Janey agreed. “If we’re lucky.”
Joe played it cool as he paused beside the van. “I was thinking maybe I would surprise her tonight.”
Janey glanced at him as if he were a space alien. “With…?”
“I don’t know.” Joe studied his sister, still gauging her reaction.
Janey took the keys and unlocked the door. “If she’s anything like me, she’ll probably be too tired to go out.”
Probably right. “Then I should do something at home?” Joe helped slide the groom’s cake out onto the cart.
Janey made sure her confection was stable before turning to him with a sly glance. “You’re really getting into this husband stuff, aren’t you?” she teased.
Joe pretended not to care. “I am married now.”
Janey looked at him like a TV shrink. “So I see.”
“So what should I do?” Joe asked seriously.
“It wouldn’t hurt to ply her with a little dinner. The staff never got to eat at these things, and that goes triple for the wedding planner. Wine would be nice, so would flowers. Clean sheets on the bed, sprayed with a little of her favorite perfume or your after-shave is always a nice touch. You might even go a little crazy and try shaving off that bristly mess on your jaw.”
Joe would do everything but that.
Janey shook her head. “I’m not even going to ask,” she said dryly.
Joe shook off the superstition. The fact he’d been growing a beard since he and Emma had come in contact with each other once again had nothing to do with the continuing success of their relationship. What they had going for them now was a heck of a lot more powerful than deliberately engineered luck. Still, if it wasn’t broke…why fix it?
He regarded Janey with a patience that was new to him. “Anything else?”
They pushed the cart toward the door. “Candles would be nice. Maybe some soft music.”
Joe made a mental note to go out and buy some music Emma would like. All his own stuff tended toward heavy metal, classic rock or alternative. Not really stuff that would get you in the mood. He wanted Emma to be in the mood. He looked at his sister. If ever there was a detail person about this kind of stuff, it was Janey. “I don’t want to overlook anything, so…”
Janey tilted her head at him. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were feeling guilty about something,” she teased as they placed the groom’s cake on a separate display table.
“Why would I feel guilty?” Joe retorted just as Emma passed by, did a double take and came back.
Eyes twinkling merrily, she looked at Joe. “What was that about guilt?” she asked.
Joe felt a flash of guilt—and that was stupid. He had nothing to feel remorseful about where Emma was concerned. Just because he hadn’t told her about Tiffany stopping by or confided his continuing unease where the TV interviewer was concerned, did not put him in the wrong. He was protecting his wife, that was all. And protecting her was what he was supposed to do.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t sure Emma would see it that way. Especially given the way she was looking at him now.
Knowing she already had enough on her plate, and now was not the time to hit her with a confession, Joe flashed his choirboy smile. Covering, he clamped a hand on his sister’s shoulder. “Not my guilt, Emma. Hers.” Joe looked down at his sister and continued with stern but heartfelt advice, “Janey here is remorseful because she’s not supporting her son’s interest in hockey the way she should. And that is a very bad thing.”
Janey scowled up at Joe, with a look that said, “Talk like that will get you into trouble every time, baby brother.” She turned back to Emma. “Ignore Joe. I most certainly am. He’s just being a pea-brained athlete, as usual.”
“You wish,” Joe grumbled right back. Janey was cruising for trouble with Christopher, given her current unsupportive attitude for Chris’s love of sports, even if she wouldn’t admit it.
Emma smiled, shook her head. Relaxing, she backed off. “As much as I would love to stay and witness the continuation of this sibling bickering, I’ve got work to do.”
Joe grabbed her and kissed her forehead. “Everything looks great.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll see you at home. Tonight.”
Emma warmed at the heat in his smile. Looking as if she couldn’t wait to make love to him again, too, she murmured sweetly, “It should be around ten-thirty.”
“Okay,” Joe said, unable to keep himself from kissing her again. He gave her a reassuring squeeze. “And good luck.”
Knowing Gigi Snow, she was going to need it.
Chapter Thirteen
“Is Benjamin here yet?” Michelle asked.
Emma watched, pleased, as the stylist finished pinning up Michelle’s hair. “Yes.”
“And he’s getting dressed, too?”
Emma nodded. “In the suite, on the other side of the staircase.”
“What about the groomsmen?”
“They’re all here, too,” Emma soothed.
The makeup artist hired to do Michelle’s makeup looked pained at the bride’s continued restlessness. “Honey, please, you’ve got to relax here or I’ll never get your eyes done.”
“Sorry.” Michelle pressed a hand to her abdomen and took a deep breath. “I just can’t shake the feeling that something is going to go wrong today.”
Emma knew what the bride meant. She was having the same intuition. But that was probably because Michelle was so nervous. “Would you feel better if I went across the hall and checked to make sure everything is okay in the male quarters?” Emma asked kindly.
Relief softened the pretty features on Michelle’s face. “Would you?”
“No problem.” Emma consulted her watch, found they were still right on schedule, if not a little ahead. “Just promise me you’ll start getting into your dress while I’m gone. The photographer is going to be here in fifteen minutes to take some pictures.”
“I’ll see she gets into her gown,” Gigi Snow declared haughtily as she slipped into the spacious bridal suite. She leveled a disapproving look at Emma. “Meanwhile, I expect you to do something about those ice sculptures!”
Emma tensed. “What’s wrong with the sculptures?” She had looked at them half an hour ago and seen nothing amiss.
“The Cupid isn’t smiling, that’s what!”
Actually, he was, albeit slyly. “I’ll contact the artist, see what he can do,” Emma said.
And before Gigi could complain about anything else, Emma slipped out of the room.
As she headed across the hall, she saw Mac Hart coming up the sweeping central staircase. He was wearing his sheriff’s uniform. His expression was grim and businesslike.
“Where is Benjamin Posen?” Mac got straight to the point.
Emma swallowed. She had convinced herself Benjamin wasn’t guilty after all. Max’s expression said otherwise. She looked at Mac steadily. “Can’t it wait? He’s getting ready for his wedding.”
Mac took her aside, his expression stern but unrelenting. “I’m afraid not.”
Silence fell between them. Emma knew if she didn’t tell Mac, he would find Benjamin on his own. “He’s in the groom’s suite,” she said.
Although it wasn’t necessary—Mac knew the Wedding Inn as well if not better than she did—she led the way to the door and knocked. Benjamin opened it. He was clad in his pleated white shirt and tuxedo pants and was in the process of fastening his suspenders.
He looked from Emma to Mac and back again. The blood began to drain from his face and a bead of sweat broke out on his forehead. “Don’t tell me I’m double-parked,” he cracked.
Mac put a hand on Benjamin’s shoulder and turned him toward the wall. “Benjamin Posen, I’ve got a warrant for your arrest for the burglary of the Holly Springs Country Club pro shop and a dozen residences.” Mac reached for the handcuffs at his waist. Taking one of Benjamin’s wrists, he clamped them on.
“This is a joke, right?” Benjamin sa
id, perspiring profusely now.
“Afraid not,” Mac said somberly, securing Benjamin’s hands behind his back. While the groomsmen looked on in stupefied silence, Mac went on to read him his Miranda rights. The groom chose not to remain silent, despite the fact that anything and everything he said could potentially be held against him. “You can’t do this,” Benjamin stated in a low, ticked-off voice. He glared at Mac. “I’m getting married in less than an hour!”
“Should have thought about that before you hired those professional burglars to steal all those golf clubs,” Mac said.
The color drained from Benjamin’s face once again as across the hall, on the other side of the staircase, the door to the bridal suite opened.
“We know you masterminded the thievery—your buddies in crime have been singing like canaries to the district attorney since dawn this morning. They even led us to the cache of goods taken from my brother Joe’s place.”
“So Joe’s going to get his hockey memorabilia back?” Emma asked.
Mac nodded. “Near as I can tell, it’s all there.”
Thank goodness, Emma thought. She knew how much that stuff meant to Joe. Especially the Gordie Howe practice jersey his father had given him, before his father died.
Gigi Snow stepped out. She stared at the group gathered in the hall. “What in heaven’s name is going on here?” she demanded. Gigi looked at Mac. “Tell me you aren’t arresting him!”
“Arresting who?” Michelle demanded. Forgetting for a moment she wasn’t supposed to see the groom before the wedding, she, too, swept out into the hall, in her wedding gown. She was followed by a bevy of bridesmaids, in expensive designer gowns. Michelle stared at her husband-to-be in shock. “Benjamin…?”
“I’m going to call our attorney!” Gigi Snow already had her cell phone out of her purse. “I promise you, we’ll sue!”
“Don’t bother.” Benjamin spoke to Gigi but never took his eyes off his bride. His expression radiated sorrow and apology. “Sheriff Hart has every right to be here.” He turned to Mac, his face blotchy with humiliation. “Let’s just get out of here, okay, before anyone else sees,” he pleaded in a low, strangled voice.
Mac nodded. “Fine by me.” Mac led Benjamin off in handcuffs.
A sobbing Michelle tried to follow. “Tell me this is all a terrible mistake!” she demanded of her fiancé.
Benjamin swallowed hard, a mixture of shame and embarrassment on his face “I can’t, Michelle. I’m sorry.”
Mac pushed on. Benjamin didn’t look back.
A stunned and still sobbing Michelle, surrounded by her wedding party, fled back into the bride’s suite. The door slammed after them.
Gigi Snow glared at Emma. “How could you let this happen?” she fumed. “You should have kept Mac Hart out of here!”
“How?” Emma blinked in dismay. “He’s the sheriff!”
“I don’t care who he is.” Gigi flailed about, creating even more of a scene. “My daughter is supposed to get married in less than an hour. Guests are going to be arriving any minute! What are we supposed to tell people?” she shrieked.
“That the wedding has been postponed?” Emma suggested calmly.
Gigi stared at Emma vindictively. “This is all your fault! Do you hear me? I’m going to sue you and the Wedding Inn! And furthermore, if you think I’m going to pay one red cent for this utter catastrophe—”
Mason Snow appeared at the foot of the stairs. Expression grim, he charged up to stand beside his wife. “Be quiet! If the charges are true, Mac Hart has done us a favor! We don’t want our daughter married to a common criminal!”
Gigi Snow moaned and buried her face in her hands, looking even more distressed. “Oh, Mason, what are we going to tell our friends?”
More important, Emma thought, what were they going to say to their only daughter?
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” Joe demanded when Emma walked into the master bedroom at four-thirty that afternoon.
Emma had an even better question. “What are you doing?” And why did he look so guilty, as if he’d just been caught in the act of she didn’t know what.
Clad in nothing but a pair of running shorts, looking like he was fresh out of the shower himself, Joe said, “I’m stripping the sheets off our bed.”
Emma liked the sound of that—our bed. “I can see that,” she said dryly. Just as she could see, in the well-sculpted muscles of Joe’s shoulders, arms, pecs and abs, the benefits of Joe’s physical conditioning. Emma edged closer, noting how defined his hair-roughened legs were, too. “The question is why?” Joe hated housework and by his own admission only did laundry when it was overflowing to the point of ridiculousness.
“Um, because…”
Inhaling the fresh soap-and-shampoo scent of him, Emma waited for him to finish. To her dismay, Joe looked even more like he had just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“…because I have it on good authority that clean sheets are always nice?”
“If not the way to a woman’s heart?” She grinned at the tinge of self-effacing humor in his voice.
“Exactly.” Joe dropped what he was doing and came over to enfold her in a hug. “And you didn’t answer my question.” He ruffled the top of her hair playfully. “Shouldn’t you be presiding over the Snow-Posen wedding reception about now?”
Briefly, Emma let her head rest on the solid warmth of his chest. “If there had been one, sure.” She frowned, recalling. “Only there wasn’t.”
“A reception?”
“A wedding. Didn’t Mac call you?” She searched his face, finding none of the happiness she would have expected there.
“About…?”
“Your stuff,” Emma said.
Joe shook his head.
“Mac found your memorabilia in a storage facility rented out by Benjamin Posen.” Emma went on to explain about the confession of his accomplices and Posen’s arrest, as the mastermind of the theft ring, the canceled wedding and Mr. and Mrs. Snow’s understandably upset reaction about their daughter’s botched nuptials and choice of bridegroom.
Listening, Joe groaned in sympathy. “So what did you do about all the guests?” he asked.
“Your mother and I called all the guests we could. Most showed up. We had to notify them at the door and offer them something to eat or drink.”
“How many took you up on it?”
Emma wrinkled her nose. “Nearly everyone. But it was so awkward, no one stayed long.”
Joe looked her up and down. “You look exhausted.”
No kidding. “I could really use a long hot bath.”
Already reaching for the button on her suit jacket, Emma started toward the master bath, then stopped when she saw the loose bouquet of roses on the counter, the bags of candles, and bath soap and lotion.
Joe sauntered up to stand beside her. He looked proud as well as rueful. “I was going to surprise you with an evening of total pampering,” he told her gently as he stood behind her, kneading the tense muscles of her shoulders. “I had it all planned out.”
Loving the feel of his hands on her, so sure and gentle, Emma leaned into his luxuriant touch. Did he know how to give a massage! Reluctantly, she turned to face him, letting him know with a glance on that score she was just as sorry things hadn’t gone as he’d planned. “Only I arrived,” she reminded.
“Some six hours early.” He didn’t even try to hide his disappointment about that.
Emma made a teasing face. “Want me to leave and come back later?” She could act surprised.
“Are you kidding?” Joe winked at her sexily, like her leaving was the last thing he wanted. “We’ll just get started early.”
That said, Joe put his hands back on her shoulders and guided her into the bedroom, obviously looking for some place for her to sit down. It wasn’t easy, given the habitual mess in there. He picked up the towering stack of dirty clothes from the chair in the corner and tossed them willy-nilly onto the dirty sheets already heaped on t
he floor at the foot of their bed, for later transport to the laundry room.
“Let me at least draw your bath,” he said.
Emma was pleased enough at the effort he had already put into taking care of her. “I can do it.”
He scowled at her in mock indignation. “Sit down.” Tightening his grip on her, he propelled her into the chair. “Then while you soak, I’ll finish cleaning up in here. And get the bed made and stuff. Give me a chance,” he told her confidently. “I can still pull this off. You’ll see.”
Emma shook her head, feeling both amused and pleased as he disappeared into the master bath again.
Thinking it might be time for a little romantic surprise of her own, Emma toed off her heels, rose and reached for the zipper on her skirt. And that was when she looked down and saw the hint of leopard-print satin and black frothy lace peeking out from beneath Joe’s pile of clothes.
Heart pounding, Emma reached for it and then stared down at it, wishing like heck she hadn’t.
“OKAY.” JOE ADJUSTED THE roses in the vase, lit half a dozen candles, turned off the spigot and barreled back out of the bathroom. “I’m all ready for you now.” He stopped at the stricken expression on her face and asked, “What is it?”
Emma held out a sexy leopard-print black-lace thong he had never seen her in and, still looking at him as if he were lower than a snake belly, glided graciously forward. “Suppose you tell me,” she stated almost too calmly as she dropped the undergarment into his palm and folded his fingers around it.
Knowing he was supposed to see something nefarious here, even if he wasn’t sure what, Joe unfolded the skimpy fabric and glanced down. Front and center of the lingerie was an embroidered black heart with the initials T.F. The only T.F. Joe knew was Tiffany Lamour.
“Where did you get this?” Joe demanded, confused. And why did Emma have it?
“Near the top of your stack of dirty clothes. Right under what you were wearing yesterday, or maybe it was the day before.”
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