Sealed with a promise (5 page)

  The very novelty sent a tingle of anticipation through his boredom. She seemed unaware she’d crossed lines men twice her size wouldn’t have dared, and she pressed his arm so close he could feel the soft give of the side of her breast.

  Her full, soft breast that wasn’t confined by a bra.

  He wouldn’t be a man if he didn’t notice.

  The irritation he always felt around her morphed into a more primal awareness. He suddenly noticed her smell. She wore no perfume that he could detect. She just smelled basic. Sweet. Like a woman.

  She intended to pull him past the parlors into the wide hall that would take them deeper into the house. He didn’t
think
she was coming on to him-not after the stiff way she always acted around him-but she was up to something. “Where are we going?”

  “To Aunt Lilly Hale’s office. Someplace we can talk.”

  “Talk?” Do-Lord halted so he could look into her face. He squashed an absurd blossom of hope. She was the last woman in the world who would pull him aside for a quickie. And close to the last woman in the world he would want to pull him aside. Yeah, suddenly she interested him, but not
that
way. Even though she reminded him more than ever of a serious, and right this minute, very determined kitten. A Siamese kitten with big, blue eyes and silvery beige fur.

  Emmie intercepted the rather calculating look of masculine assessment he gave her, and suddenly became aware of the heat and steely strength of the arm under the fine tweed of his coat, and of the fact that she had left off her bra this morning. Could he tell? Surely not.

  She wanted to grind her teeth with frustration. It was that goal-directed thing again making her unaware of how she was coming across. Grabbing his arm had been a stupid move, but for a man who stood out as he did, he could be amazingly elusive. For thirty minutes she’d searched the crowd for his russet head and broad shoulders, dodging jocular inanities about when she was going to find herself a man. The irony hadn’t escaped her.

  Or improved her disposition, she was afraid. Her shoulder hurt with a deep, grinding ache. All she really wanted to do was take her pain medication and lie very still until it was time for the wedding.

  By the time she’d spotted him framed by the double doors open to the warm day, she’d been close to frantic, the sedate calm with which she usually endured these family affairs shredded. She needed him, and she’d grabbed him, determined not let anyone interrupt. But really! These jocks! He wasn’t a college athlete, he was a member of a crack military team with an animal name. Navy SEALs, Miami Dolphins, what was the difference? She recognized the type.

  They crowded her Understanding Ecology class, a Biology elective for non-majors, and thought she should be flattered. They assumed everything with a vagina was interested in them. They only had to choose which one they wanted. They walked the earth with a sense of entitlement, sure that their place in the universe guaranteed the best.

  On campus she carefully kept her professorial distance and made it clear in any interaction, she was in charge. Give them an inch, and they’d take a mile.

  She forgot her intention to get on his good side. Knowing the effect was probably ruined by the heat staining her cheeks, she aimed him a don’t-mess-with-me glare, “I said what I meant. You know. The
other
four-letter word ending in k.
Talk!
”

  Her faced flamed redder. What was the matter with her? She never said things like that!

  His grin widened. “Just checking.”

  He changed the subject. “Why do you call her ‘aunt?’ You’re not kin with this family are you?”

  Relief that she hadn’t offended him made her expansive. “We’re not related, but they
are
my adopted family. Pickett and I were college roommates. Because my parents are missionaries, going home for holidays was out of the question, so I always came home with Pickett. I just got in the habit of calling people whatever Pickett did.”

  Emmie opened the door into a sunny butler’s pantry Pickett’s aunt had converted to a home office. “Here we are.”

  Focused on finding a private place where they could talk, she’d forgotten how small the room was. Hundreds of framed photographs, tiny and large, old sepia-tone portraits and bright clowning snapshots, covered every bit of wall space left by the glass-fronted cabinets. The floor space, occupied as it was by an antique estate desk, left two adults hardly room to stand.

  The unexpected intimacy rattled Emmie. He was so close she could see the shadow cast by his golden eyelashes. His eyes, a hazel mixture of brown and gold and green, reminded her of pebbles washed by a mountain stream. Cold and hard. She forced herself to look into them without flinching. Last night she’d noticed the way he looked at Pickett and thought maybe she had an ally. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  Underneath the sling she tugged the lapels of her jacket together and took a fortifying breath. At this late date there wasn’t anyone else she could ask.

  “I understand you SEALs are pretty loyal to one another,” she said, getting straight to the point. “Does your loyalty extend to Pickett?”

  “What are you asking?” In his lazy, liquid drawl the question didn’t sound like a question. His voice was deep, sonorous, but damped, as if he saw no need to bring its full power to this situation. Yet the power was there. His voice felt like fur stroking down her spine from her nape to the small of her back.

  She ruthlessly slammed the door on the thought. Emmie, child of missionaries, had spent her teenage years with an elderly grandmother. She wasn’t opposed to wholesome sex, but the temptations of sensuality were subtle and best avoided. This was for Pickett, but still, his voice, dark as burnt umber and a little gritty, compelled more honesty than she had planned. “I’m asking, are you willing to do a favor for Pickett-no matter what the fallout?”

  “Do I have to kill anybody?” He didn’t look like he was kidding.

  “No, but if we’re caught, all hell will break loose. Pickett’s sister Grace might kill you.”

  “And you, I presume.”

  Emmie dismissed that. “Probably, but I don’t care. Pickett’s the peacemaker.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Emmie took a deep breath and looked him straight in the eye. “We have to switch wedding cakes.”

  Whoa! Miss Emelina might look boring in her all-over beige clothes that matched her beige hair- though bright sun streaming in the window brought out its pretty silver sheen-but she’d just proved she could surprise him.

  Do- Lord laughed aloud, the first honest laugh he’d had in days. “I’m getting a vision of a cake exploding like Mt. St. Helens and spewing white frosting everywhere.”

  Suddenly, he sobered. “Is this a practical joke?”

  “I’ve never been more serious,” Emmie gave him one of her cool, spinsterish looks. “But in a way, it is a trick-and unless we do something, the joke will be on Pickett. Grace ordered the cake from a regular bakery.”

  “Too ordinary, huh?” These people’s games in which they displayed their wealth and superiority had stuck in his craw more than once. He couldn’t sympathize with their scrabbling one-upmanship when they already inhabited the top of the heap.

  “On the contrary. Only the best will do.” Emmie flicked her fingers disdainfully. Her tone, loaded with sarcasm, showed her ready comprehension, and he liked her better for it. “And that’s Grace’s excuse. Sacre Bleu’s cakes are the most beautiful and the best tasting to be found south of the Mason-Dixon line. Unfortunately, they’re also made with wheat flour.”

  Do- Lord circled his hand to urge her to wind it up. “And that’s a problem because…”

  “Pickett has celiac disease, which means she can’t eat anything with wheat flour as an ingredient.”

  When Do- Lord had observed Pickett pretending to eat, but in actuality leaving food untouched, he had assumed she avoided fattening foods. Now he reassessed her restraint. “Does everyone know she has this problem?”

  “Oh, yes. You’re thinking about the food that’s been served this weekend, aren’t you?” Again, Do-Lord was startled by her ready comprehension of his thought processes. He must be slipping if she was reading his face that easily. “The roast turkey,” she continued, “served on top of dressing and covered in gravy at the rehearsal dinner last night was my personal favorite for least-edible foods for Pickett. Although I must say this morning’s buffet runs a close second. There weren’t two foods on the table she could safely choose. There’s a delicious-you’ll pardon the pun-irony in feeding the guest of honor food she mustn’t eat, but must smile in gratitude for.”

  “So you’re saying she’s not going to be able to eat her wedding cake either.” He shrugged. “Nobody ever died of malnutrition from not eating wedding cake.” The things these people found important never ceased to amaze him. “Big deal. She’ll handle it like she always does.”

  “You don’t understand.” Turning away from him, Emmie scanned the wall of photos until she found the one she was looking for. She pointed to a picture of a bride and groom laughingly shoving cake into one another’s mouths. “See? She’ll
have
to eat it.”

  
The tall white cake served at wedding receptions today
was, in previous centuries, the bride’s cake, whereas the
wedding cake was traditionally a fruitcake, filled with nuts
and…
When he’d researched wedding customs, he’d passed over the rituals with the cake, assuming all his duties would be over by then. Now he examined the photo more closely.

  The tiered wedding cake stood in the foreground of the photograph, a frosting fantasy on fluted pillars. Only the head and shoulders of the bride and groom were visible behind it, and behind them, laughing guests gathered around.

  The bride, another cousin he presumed, looked a bit like Pickett. It was all too easy to imagine Pickett in her place, but instead of laughing as the bride in the picture was doing, smiling the strained smile he’d seen again and again on Pickett’s face this weekend.

  “When Jax feeds Pickett the cake she won’t refuse to eat it with everybody watching,” Emmie explained. “She’ll sacrifice herself rather than ruin the fun for everyone else. She won’t want to hurt Grace’s feelings and make a spectacle.”

  A piece of “normal” behavior that crossed all cultural lines was eating whatever was offered. In operations where SEALs had lived with locals, he’d eaten stewed rat-not bad-and goat’s eyes-kind of tasteless really-and chili so hot his asshole had burned for a week. Do-Lord understood Pickett’s desire not to call attention to herself by refusing. In some places the insult of refusing food could get you killed. At best, refusal branded you forever as an outsider.

  “Wait a minute. Pickett doesn’t want to hurt
Grace’s
feelings? Isn’t that backwards?”

  Emmie rubbed the spot between her brows, smoothing away the line trying to form there. “Yes, it is, and if you talk to her about it, even
she
sees it. But Pickett is one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. She always thinks of others first. She’s not going to choose a moment like that to stand up for herself.” Emmie smiled sadly. “Pickett won’t die from one bite of cake.”

  “What will happen?”

  “Her stomach will hurt, but not immediately. It won’t start for eight hours or so. Then she’ll spend the next twenty-four hours in the bathroom. Her honeymoon will be ruined.” Emmie raised her honest blue eyes. Do-Lord had never before considered that honesty might have a color, but if it did, it would be the soft, summery blue of Emmie’s eyes. “But it might not be that bad,” she finished. “It isn’t always.”

  Do- Lord began to understand how everyone could be aware of Pickett’s problem, but pretend it made no difference. They wouldn’t have to suffer, or even watch Pickett suffer, the consequences. “The perpetrators will get off scot-free in other words.”

  “Perpetrator is too strong a word. I don’t think anyone means to do Pickett harm-in fact, I’m sure they don’t.” Emmie countered with a scholarly judiciousness. “Having an outsider’s perspective, I can see the family blind spots. They believe a tablespoon or two, or just a bite, won’t hurt. All the aunts, uncles, and cousins have gone to a lot of trouble to show their support of Pickett. Grace has worked miracles to pull this wedding off in such a short time. She honestly believes she’s making sure everything about Pickett’s wedding is perfect.”

  “And so,
you
think the solution is to bring in a ringer for the cake.” Do-Lord struggled against a chuckle that wanted to break loose.

  “I would do anything for Pickett. I can’t change the people, but with your help, I can change the cake.” Emmie paused while she freed her hair from underneath the sling. “If anybody is going to give Pickett at least one moment of unalloyed, lighthearted fun at her wedding, it’s going to be me, and, ‘should you choose to accept this mission, Mr. Graves,’” Emmie intoned the line from the old
Mission Impossible
TV show, “you.”

  And they accused
SEALs
of being cowboys! Emmie’s means of dealing with it had to be the most overly elaborate solution he’d ever heard tell of.

  Laughing, Do-Lord raised his hands and backed away. “Hey, I admire your desire to ride in on a white horse and save your friend from embarrassment or an upset stomach, but this isn’t my problem. Not yours either. It’s Pickett’s and Jax’s.” He’d bet Jax hadn’t given any more thought to the wedding cake than he had. Less, if anything. Jax thought like an officer-meaning he gave orders and expected others to manage the details.

  “Then you won’t help me?”

  Something about the expression in her eyes, some look he could only call loneliness, made him gentle his tone. “You’re trying to build a million-dollar mousetrap. All I have to do is tell Jax not to feed Pickett the cake. If Jax knew what was going down, he wouldn’t care what the tribal rituals are. He’d put a stop to it.”