Stop the Wedding! (3 page)

She rang the doorbell and smiled wide, ready to throw open her arms and embrace her mother. A minute later she stopped smiling and rang the bell again. Where would her mother be at two o’clock in the afternoon? A heartbeat later, she bit down on her tongue in realization. Probably at her boyfriend’s. Correction—her
fiancé’s
. Annabelle grimaced. She had never liked that uppity complicated word.
Fiancé.
Americans had simply adopted a pronunciation from the French to sugarcoat the sticky implication of the word: Constrained. Bound. Trapped.

She lifted the shiny brass knocker and rapped it loudly. Finally she retrieved a ring of keys from her purse and unlocked the door. Thinking her mother might be in the back yard, Annabelle walked through the living room toward the kitchen. Along the way, she scrutinized the newly painted walls with a critical eye—where were all the pictures of her father? In the kitchen, she stopped and stared at the counter.

Was that a
dirty
glass? And—she rubbed her eyes—a saucer with
crumbs
on it?

Well, there was her answer—some messy person had obviously kidnapped her mother and was occupying her home.

She crossed to the sliding glass door, opened it, and stepped onto the deck her father had added a few years ago. “Mom?” The back yard was vacant, but she paused to admire the two rose arbors Belle had added since her last visit, purple Damask and Americana Red, assuming her mother’s tutoring had sunk in. Her mother possessed a green thumb and the picturesque back yard reflected her considerable talent, from clusters of rare perennials to common black-eyed Susans. Annabelle scanned the staggered perimeter of waist-high shrubs that faded into a wooded area and frowned at a worn spot leading out of the lawn in the direction of the coral-colored house.

Good grief, they’d literally beaten a path to each other.

The back of the towering structure was more visible from this vantage point, as well as the tall privacy fence around what she assumed was the home’s back yard. In addition to sheer size, vast Palladium windows and copper roof accents set the house apart from those on her mother’s street.

“Mom? It’s me,” she called tentatively, but was almost relieved when she heard no answer—she preferred talking to her mother alone before meeting the infamous Mr. Castleberry.

Knowing her mother would probably return soon, she retraced her steps and turned on the shower in the bath closest to her old room. While the water warmed, she walked into her mother’s bathroom in search of a robe, but instead of Belle’s usual cotton shifts and quilted housecoats, she could find only silky kimono-style robes. Short ones. Glaring at the rainbow collection, she chose the most modest garment in the group, a mid-thigh turquoise wraparound number, and padded back to the shower.

When the thought crossed her mind that her mother’s lingerie selection was more extensive than her own, Annabelle squeezed her eyes shut and scrubbed her scalp harder.

*****

Clay unlocked the door to his loft condo and keyed in the password to the security alarm. The odors of fresh paint assailed him and he groaned—he’d forgotten he’d contracted to have his condo painted while he was in Paris. Two stepladders, several five-gallon drums of paint, and miles of drop cloths littered the hallway.

His lower back ached from the prolonged plane ride, and his eyes felt gritty. He set his gym bag and briefcase on the floor, then stretched and yawned. The thought of catching a few winks in his own bed sounded wonderful, but he resisted the temptation, stripping his suit on the way to the shower. Unpleasant business was best taken care of quickly, he could sleep later. For an extra jolt of alertness, he stepped inside the glass and chrome stall while the water still ran cold.

He grunted at the almost painful rush, then lathered his jaw and shaved. His father had made a living on the image of a rebel with a perpetual two-day-old stubble, and with too many of his father’s features for his own comfort, he wasn’t about to give anyone added cause to compare the two of them. Damn his father—why couldn’t the man be like normal seventy-five-year-olds: puttering around a garden, begging for grandchildren, walking in the shopping mall every morning before it opened to the public.

He smiled wryly as he soaped his chest. His father would definitely die kicking. Clay only hoped the circumstances wouldn’t be scandalous enough for the press to serve up with a juicy headline.

Refreshed, he dressed in country club casual clothes. Jeans would have been a welcome change after days of suits, but he knew his performance would be more effective in nicer clothing. While shining his shoes, he phoned directory assistance and gave the name ‘Belle Coakley.’ After a mechanical pause, he was rewarded with the woman’s street address and phone number. Clay then called his bank and arranged to withdraw twenty thousand dollars. He’d never had to pay more than ten thousand for one of his father’s lovers to take a hike, but since the proposed bride was a neighbor, he might have to foot the bill for a summer vacation far from Atlanta.

Clay unearthed his car key and exited by the door to the parking garage. He hadn’t moved the Mercedes in over a month. In fact, except for infrequent treks to his father’s house and occasional dinner dates, he walked everywhere, or drove his black quad-cab pickup. A shame, he decided as he unlocked the door to the silver sedan, since it was ‘such a nice ride’—as his last dinner date had declared at least five times before they’d arrived at the restaurant.

On the way to the Coakley woman’s house, with money in hand, Clay marveled at how streamlined the process had become over the last few years: he would withdraw a sum of money, pay a visit to the object of his father’s affliction, deliver a well-practiced story about the wisdom of taking the money and dropping out of sight, then whisk away his father for a few days on an impromptu golf, tennis, ski, or sailing trip. Depending on his father’s and the girl’s reluctance to end the liaison, he might hire a private investigator to uncover the woman’s skeletons, then present the damaging information to his father before they returned home. Martin was usually miffed at first, but would eventually agree with Clay that the relationship wouldn’t have worked and good-naturedly return to his idle pursuits.

Buying off the gold-diggers revolted Clay, but he had negotiated each of his father’s divorce settlements and knew that pre-nuptial agreements were not iron-clad, especially considering his father’s tendency to make generous verbal promises in the throes of passion. Even with him handling his father’s investments personally, the funds had been rapidly depleted. He could provide handsomely for his father, and the recent settlement check from their drawn out lawsuit would restore Martin’s reserves, but Clay was determined to plug the sugar-daddy leak. Consequently, circumventing marriage altogether seemed the most expedient end.

He slowed to scan the road signs. Martin’s former girlfriends had lived in slovenly apartments—and worse—so he was surprised to discover this woman owned a relatively nice home in an established neighborhood. Clay wondered if the house was a gift, or maybe an inheritance from the girl’s last wealthy boyfriend. He hated to be cynical, but he’d discovered that most of the women who cozied up to his gullible father had a history of rooking older men.

He stopped in front of the sweet-looking white home and smirked. How charming. Unmoved, he parked and made his way up the sidewalk. The top story of his father’s home—
his
home really, since he’d assumed the payments and the title—was visible through the top-heavy pine trees. Proximity was a variable he hadn’t had to deal with before, but he’d think of something.

Clay filled his lungs with tepid air and climbed the steps heavily, anger toward the unknown woman building with each footfall.
Please don’t let her be another stripper.

He rang the doorbell, then stepped back and prepared himself for the appearance of a garish young woman. Blond and busty, if his father’s taste ran true to form. And neither virtue had to be God-given.

When a couple of minutes passed, he rang again, then realized the woman was probably lounging by his father’s pool. Just as he turned to leave, a muffled female voice sounded from the other side of the door.

“Can I help you?”

She sounded young—naturally. “Ms. Coakley, I came to talk to you about Martin Castleberry.”

Seconds passed, then, “Who are you?”

“I’m Clay Castleberry, his son.” He felt like an idiot talking to the door, but apparently the woman inside had no such compunction.

“I didn’t know he had a son.”

Clay bit the inside of his cheek—he could almost hear the echo in her empty head. How could his father consider marrying the woman and omit the fairly relevant fact that he had a son? Of course, Martin might have told the woman and she’d simply forgotten. If she were that ditzy, at least she’d be a pushover for the money he offered. “Ms. Coakley, we need to talk about the engagement.”

“How did you know I was here?”

He shook his head. Great—she was simple
and
paranoid. He floundered for a response that wouldn’t spook her. “My father told me.”

The handle rattled and the door swung open. “I knew it—he’s watching the house through binoculars, isn’t he?”

Clay blinked and a bolt of pure male admiration shot through him. Dressed in a short turquoise robe with her dark wet hair falling around her shoulders, Belle Coakley was a vision. Pale hazel eyes flashed from a slender face, flanked by long dark lashes and a surprising display of freckles across the bridge of her small nose. A memory chord pinged, but he couldn’t imagine where he might have met the woman. His father’s taste in mistresses was definitely improving, but she couldn’t be much over twenty-five. A simple, paranoid,
angry
twenty-five.

“Isn’t he?” She scowled and took one step forward.

At the flash of thigh, his mind clouded. “Excuse me?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t play games with me, mister.”

His own ire began to rise, but he didn’t want to provoke her further. “I don’t know anything about binoculars.”

She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “So, Cliff, what did you want to talk about?”

His neck warmed. “Clay.”

Her only acknowledgment was the slight lift of one eyebrow.

In the course of his job to convince venture capitalists to invest in his clients’ projects, he’d become a master at interpreting people’s expressions, and never had one simple tic infuriated him so. He perused the rigid set of her chin and experienced an uneasy premonition that the woman before him had the potential to unleash more grief than the Castleberry men could handle. The sooner he dispensed with the preliminaries, the better.

“Ms. Coakley, I have a proposition for you.”

Chapter Three

ANNABELLE SURVEYED THE IMPOSING MAN who had so effectively dismissed her on the subway. The fact that he didn’t even recognize her stiffened her backbone. The cad. No wonder he’d looked familiar—Clay Castleberry resembled his celebrity father in coloring and profile, and, considering his provocative statement, in attitude as well. “A proposition?”

“Perhaps we should step inside.”

She hesitated. His arrogant demeanor triggered a row of red warning flags that stretched as far as her mind’s eye could see. Still, anything she could find out about the Castleberry family might give her ammunition when reasoning with Belle. Wordlessly, she swept an arm toward the interior of the house, then retreated to allow him to enter. Annabelle pressed her back against the door to avoid contact, but the man’s intensity grazed her as tangibly as his arm might have, dredging up an alarming swirl of awareness, which she attributed to too many evenings chatting with her cat.

He had traded the suit for taupe slacks and a long sleeve wheat-colored shirt—expensively cut with a price tag to match, she presumed. He was tall, probably six-two or -three, with powerful shoulders and thighs that strained against his clothing when he moved. She wondered what he did for a living that allowed him to spend enough hours at the gym to maintain that fabulous physique. Tilting her head, she noted the close-clipped hair, the bronzed skin, the confident air—on second thought, Mr. Silver Spoon probably
owned
a gym.

She walked behind him the few paces to the living room and gestured toward the yellow French country couch and chairs. “Have a seat.”

He gave the room a quick once-over, then pivoted in the center of the area rug to face her. “I’ll stand.”

She remained in the doorway, a couple of strides from the front door, which she’d left ajar. Flies be damned—a girl couldn’t be too careful with a Castleberry in the vicinity. “Suit yourself.”

His gaze traveled the length of her, triggering a ruffled sense of deja vu. She’d taken the time to jam her feet into a pair of her mother’s house shoes she stumbled over in the hallway. Admittedly the fur-trimmed white mules were a bit frou-frou, but at least her blue-tipped toes were covered. She knotted the robe tie again for extra security and drew herself up. “Now, what’s this all about, Mr. Castleberry?”

He pursed his mouth, as if mulling words, then his face took on the lines of granite. He withdrew a fat white envelope from his front pocket and extended it to her.

Confused, Annabelle took the package. “Is this some kind of dossier?”

“Open it.”

She didn’t like the tone of his voice, but she slid a short nail under the flap of the envelope. Her heart kicked up at the sight of one hundred dollar bills—lots of them—and she nearly dropped the packet. “What is this?”

“Twenty thousand dollars. Yours, Ms. Coakley, if you walk away from this little charade.” He remained unsmiling.

Bewilderment clogged her brain and her throat.

His face gentled for the briefest second. “My father is a sweet, gullible old man who is an easy target for young women who are
charmed
by his nostalgic celebrity.” His voice was low and soothing, as if he were speaking to a child. “But believe me, it would be better for all involved if you took this money and disappeared for a few weeks.”