Stop the Wedding! (12 page)

“Annabelle?”

His father arched an eyebrow. “Belle and I would like for the two of you to try to get along.”

“Gee, I thought it was just this afternoon that I gave her a ride when her car broke down.”

“And you’ve been in a foul mood ever since.”

Clay banged his drink glass down on the bar. “I can’t help it—there’s something about that woman I don’t like.”

Martin looked past his shoulder, then stood abruptly. “I can’t imagine what on earth it would be.”

Alerted by the tone in his father’s voice, Clayton turned, and all the moisture left his mouth. Annabelle and her mother stood in the entrance to the restaurant bar, and while Belle was certainly attractive for her age, every male head in the room had turned to admire Annabelle.

She wore a yellow sleeveless dress that hit her lean leg well above the knee, and high-heeled silver sandals with an ankle strap. He had never fancied himself as having a shoe fetish, but he was riveted to those ankle straps—although admittedly the slim ankles they enclosed might have provided the allure. And her hair…her hair was pulled back smoothly from her face and formed a loose knot at the nape of her neck. Unframed, her face was radiant, notwithstanding the little frown that furrowed her brow as she swept her gaze over the room. His pulse quickened absurdly at the fleeting realization that she was looking for him.

A square of colored paper he recognized as the valet ticket floated unnoticed from her hand to the floor and at least a half-dozen men moved toward her, spurring him into action. He covered the area in four easy strides and snatched the ticket from the hand of a hopeful looking fellow. “Thank you.”

As he turned to Annabelle, he was shaken by the urge to stake his territory in the room full of men who were on the prowl. “Hello.”

“Hi,” she said with the briefest of smiles. Her eyes glittered golden beneath the subdued lighting. She looked like a movie star.

He held up the valet ticket. “I’ll hang on to this for you.”

She nodded and he detected a wonderful clean scent floating around her—like floral soap and fruity shampoo. A woman’s grooming had always been the most intriguing mystery to him—the hours spent in the bathroom among fragrant potions to emerge soft-skinned and pink-cheeked and sweet-smelling. It was one of his fondest memories of his mother. Whether wearing an evening gown or an old gardening shirt, she always smelled like a lady. Annabelle’s skin gleamed with dewy moisture, evoking images of her shoulder-deep in a bubble bath, a vision that stirred him.

His father’s voice sounded behind him, and he forced himself to focus on the words. “… just called our name, son. Our table is ready.”

The spell broken, he turned to see Martin and Belle walking ahead of them. He swept his arm in front of Annabelle. “After you.” Then he fell in step a half-pace behind her, his hand skimming her lower back, just in case she lost her way following the hostess and their parents. “I see the airline found your luggage.”

Annabelle crinkled her nose. “Not yet. Counting that pink bridesmaid getup, this makes two useless dresses I’ve had to buy and will probably never wear again.”

“You don’t dress up for your fiancé?” he asked casually.

“W-well…”

“Then I’m flattered.”

She sniffed daintily, her gaze straight ahead. “Don’t be.”

On the other hand, he conceded wryly, good old Mike would be privy to that sheer little bra and panty ensemble. He glanced at her left hand, surprised to find it naked. “Speaking of which, where’s your ring?”

Her step faltered as she covered her left hand with her right. “I must have forgotten it.”

Clay pursed his lips, thinking Annabelle probably slid the ring on and off at whim. He wondered if Mike in Michigan knew what kind of fickle female he was engaged to. Then he frowned. Perhaps Annabelle’s betrothed was some poor unassuming older man who, like his father, didn’t realize he was being taken for a ride. Maybe her fiancé was indeed the source of the money Annabelle’s mother had seemed concerned about that first day by the pool.

“Is something wrong?” Annabelle murmured for his ears only as he held out her chair.

“No.”

“Then why are you looking at me as if I have horns?”

“For all I know,” Clay whispered in her ear as she sat, “under all that hair, perhaps you do.”

She snatched the white linen napkin from her plate and snapped it open over her lap as she whispered, “Are you actually admitting that you don’t know everything?”

He couldn’t suppress a smile as he took the seat to her left. “I refuse to incriminate myself, counselor.”

She was a beauty, he allowed, admiring the graceful column of her neck, noticing how the yellow dress reflected the gold in her eyes. Too bad the woman couldn’t be trusted. He glanced across the table, exasperated that the older couple was so immersed in each other. They clasped hands and exchanged words in lowered voices. At the light in his father’s eyes, Clay experienced a pang of resentment toward the woman whose affection for his father was most likely artificial, or at best, short-lived.

Clay knew his father’s endless string of affairs was a weak attempt to replace his mother, with whom Martin had been so in love. He felt sorry for his father because he himself wasn’t immune to the occasional twinge of loneliness. On the other hand, he refused to add to his father’s inevitable heartache by encouraging a marriage to yet another crafty fortune seeker. His gaze bounced back to the dark-haired enchantress who nibbled on the nail of her forefinger as she scrutinized the menu. Or would that be
two
crafty fortune-seekers?

*****

Annabelle felt Clay’s dark eyes on her, but refused to lift her gaze lest he see how nervous this entire situation made her. The aromatic, upscale restaurant, the romantic strains coming from the pianist, the pink lighting overhead—all of it a far cry from her typical rushed meals out with business associates. Having dinner with their lovebird parents just seemed too much like a double date. And Clay looked too handsome in a navy suit and a startlingly white shirt for her attention span, which seemed unbelievably short this evening. She’d read the menu at least three times and couldn’t remember a single dish.

“Would you like wine?” he asked, forcing her to look at him.

His blue eyes seemed to claim her. “No, thank you.” She wanted to keep her head as clear as possible.

“I called ahead and ordered a bottle of champagne,” Martin announced with a beaming smile at Belle. “To celebrate.”

Annabelle and Clay exchanged a split-second glance.

“Of course,” Clay relented in a low voice.

A waiter came to take their orders—Annabelle settled on mahi-mahi—and a young hostess wheeled a bucket of iced champagne to their table. Dom Perignon. To Annabelle’s ears, the sound of the bottle being uncorked was like a gunshot—an analogy not lost on her. The sparkling wine looked like liquid gold in her glass, the tiny bubbles a testament to the quality of the libation—a far cry from the carbonated grape juice her parents bought for celebrations.

She blinked back a sudden wall of tears and held her glass carefully, her resolve to protect her mother hardening.

Martin coughed lightly, and she realized he expected Clay to make a toast. Clay blinked, then slowly raised his glass. She could see he was struggling for something appropriate to say.

“To Martin and Belle,” he said finally. “May they each get out of life what they so richly deserve.”

His voice sounded cordial enough, but Annabelle picked up on the double entendre. Martin and Belle, on the other hand, were too giddy with their own togetherness to notice his lack of sincerity. They clinked crystal happily and drank deeply. When she touched her glass to Clay’s, their gazes locked. The distrust she saw there mirrored her own misgivings. Neither one of them wanted to be here. She lifted her glass to her lips and as the delicious champagne fizzed over her tongue, Annabelle dearly wished they were toasting a more deserving occasion.

Martin beamed. “Only a few more days until Belle will be Mrs. Martin Castleberry.”

Annabelle felt sick to her stomach, but managed a watery smile. “Mom, did you tell Martin the caterer is going to charge double for a rush job?”

He frowned slightly. “Double? That hardly seems fair.”

“I know,” Belle murmured, “but there was no way around it. And besides, think of all the money we saved on invitations.”

Annabelle cleared her throat delicately. “You could postpone the ceremony by a mere two weeks—think of the money you’ll save on the food.”

Her mother gave her a sharp glance. “Two weeks?”

“Which would give you a few more days to iron out the prenuptial agreement,” Clay added.

Belle shook her head. “But everyone is coming Saturday. Annabelle, your aunt Macey and cousin Lorie will be here. Not to mention Lucille and Hollis, Maris and Lawrence, Jennifer, Emily, Porter—”

“I know, Mom. Every living relative we have is converging on Atlanta.” With great restraint, she kept from rolling her eyes. Her cousins just wanted to meet a movie star. And eat lobster bisque that would be twice as expensive as it should be. And harass Annabelle because she was still single.

Martin laughed. “My two sisters are going to love you, Belle. And of course they’re always delighted for an excuse to see Clay again—they keep hoping to make the trip from Massachusetts someday for
his
wedding.”

Annabelle shifted her gaze to Clay. His frown was quick and deep, indicating his doting aunts were destined for disappointment.

“About that prenuptial agreement,” Clay said, looking at his father. “I spoke to your attorney today and he said he could meet with you tomorrow morning.”

His father’s brow darkened. “Belle and I don’t want a prenuptial agreement.”

“I agree with you,” Annabelle said to Clay. “In fact, I’d be glad to meet with your attorney to discuss Mother’s interests.”

“I’ll just bet you would,” Clay muttered.

Annabelle frowned. “Do you want a prenup or not?”

“Of course I do. But there’s no need for you to become involved. Dad’s lawyer has drawn up these agreements before.”

“I’m sure your father alone keeps him busy,” she said through gritted teeth.

Martin stood and extended his hand to Belle. “Since the two of them are in the mood to argue, why don’t you and I dance?”

“Gladly,” Belle said, shooting Annabelle an annoyed look as she took Martin’s hand.

Annabelle sipped her champagne as she watched the couple glide across the small dance floor performing complicated moves her own generation would never master. Her father had preferred the radio to the television, and when a favorite old tune would come over the old receiver that sat on top of the refrigerator, he would tug her aproned mother to the center of the kitchen floor and spin her around. They would look at each other as if nothing in the world mattered except their love. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but she bit her tongue hard to rein in her memories. How could her mother forget so easily?

“Is something wrong?” Clay asked.

Annabelle blinked and her laugh came out dry. “Only everything.”

“Oh? Things not working out as you’d planned?”

She bristled at his mocking expression. “No, not exactly. How about for you?”

He sipped from his drink, his eyes never leaving hers. For a split second, she thought she saw desire flash in their depths. Heat crept up her cheeks.

“No,” he said finally. “Not exactly.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a man’s voice sounded. “If I could have your attention for just a moment.”

Annabelle turned to see the pianist encompassing the seated diners with a broad smile. On the dance floor, Martin and Belle slowed their steps.

“We are honored this evening to have as our guest the legendary actor, Mr. Martin Castleberry, and to help him celebrate his recent engagement.”

Under the spotlight, Belle and Martin beamed at the applause. Annabelle joined in half-heartedly, marveling at her mother’s ease, while Clay sat stonily silent.

“Won’t you join the happy couple in a celebratory dance?” the man invited the crowd.

The pianist struck up a slow, jazzy version of ‘You Made Me Love You,’ and sang in nostalgic tones, “I didn’t wanna do it….”

Several couples left their tables to join Martin and Belle on the floor. She made eye contact with her mother, who waved for her and Clay to join them, prompting Martin to do the same to Clay. Annabelle felt tingly and uncomfortable, her body straining oddly toward the man who triggered a baffling response in her.

Clay seemed as exasperated as she when he stood and extended his hand. “Let’s get this over with.”

She wanted to turn him down, she really did. To watch the imposed-upon expression fall from his face. But heaven help her, the thought of moving around the dance floor in his arms wasn’t entirely repugnant. In fact, her pulse jumped rather dramatically at the sight of his big body towering over her. He looked positively splendid in his immaculate suit and open-collared dress shirt.

“Yes, let’s,” she agreed with equal irritation, and rose to walk with him to the edge of the dance floor.

A dozen couples shared the small area, but Annabelle felt oddly singled out and conspicuous as Clay swept her into a slow waltz. His warm hands curved around her waist and clasped her hand in the air above her shoulder. The scent of his musky aftershave brought back the memory of his rough kiss the day he’d shown up at her mother’s prepared for a showdown. Had it been only two days ago? For some strange reason, she felt more entwined with this man than their hours together might indicate.

The top of her head barely reached his shoulder, and he was easily twice her breadth. Not a small woman, Annabelle felt dwarfed by Clay’s size. The sensations of feeling overwhelmed versus safe warred within her. Inches separated their bodies as they moved in a neat circle under his guidance. Since her father’s passing, her dance steps had become rusty; Clay on the other hand, moved effortlessly. She concentrated fiercely to keep from stepping on his expensive shoes.

“Relax,” he murmured, giving her the slightest of smiles.