock you in the closet, and marry him myself.”
“He’s doing it for the money,” Chelsea told her, unable to resist taking a peek. But Moira shut the door before she could see him. “Is his tuxedo black?”
“Black and very nicely tailored. So tell me again where you found this guy? At an evening out at Chippendale’s?”
“I’m scared to death and you’re making jokes. What if he contests the annulment? Or challenges the prenuptial agreement?”
“What if he doesn’t and everything works out hunky-dory?” Moira pointed out. “You get your money, he gets whatever percentage you’ve offered him, your parents get to throw their party. Everyone’s happy. And, hey, you can give your ex my phone number after it’s all over.”
After it’s all over. This part of it, the wedding and the reception, would be over in just a few hours. By three o’clock, she and Johnny would be on their way to Logan Airport. By four, they’d be in the air, heading for Las Vegas.
Chelsea closed her eyes, willing herself not to think beyond three o’clock, trying not to think about getting married for real. First things first, and first she had to get past this hurdle. Standing up in front of nearly six hundred people made her knees feel weak, and standing up in front of them to pledge eternal devotion to a man she had no intention of spending a month let alone an eternity with made her mouth dry.
And then there was the possibility that something could go wrong. Out of the six hundred wedding guests, what if one of them knew and recognized Johnny Anziano?
She took a deep breath, telling herself that she couldn’t think that way. Everything was out of her hands now. All she had to do was hold on to the roller-coaster car and wait for this crazy ride to end at three o’clock. Three o’clock was only a few hours away. She could endure damn near anything for a few hours.
Her father opened the door and Moira slipped out, giving Chelsea a smile and a thumbs-up.
Howard Spencer looked impeccable, as usual. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed straight back from his face, each strand securely in place. He smiled at her, with a definite misty quality to his eyes. “Chelsea-bean, are you ready for this?”
She nodded, feeling a pang of remorse at her deception. Her father thought she was marrying for good, until death do us part. Not until annulment do us part. Still, when he found out, he’d probably congratulate her on her shrewd ability to get her hands on the money she so desperately needed.
Her father pulled her into his arms in a clumsy embrace. They weren’t a touchy-feely family, the Spencers. They were the types who kissed the air next to someone’s cheek or briskly shook hands.
For a fraction of a second Chelsea let herself imagine what it would have been like to grow up with a father who was more like the dad on The Cosby Show than a walking financial predictions computer.
But that kind of thinking was a waste of time. Her father was who he was. And her childhood was long since over.
“They’re waiting for us,” he told her. “Your mother’s been seated and Moira and Sierra have just gone down the aisle.” He opened th
e door and held out his arm for her.
The organ stopped playing as she moved toward the back of the church, toward the edge of the red carpet that had been rolled down the ordinary wood floor of the aisle. As she stood at her father’s side in the back of the church, the organist began the traditional wedding march.
Here comes the bride. All dressed in white. For some reason, Chelsea could hear Bugs Bunny’s voice in her head, singing the childish words that had been put to the tune. It would have been funny if she hadn’t been so damn scared.
Everyone stood, turned to face the back of the church, smiling at her. Didn’t they know she could barely breathe?
She searched for and found Moira’s familiar face. Her friend and maid of honor was standing with Sierra at the altar. Her red hair had defied her attempts to tame it, and tendrils and curls escaped her French braid. On anyone else it would have looked messy, but on Moira it looked romantic and windswept.
Moira smiled at her, then turned slightly to glance across the aisle.
That was when Chelsea saw him.
Johnny Anziano.
The butterflies in her stomach exploded, flying everywhere, several of them lodging securely in her throat.
He had been right—his tuxedo was black, and it fit like a glove.
He looked impossibly good. He looked like one of those models in magazine ads where you knew the photo had been touched up because no one could possibly look so good in real life. The black of the tuxedo accentuated his trim waist and narrow hips, yet at the same time seemed to show off the broadness of his chest and shoulders. His legs looked fantastically long, and as she watched he shifted his weight slightly and the powerful muscles in his thighs moved against the soft fabric of his pants.
In today’s performance of Chelsea Spencer’s wedding, the part of the groom will be played by Giovanni Anziano. This was totally insane.
He was watching her, his handsome face serious, his dark eyes intense. Their gazes locked and the butterflies that were left in her stomach accelerated the steps to their frantic dance.
She was actually going to marry this man.
She searched his eyes, wondering what he was thinking, wondering—inanely—whether or not he liked her dress. And then she was there. At the end of the aisle.
Her father lifted her veil, kissed her gently on the cheek, then handed her over to the man he thought was Emilio. But it wasn’t Emilio, it was Johnny.
Johnny’s hands were warm while hers were blocks of ice. He gave her a thoroughly relaxed smile. “Hey.” How could he look so calm and cool?
Her own lips and face felt brittle, but she tried to position them into something approximating a smile too. “Hey.”
Underneath his heavy lids, his gaze was as sharp as ever. “You okay?”
Chelsea nodded, the sound of his husky voice somehow soothing her. She’d wanted to call him again last night as she had lain awake, tossing and turning. She’d liked talking to him on the phone the night before. She’d liked lying in the darkness of her bedroom, snuggling under her blankets, the phone and his voice nestled close to her ear. She’d liked it too much—and that was why she hadn’t called him again.
“You sure?” he asked, his voice low. “You look a little pale. You know, it’s okay if we call a timeout here.”
Her smile felt more genuine this time. “We’re not in the middle of a basketball game,” she whispered back to him.
“Yeah, well, it’s your wedding, right? You want a time-out, you can have a time-out.”
“I’m fine, really.” She took a deep breath, willing herself to be fine. Head up, shoulders back, nose slightly in the air. She’d learned it as a child. Stand as if you’re in control, hold your body as if nothing that happens will perturb you in the least, maintain a slight disinterest, a distance from the events happening around you. It worked, as it nearly always did. She glanced at Johnny, raising one eyebrow very slightly. “I’m fine,” she said again, and she was.
“Good.” He was still watching her, as if he weren’t quite sure whether or not to believe her.
The ceremony passed in a blur. She refused to think about the words she was saying as she promised to love and honor this man through richer and poorer, sickness and health. Till death do us part. She tried to repeat the words as nonsense syllables.
Johnny, too, spoke the wedding vows softly, as if he didn’t want God overhearing his untruths.
She tried not to look at him as he slipped the wedding ring onto her finger, and as she did the same for him.
And then the minister declared them husband and wife. “You may kiss the bride.”
This was the part she’d been dreading. She didn’t want to kiss Johnny Anziano. She didn’t want to—because she’d dreamed about kissing him when she finally fell asleep last night. And she’d dreamed it the night before too. And even the night before that.
Chelsea had dreamed about kissing this man the night after he’d saved her purse from those kids. Shoot, she’d daydreamed it moments after meeting him. And she was afraid that when his lips touched hers, he somehow would know.
She had a plan. She would wait until the last split second, and when his mouth was just a fraction of an inch away from hers, she would turn her head away and he would kiss her cheek.
In theory, it was a fine plan. In practice, it was thoroughly flawed.
Because he took his sweet time. He reached up and gently touched her face, pulling her chin and her mouth up to his, holding her firmly in place. That, combined with the warmth she could see as she looked into his eyes, was something her plan hadn’t made provisions for.
And in a shot, all of her carefully maintained calm disintegrated, leaving her defenseless.
She couldn’t pull away. The truth was, she didn’t want to.
His lips brushed against hers in the gentlest, most chaste of kisses, and she felt a flash of disappointment. That was hardly a kiss.
But he wasn’t done.
He kissed her again, still gently, but leaving no doubt in her mind as to what he wanted. He wanted a real kiss, a deep kiss, a curl-your-toes and melt-your-bones kind of kiss.
And she wanted it, too, God help her.
With a soft moan of disbelief, she parted her lips, meeting his tongue with her own. He tasted like sugar-sweetened coffee and peppermint, a combination that hardly seemed compatible.
It was sinfully delicious.
His mouth was warm and soft, his dizzying kiss so far beyond her fantasies, Chelsea almost laughed out loud.
But then she remembered. She was standing in a church filled with her parents’ closest business associates and friends. She pulled back, and he released her. He was as shocked as she was—she could see it in his eyes.
The wedding guests were standing, applauding for them. Little did any of the six hundred realize, but they were cheering for Chelsea and John’s first kiss. It was downright bizarre. Except as far as first kisses went, this one was way off the scale and thoroughly deserving of a round of applause.
Chelsea could feel Johnny slip his hand around her waist as he drew her down the altar steps toward the aisle that led out of the church. His touch was possessive, proprietary, and far too confident. He would take off her clothes that same way, she realized. Without hesitation, and as if taking possession of what naturally belonged to him.
He’d probably gotten far with a large number of women by simply taking control like that. Before they knew it, they were thoroughly seduced. And if that kiss at the altar was any indication, Chelsea had a sneaking suspicion that those women probably hadn’t minded.
But she minded.
“The minister said you could kiss the bride—not inhale the bride,” she whispered sharply as they plunged down the aisle.
There was amusement in Johnny’s eyes. “Hey, it takes two, and I wasn’t alone back there. You know that as well as I do.”
He was right. She had kissed him as passionately as he’d kissed her. “I’m sorry,” she said, at th
e exact moment he, too, apologized.
They were outside of the church, the heavy wooden doors separating them from the thundering organ music. They were alone—if only temporarily.
“No, I’m sorry,” he said again. “You’re right—I went too far. I knew you were off balance, and I took advantage of that. It’s just … I’ve been dying to kiss you like that for a while now. I couldn’t resist.”
She made the mistake of gazing up into his eyes. Just a glimpse of the fire smoldering there was enough to make her heart pound.
“I still can’t resist,” he whispered, leaning forward to brush her lips with his.
He would have deepened the kiss again and she would have stood stupidly still and let him, were it not for the wedding photographer, who was striding toward them.
“Perfect picture,” he enthused. “The absolutely sweetest, most genuine kiss I’ve ever taken. You’re going to want that shot for your memory album, I can guarantee it. How about we get a few in front of the forsythia now?”
The look in Johnny’s eyes was unmistakable. Underneath the rueful, good-natured humor was a clear message. He wanted more. And soon.
Dear God, Chelsea was in big trouble here.
Because she did too.
SIX
“ABSOLUTELY NO TALK of business today,” Johnny said for the twenty-seventh time. He spoke in what he considered his best “godfather” accent, but what Chelsea insisted sounded like Ricardo Montalban. What was wrong with these people, anyway? They seemed so surprised that he refused to talk business on his wedding day. If he were a doctor, would they be approaching him for free medical advice?
He could see Chelsea’s blond head all the way across the elegant country-club ballroom and he excused himself and worked his way toward her. She was talking with a group of elderly ladies. They were her great-aunts—at least that’s the way he seemed to remember her introducing them on the receiving line. Some receiving line—everyone was so solemn and reserved.
In his neighborhood, people at a wedding smiled and laughed and kissed one another on the face or the mouth, and men embraced with resounding slaps on one another’s backs. And the bride and groom started the dancing as soon as they arrived at the party. It was expected that they wouldn’t stay long. They would barely even touch their dinners, instead escaping out the back door to celebrate their wedding in a far more private, intimate way.
Stand-in Groom Page 5