Stop the Wedding! (21 page)

Clay pursed his mouth in victory. Now he had her.

Annabelle rolled her shoulders and cleared her throat before answering. “There is no fiancé.”

Belle and Martin’s gaze swung back to him.

“What about her ring?” he asked, pointing to the square diamond on her finger.

“It’s the ring Annabelle’s father gave to me,” Belle said. “I gave it to her when she arrived.”

He looked at Annabelle. “But you said—”

“No, I didn’t. You jumped to a conclusion and I simply allowed you to believe it.”

Clay’s neck grew warm. “But you were in the jeweler’s trying to find out how much the ring Dad gave Belle was worth.”

Their parents swung their gaze back to Annabelle.

“Yes, because I thought it was fake,” she said with a sigh. “And I thought if Mom knew it was fake, that she would know she couldn’t trust your father.”

“Fake?” Belle asked, looking at the ring.

“It isn’t,” Annabelle said, walking closer to where her mother sat in the passenger seat. “In fact, the jeweler said it was of uncommonly good quality.” She looked at Martin, then said, “I apologize, sir. I misjudged you.” Then she looked at Clay, whose gut was clenched with dread. “Although it appears I did not misjudge your son.”

His gaze locked with her golden eyes, and in two seconds, he saw the glow of what might have been diminish, then disappear completely. He wanted to say something, but his jaw seemed cemented shut, his tongue glued to the top of his mouth. She looked away, then turned a bittersweet smile toward their parents and patted her mother’s hand. “I just want you to be happy, and I can see that you are.”

“Yes, dear, I am.”

Annabelle smiled. “Then you have my blessing.”

Belle’s eyes were suddenly moist. “Thank you, Annabelle.”

“I’ll cancel your ticket to Detroit.”

“Can’t you stay for just a few more days?”

“I need to get back to my office after the ceremony. Mike—I mean Michaela—will be expecting me.”

Clay’s stomach churned, but a movement on the street caught his attention. A late-model green luxury sedan had pulled behind the driveway, a newer car with a metal dealership sign on the door pulled in behind it.

A man alighted from the green sedan. “Is this the Coakley place?”

“Yes,” Belle said, her expression puzzled.

“Got a delivery here for Belle Coakley.”

Belle looked at Annabelle. “That’s the car we test drove at the lot.”

She nodded, her expression wry. “I bought it for you, Mom. I didn’t know—” She gestured toward the Jaguar. “That is, it’s nothing compared to Martin’s gift.”

Clay closed his eyes. That explained why the women were test-driving luxury cars. Henry had failed to tell him they were used models, probably modestly priced. Or maybe Henry had told him, and he simply hadn’t heard.

“Nonsense, I love it,” Belle said, handing her glass to his father and emerging from the convertible.

“Don’t worry, Mom. The dealership will refund the money. Besides, I should have asked you.”

Belle bit on her lower lip, then stroked Annabelle’s face. “It was a wonderful gesture, dear, but I’m a grown woman and I can take care of myself.”

Annabelle’s smile was apologetic. “I’ll tell the man we changed our minds,” she said, then walked to the curb.

Clay’s chest tightened when he saw her smile up at the salesman, and the way the man responded to her. He leaned toward her, nodding his understanding. And his handshake lingered for far too long. Clay took one step in their direction before pulling himself back with a stern reprimand. What was he doing?

“All taken care of,” Annabelle said to her mother as she walked back up the driveway. She gave Belle a quick kiss. “And now I’d better take care of the tickets.”

She turned to go inside, and at last Clay found his voice. “Annabelle, wait.”

She stopped, one foot on the bottom step, but she didn’t turn back.

Clay walked to her, his heart pounding. “Why—” He cleared his gravelly throat and touched her arm. Her skin felt soft, but cold. “Why did you let me believe you were engaged?”

Her eyes were mocking, and she seemed to look past his shoulder. “I thought you would leave me alone if you believed I was engaged,” she murmured for his ears only. She pulled away from his grasp, then climbed the steps and disappeared into her mother’s house.

Her words twisted his gut, and he gripped the handrail to keep from going after her. She found him that loathsome? What did it matter anyway? Clay set his jaw, and whirled around to face two sets of accusing eyes.

Martin shook his head. “You crossed the line this time, Clay.”

Frustration, anger, and guilt pummeled him, elevating his voice. “I was doing it for you, Dad.” He stubbornly clung to his original argument, his pride smarting that his own father couldn’t see the sacrifice he’d made to save him from yet another landmine.

“Maybe,” his father said, alighting from the car and closing the door slowly. “Lord knows I’ve made mistakes in the company I’ve kept, but it’s obvious to me as it should be to you how fortunate I am that Belle will have me.” He gave her a fond smile, then looked back, his expression hardening. “But frankly, son, sometimes I think you meddle in my life as a diversion to your own unhappiness.”

Clay’s chin jerked up at his father’s preposterous words. “My life is perfectly fine,” he said through clenched teeth. “The fact that you’re trying to turn this situation back on me is proof that you’re making another mistake.”

In fact, for all he knew, Annabelle and her mother could have concocted that entire little explanation in case their scheme was divulged. Desperation spiraled in his stomach. Deep down, he knew he wasn’t making sense, not even to himself. But if Annabelle wasn’t a conniving, hard-hearted, selfish gold-digger, then that meant she was an intelligent, warm-hearted, caring daughter. And he wasn’t ready to admit that he had so woefully miscalculated her motives. And her heart. And her kisses.

His father’s expression was rueful. “I’m sorry you feel that way, son. Because Belle and I would like to have your blessing too.”

He straightened, anxious to distance himself from this messy, complicated affair. Let his father fend for himself—he was through.

“I’ll be returning to Paris as soon as possible,” he said in a clipped tone. Clay wheeled and strode toward his truck, determined to outpace the fierce doubt nipping at his heels.

Chapter Sixteen

CLAY’S THUNDEROUS MOOD followed him on the drive to his condo. Even the sight of the freshly painted white walls couldn’t cheer him up. The place seemed cold and sterile, the furniture stiff and unwelcoming. He walked around the five-room luxury accommodations, watering neglected plants and opening blinds to fill dark corners with light.

Funny, but all these furnishings the decorator had carefully selected to make his place homey seemed to have achieved the opposite effect. The leather chairs, the granite-top tables, the pewter statues—he might as well be standing in a showroom. No family relics here, no antiques or sentimental what-nots. No photos, save the one of his mother in a silver picture frame on the hall table—one of his few contributions to the décor. This barren place wasn’t a home, it was the quarters of a permanent guest.

Indulging a scowl, Clay sifted through his mail—none of it personal—and turned on his laptop in a futile attempt to immerse himself in work. Paging through an array of urgent e-mail messages from impatient clients, he mentally kicked himself. If only he’d stayed in Paris, he’d have closed the investor deal, maybe two. But more importantly, he would have never met Annabelle Coakley.

Annabelle Coakley, with her lioness eyes and her freckled nose and dimpled cheeks. And scorching kisses that promised pleasures he would never know. The hauntingly beautiful face that could be soft with vulnerability, or flushed with anger. An attorney who worked long hours for little pay and scant respect. A loving daughter who missed her father and seemed bent on protecting her mother. He’d mistaken her for a ditzy pushover, and in the end, she’d doled out more grief to him than he’d ever dreamed of giving her. Or rather, he’d brought the grief on himself by crossing her at every opportunity.

He’d toyed with the idea of calling Henry to check out the explanation Annabelle had given concerning her relationship to the older man in Detroit and the money that had exchanged hands. But now, removed from the moment, he knew in his gut she was telling the truth. Something in her eyes when she’d said, “I thought you would leave me alone if you believed I was engaged,” had cut him deep.

Was he that much of an ogre? Clay sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes with forefinger and thumb. Considering the way he’d greeted her, tried to bribe her to leave, kissed her roughly, he couldn’t blame her. She’d come to Atlanta thinking the worst of the Castleberrys and his behavior since had only reinforced her opinion. Although his subsequent kisses had been administered with somewhat less menace, she nonetheless had maintained a determined distance from him. She might have endured his kisses—maybe even enjoyed them—but she didn’t trust him. Didn’t respect him.

Didn’t even
like
him, much less love him.

He grimaced at the manifestation of the word that had been hovering on his mind for hours. These absurd feelings… guilt? Sure. Remorse? Maybe. But love?

Frankly, son, sometimes I think you meddle in my life as a diversion to your own unhappiness.
What utter nonsense. He was perfectly happy. Perfectly. Clay pushed away from his desk and walked to the kitchen for a cold bottle of beer. Afterward, something drove him to the hallway where his mother’s image waited, smiling up at him like the movie star she was.

What did he know about love except the distant memories of his mother? He picked up her photo and studied her eyes, willing her to impart a bit of wisdom into his head and heart.

“You would like her, Mother. She’s smart, pretty, and completely unimpressed with me, just like you were with Dad.”

She smiled, and he could imagine her nodding her approval.

“How do I know if I love her?” he murmured.

She smiled, and suddenly he remembered his mother’s words as she tucked him in bed one night. She’d been wrapped in a silvery robe, her hair cascading around her gentle face.

“I love you, Clay.”

Her words had filled him with joy, and he’d wanted to prolong her visit to the edge of his bed. “Why do you love me, Mommy?”

“Because,” she’d said, leaning forward to rub her nose against his, “your heart calls out to mine.”

Clay closed his eyes and bit down on his lip. Did Annabelle’s heart call out to his? He let out a bitter laugh. After the way he’d treated her, the only thing her heart was likely to call out to him was obscenities. He had nothing with which to compare these prickly, plaguing feelings, but he knew therein lay a generous amount of guilt and a staggering dose of desire.

He lifted the beer bottle to his mouth. But love?

No. Not him. Besides, he’d just jeopardized a sizable deal to come back and convince his father that marriage was a farce. How big of an idiot would he have to be to fall in love while trying to stop his father’s wedding?

Pretty damn big. And he hadn’t built his career and reputation by conducting himself like an idiot. He swallowed a mouthful of the bittersweet liquid. No, he most certainly wasn’t in love.

“I’m not in love,” he said aloud in affirmation.

His mother smiled.

“I’m not,” he said with more vehemence. “Just to prove it, I’m calling the airline right now. By the time the so-called wedding takes place, I’ll be in Paris, far away from Annabelle Coakley.”

He couldn’t be sure, but for a second he thought his mother smiled a little less.

*****

“So the wedding is back on?” Michaela asked.

“Yes, tomorrow.”

“You sound resigned.”

“I am,” Annabelle said with a sigh. “And Mom will be fine—I believe I underestimated her judgment.” It was her own judgment, it seemed, that was lacking.

“I can’t believe the son turned out to be such a jackass.”

“Yeah.” Her heart still squeezed when she remembered the look on his face, accusing her of trying to swindle him and his father, insinuating that she’d cozied up to him so he’d lower his guard. He had no idea what those kisses and intimate moments and bits of personal revelation had cost her. Didn’t she counsel women every day not to let their emotions overrule their common sense? A fine role model she’d turned out to be.

“Annabelle?”

She yanked her attention back to phone call. “Hm?”

“I said don’t let him get to you. I mean, it’s not like you care what he thinks of you, right?”

Annabelle bit into her lower lip. Mike had hit the nail on the head—she wasn’t bothered so much by the fact that Clay had looked into her background as she was by the fact that he had so easily drawn the worst conclusion from the circumstantial evidence. Sure, she’d believed the worst of him when they’d first met, but over the past several days, her opinion of him had shifted as she’d gotten to know him. In fact, she’d fancied herself to be falling for him, had imagined an uncommon connection with him. What a joke, since his opinion of her apparently hadn’t changed at all. The fact that he would have made love to her that afternoon on his property despite his low opinion of her made her stomach roll. And the fact that she might have allowed him to made her feel decidedly ill.

“Right, Annabelle?”

“Right.”

“Are you okay? You sound strange.”

“I’m fine. I’ll call you when I get back in town.”

“Okay,” Mike said, sounding hesitant. “I feel bad that I was teasing you about falling for this guy. Guess I was dead wrong about him.”

“Bad judgment seems to abound.”

Mike paused. “Is there something you want to tell me, boss?”

So perceptive, this one. “No, nothing at all. I’ll see you soon.”

Annabelle disconnected the call, then on impulse, pulled up the photo she’d taken of Clay the day of the hike, leaning against a rock and looking uncharacteristically surprised. The fact that the man wasn’t used to being caught off-guard had made the picture even more special, because for the briefest second, Clay Castleberry had appeared…exposed. Vulnerable. Approachable. On hindsight, however, the expression had been a trick of the light.