Stop the Wedding! (8 page)

Annabelle smirked. When the act of buying taboo underwear could lift a woman’s spirits, her life was pretty dull. Then she shrugged. Dull was comfortable, and she wore it well.

On the other side of the rack, she found panties to match—a high-cut brief that looked as if it might pass the ‘creep’ test of sitting on an unpadded chair in a courtroom for taffy-long hours. She turned to a full-length tri-mirror and held up the garments over her overalls. Her hair had loosened from its clip, releasing long bangs she was trying to let grow out. Actually, the face-framing effect wasn’t bad, which meant she would never be able to reproduce the look, not even with a dozen tools and two cans of hair spray. She worked her mouth from side to side, one plastic hanger under her chin and one mid-navel. The fabric was more sheer than she’d realized, but she liked the extra details—

A motion in the glass window to her left snagged her attention. She squinted, then walked closer. Martin Castleberry stood a few feet away on the other side of a glass divider, talking to—no,
hugging
a very young, very attractive woman. Incredulous, she pressed her nose against the glass. The neighboring store was a posh men’s clothing boutique, and Martin’s curvaceous companion seemed to be selecting ties for him, which apparently required that she touch him everywhere. Annabelle fumed—she’d caught him red-handed, the flirt!

Then in a flash her anger changed to triumph:
She’d caught him red-handed.
Now all she had to do was drag her mother over to witness his outrageous behavior, and this farce of a wedding would be off.

She turned on her heel and jogged back to the dress department where Belle seemed torn between a pale yellow suit and a coral-colored tea-length dress.

“Mother,” she said in a sweet voice. “You’ll never guess who’s here.”

“Who, dear?”

“Melvin.”

Her mother’s brow wrinkled.

“I mean Martin.”

Belle brightened. “Really? How wonderful! Where is he?”

“Right next door at a men’s clothing store—let’s go say hello.” Annabelle tucked the underwear beneath her arm and transferred a dress out of her mother’s hand to the sales clerk’s.

Her mother looked puzzled at her sudden burst of enthusiasm, but followed willingly enough when Annabelle grasped her elbow.

“Martin must be shopping for something new,” Belle offered, giving a worried backward glance at the abandoned dresses.

“That’s one way to put it,” Annabelle muttered, urging her forward.

As they threaded through racks of evening gowns, dressy suits, and elaborate wraps, her heart beat faster with bittersweet anticipation. Her mother would be hurt at first, but would soon realize she was better off sans Martin Castleberry. What luck to have stumbled onto the man while he sported his true colors—at least Annabelle wouldn’t wind up looking like the bad guy for saying less than favorable things about him. Cheered, she picked up her pace as she led her mother across the pale marble floor.

They exited the bridal shop and Annabelle practically dragged her mother into the men’s clothing store. Thankfully, Martin and his young lady friend were still there. The woman was looping a green and navy striped tie around his neck and tying it with long, manicured fingers. She was smiling wide with her head tilted back, her long flaxen hair streaming nearly to her impossibly small waist. And Martin, ever the entertainer, seemed to be simply delighted with the ugly tie. Annabelle kept her gaze glued on his face for the sheer satisfaction of his expression when he noticed her mother.

A split second later he looked over the blonde’s shoulder and his face erupted into a wide grin. “Belle! What a lovely surprise.”

“Hello, my dear.” Her mother smiled, seemingly unconcerned that another woman was draped over her intended. He sidestepped the young woman, and met Belle for a quick kiss on the mouth.

Martin extended a greeting to Annabelle, as if absolutely nothing was amiss. She could see why the man had been nominated for an Academy Award. “Martin,” she said in her most innocent voice, “aren’t you going to introduce your friend?”

As she expected, his brow furrowed in feigned perplexity. “My friend?” He followed Annabelle’s pointed look toward the young woman who stood watching them with a questioning expression. “Oh, my
friend
.” He beckoned the woman closer. A blip of panic assailed Annabelle when she saw the woman’s salesclerk badge. “This is Suzanne Jacobson. Suzanne’s father is my long-time friend and assistant—I was in the hospital waiting room when this young lady was born. Suzanne, may I present my fiancée, Belle Coakley, and her daughter, Annabelle.”

The woman flashed a dazzling smile—Annabelle had never seen so many teeth in one mouth. “I’m pleased to meet you,” Suzanne gushed. “I was helping Martin select a couple of ties while we waited for Clay.” The woman pronounced the latter name with wistful familiarity.

Frustrated that her plan had been thwarted, and doubly irritated to meet one of what must be a long list of Clayton Castleberry admirers, Annabelle sent a withering glance toward a sock rack and muttered, “If I hear the name “Clay” one more time—”

“Careful,” a male voice sounded near her ear, “my ears are already burning.”

She wheeled, not entirely surprised to see Clay Castleberry, who seemed to pop up at the most inconvenient times. Dressed in classic dark jeans, a white ribbed T-shirt, and broken-in leather tennis shoes, Annabelle thought she had a good idea of what Martin might have looked like during his movie-making days. Clayton Castleberry was a striking man, an acknowledgment that only rankled her further.

The subject of her agitation swept his dark gaze over her overalls and quirked a brow. “They don’t pay attorneys in Detroit enough to afford clothes?”

A flush scalded her neck. “The airline lost my luggage,” she said through clenched teeth, feeling like a hobo next to the glittery, coiffed Suzanne, who paraded over to stand next to Annabelle, crowning the comparison.

“Hello, darlin’,” the woman drawled to Clay, hiking out a rounded hip which had been vacuum-packed into a red skirt.

Clay’s eyes followed her movement. “Hello, Suzanne. I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“That’s your fault,” she said silkily.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Don’t tell me you’re getting married, too,” she said, sounding wounded, then

shot a suspicious glance toward Annabelle.
“No!” they said in unison.

Clay added a laugh, his voice casual. “I only came to help Dad select a tux.”

“And I’m only here to help mother pick out a dress,” Annabelle offered, hating that she felt the need to explain, and frowning at the older couple who stood engrossed in each other a few steps away. Belle straightened the hideous tie and Martin showered kisses upon her mother’s hands.
Ugh.

“Annabelle, dear,” her mother said. “I’d like to show Martin that pink dress.”

Martin flashed a charming smile. “You can stay with Clay, Annabelle, and give your opinion on the jacket style I picked out. Add the tie to my account, Suzanne. We’ll be back in a few minutes.”

They didn’t even wait for an answer before strolling out of the shop, arm in arm. Annabelle gritted her teeth, lamenting the turn the day had taken. She’d been
so
close.

“Temper, temper,” Clay chided.

She glared in his direction. “Shut. Up.”

Suzanne glanced back and forth between them, then said, “I’ll get the jacket Martin selected,” and scampered away.

“You don’t have to keep up the act around me,” Clay said, folding his arms.

“What
are
you rambling about?” she asked, looking for somewhere to sit.

“I’m not convinced you’re against this marriage as much as you pretend.”

Her feet were killing her, and her head felt equally offended. She looked back to him and stepped closer, narrowing her eyes. “Mr. Castleberry, let me remind you that you dug a deep hole for yourself within the first ten minutes of our meeting.” With every word, she inched toward him, her ire rising. “You are the most arrogant man I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. And I couldn’t care less whether you find my behavior ‘convincing,’ because
you
have no say-so over any aspect of my life.” She jabbed a finger in his chest, and winced when it met unyielding muscle. “Got it?”

“Excuse me,” Suzanne said as she reappeared. Her voice had changed and she eyed Annabelle with unsettling smugness. A woman Annabelle recognized as the salesclerk who had assisted her mother stood behind the blonde.

“Yes?” Annabelle prompted, not bothering to hide her impatience.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come with me,” Suzanne said. A grim-faced uniformed guard walked up and adopted a wide-legged stance.

“Is there a problem?” Annabelle asked.

“The problem,” Suzanne said, punctuating every syllable with attitude, “is that you were seen shoplifting in the bridal store.” She indicated the other salesclerk, who nodded curtly.

She knew her mouth had dropped open because she felt the cool air on her tongue.
“What?”

“Let’s have a look at what you’re hiding under your arm,” the guard said, obviously relishing the moment.

“Hiding?” Outrage billowed in her chest, stealing her voice. These uppity people were high-strung and paranoid. She threw her arms in the air with exaggeration, to prove them liars.

Then watched the brown and black sheer leopard-print bra and matching high-cut panties fall to the marble floor.

If the devil had appeared at that moment offering invisibility in exchange for her soul, Annabelle would have considered it. Pure mortification swept over her as her mind raced ahead, predicting how a shoplifting charge would affect her career. Didn’t her employment contract negate the state’s obligation to repay her loans if she were convicted of a crime? Without a good reference, she’d have a difficult time finding a decent job. Without a job, she’d never qualify to buy a house. Sheer panic forced defensive words out of her mouth. “Th-those things are n-not mine.”

Suzanne scoffed, then bent and scooped the garments from the floor. Holding up the underwear, she scrutinized the orange clearance price tags with a look of disdain. “The bra appears to be your size.”

High-necked blouses effectively hid her nerve rashes in court, but she suspected her yellow T-shirt offered little concealment today. “I m-mean, I browsed through the lingerie, and I p-picked up—I mean, I considered b-buying the underwear… then I saw Melvin, er, Martin from the other store, and I forgot… ” She trailed off, gesturing with futility. “I… forgot I was holding them.”

Her excuse sounded weak even to her own burning ears. Inexplicably, her eyes went to Clay’s, hoping her expression wasn’t as vulnerable as she felt. Of all the people she could make a fool out of herself in front of, he was the last person she’d have chosen. His gaze locked with hers. She’d expected smugness, but his narrowed dark eyes pierced her with—anger? He was embarrassed to be involved by association. Clay already thought the worst of her, so he’d probably be glad to see her carted off to jail.

Despite knowing the hostility he held for her and her mother, Clay was the closest thing she had to an ally at the moment, and Annabelle couldn’t bring herself to look away. His gaze held her as surely as if a cable connected them. Strangely, she felt her body straining toward him, every hair, every nerve, every muscle, but she tensed to remain rooted. And stranger still, his eyes suddenly changed, softening in a way that caused her breath to catch in her chest.

For a few seconds, everything around them fell away, and voices retreated to a distant buzz. His jaw relaxed and she marveled that he looked younger and less intimidating. Still, something akin to fear crept into her heart—a sensation far more threatening than a trip to the hoosegow. Because she realized she was being given a glimpse of his compassion, an experience that left her feeling oddly privileged. Regardless of his feelings toward her, she somehow
knew
this man would not allow harm to come to her, and the knowledge warmed her.

He broke eye contact first, enabling her to breathe again, and put his hand on the guard’s arm. “I believe we can clear up this matter to everyone’s satisfaction. Ms. Coakley is an Atlanta native and a respected attorney in Detroit. She’s visiting and is shopping with her mother, who is a close friend of my father, Martin Castleberry.”

How had the rich texture of his voice had escaped her before now? He took the garments from Suzanne and held them at arm’s length, the scanty garments incongruous next to his big hands. Annabelle swallowed. How could such a harmless act seem so intimate? Was she different? Was he? What had changed? Her cheeks burned from abject shame, both over her dilemma and her new awareness of Clayton Castleberry.

I-yie-yie.
How quickly one’s circumstances could deteriorate.

*****

Clay stared at the silky underthings dangling from the tips of his fingers, a bit surprised that Annabelle’s tastes in lingerie ran a little on the
savage
side. With little effort, he imagined the sheer bra and panties wrapped around her long-limbed body, her hair fanned out around her—

He gave himself a mental shake. When Suzanne accused Annabelle of shoplifting, his sense of vindication that she harbored an unsavory streak had been short-lived. One minute he’d been anticipating informing Martin that at least one of the Coakley women was a kleptomaniac, and the next minute Annabelle had turned her wide hazel eyes in his direction, stealing his momentum. Along with his ability to reason, apparently, because when the security guard emerged and passersby stopped to gawk, protective feelings had welled in his chest, prompting him to speak. He wanted to think the woman was smarter than to shoplift unmentionables, but could he still trust his instincts? And now the group stood staring at him, expecting…what?

He cleared his throat and continued, willing the right words to come. “And if Ms. Coakley says she forgot she was holding these items when she left the store, then that is exactly what happened.” He met her gaze again and she squirmed, her face crimson. Suppressing a smile, he handed the items in question to the salesclerk from the bridal shop, then retrieved a black credit card from his wallet. “Put these things on my account, please.”