The Rent-A-Groom (5 page)

Race Bannister, Gina had to acknowledge, was a captivating companion. But then, he would be, wouldn’t he? It was his stock-in-trade. She should not need to remind herself of that last fact, yet she did.

They were halfway through their broiled shrimp with white asparagus and baby carrots when she noticed Bradley. How long he and Sandra—the supposed new Mrs. Dillman—had been at the table on the far side of the room, she didn’t know. Since the tables were set within booths with high backs that provided a great deal of privacy, she’d managed to forget the other diners, even those visible from where she sat. It was actually the way her ex-fiancé stared in her direction that drew her attention.

For Bradley to finally show up felt like an intrusion. It gave her a start to realize she was annoyed with him for it.

“What is it?” Race asked, his expression alert as he watched her face.

“The idiot.” She tilted her head in the direction of the other couple. “Otherwise known as my former fiancé, Bradley Dillman. The woman with him was to have been my maid of honor.”

“Right.” Race reached to take her cool fingers in his warm clasp while his lips curved in a smile of infinite appreciation. “Curtain going up.”

It did, too, at least in a manner of speaking.

If she had thought Race Bannister was attentive before, it was nothing compared to the sudden acceleration of his concentration upon her. Eye contact was increased. No opportunity was lost to touch her. He made her laugh with his intimate comments. He even fed her bites of the cherries jubilee he ordered for dessert. When she used her fingertip to catch a vagrant drop of melted ice cream, he reached for her hand and took away the stickiness with a flick of his tongue.

The firm grasp of his hand, that warm, wet-velvet abrasion, made her feel a little dizzy. Or perhaps it was the wine; she couldn’t tell. All she knew was that she could easily drown in the liquid sea-blue of his eyes. On top of that, if he licked her finger one more time, she might well dissolve into a puddle like the melting ice cream of his cherries jubilee.

This would not do. “I think,” she said with some difficulty, “that we had better call it a night.”

The small triangular scar above his left eyebrow arched diabolically. “Why? The evening has just started.”

“Yes, but this—it could get out of hand.”

“Could it?” The question was innocent, but the gleam in his eyes was not.

She moistened her lips. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Playing bridegroom,” he said, still smiling. “And looking forward to dancing with you. On the patio, maybe, in the moonlight.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“And here I was thinking it was one of my best.” His smile turned whimsical. “All for Dillman’s benefit, of course. It should convince him that he’s the farthest thing from your mind.”

He was, and that was what worried her. To call it quits now, however, would mean that she might never discover who Race Bannister was or how he had found out so much about her. She had somehow lost sight of that aspect of the situation in the last hour or two.

“You’re right,” she said, her tone abrupt as she turned to glance around the room. “What became of our waiter and the check?”

Race’s smile faded. Glancing behind her, he signaled, then indicated that the check would be forthcoming in a few minutes. He leaned back in his chair before he spoke again. “Have you known Dillman long?”

“Long enough,” she replied, her attention on the last bite of chocolate indulgence that was her chosen dessert.

“How did you happen to meet him?”

“He was a client at the firm where I work when I started there. I was assigned his account, but had trouble getting the information to keep his books properly. When I chased him down at one of his fast food places to discuss the problem, he took me to lunch.”

“And you worked things out from there.”

“More or less,” she said with a small shrug. “What about you? I suppose you’re involved with someone?”

Race’s brief smile said he recognized the evasive tactic; still, he answered easily. “Not right now. My job doesn’t exactly encourage it.”

“I can see how it might make things a little difficult if many of your evenings wind up like this.”

“Not many do.” The words were short and a little cryptic. An odd expression flitted across his face, as if he might have surprised himself with his answer. “You enjoy being an accountant?”

“Most of the time. It’s one of the few jobs where you can line things up in neat rows and columns and always have the answer come out as it should.”

“But it doesn’t always, does it? Isn’t there sometimes a discrepancy in the figures?”

She gave him a sharp look. There was no time to answer, however, as the waiter materialized beside their table and placed a leather folder at Race’s elbow. He flipped the folder open with a practiced motion and glanced over the check while reaching for his wallet to extract a credit card.

“No, wait,” Gina said in haste. “Let me sign for it.” She reached for the check.

Evading her grasp, Race tucked his card inside the folder before handing it over to the waiter. “My treat,” he said in firm refusal.

“What about the ranch’s vet bill?” She studied him, a frown between her eyes, as the waiter turned smartly and walked away.

“I can stand it this once.”

“But things aren’t supposed to work this way.”

“How do you know? Maybe it’s part of the deal; maybe I send you a bill later for all the extra services.”

There was a lazy, half-insinuating tone in his voice that struck a note of caution in her mind. She drew back a little. “All of what extra services?”

His eyes took on a silvery, slumberous glint while his smile deepened. “Whatever you please,” he said simply. “For you, there are no limits.”

Did he mean what she thought? Her breath caught in her throat.

No. No, he couldn’t have been indicating such a thing. That would be like saying he was a hustler, that he hired out as a—well, a gigolo was the polite term for it. She wouldn’t believe that. She just plain refused.

Nevertheless, Dallas was a town with more than its share of wealthy widows—lonely older women who might be willing to pay for the attentions of an attractive, entertaining, virile man. Race Bannister could certainly command any price he chose if he decided to make a career for himself that way. What woman could resist an evening with him that included a passionate finale in a darkened bedroom like the one upstairs in the honeymoon suite?

As he watched her face, his smile deepened. “My sweet Gina,” he said softly, “whatever are you thinking?”

“Nothing!” She drew air into her lungs with a small gasp before repeating more quietly, “Nothing important.”

He didn’t believe her; the narrowing of his eyes said so. But at least he had the decency not to call her on it.

“Dancing was next on our agenda, I think,” he suggested in a deliberate change of subject. “Or maybe a walk around the garden. Which shall it be? It’s up to you. Lady’s choice.”

The Terrace, where they had eaten, located on the lower level of the hotel’s East Tower, was dedicated to serious dining. It had a Steinway tucked away in one corner, where a pianist in black tie sometimes played show tunes and classical pieces as an aid to digestion, but there was no dance floor. Dancing, then, took place at the hotel’s other eating place, over beneath the West Tower. Montague’s, as it was called, catered to the steak-and-potatoes, hats-and-jeans, two-stepping crowd, with a live band featuring twin fiddles and electric guitars. The atmosphere there was lively, and the music was loud.

To Gina’s mind, it was a little too much of both. She and Race in their evening clothes didn’t fit in. Though they wandered through, they kept right on going until they were on the patio outside.

That cool, open space was an excellent compromise between the formal and informal. A night wind rattled the green-black leaves of the magnolias overhead and wafted the scents of gardenias and flowering tobacco that grew in raised beds. Beyond the paving of Mexican tiles lay the walkway leading to a small ornamental lake and the gazebo that centered it. Somewhere among the cypress trees and weeping willows that edged the water, a peacock cried in raucous shrillness, a counterpoint to the music drifting from inside.

Among the shifting tree shadows cast on the patio by a high-riding moon, Race turned to her and held out his arms. It was a moment before Gina realized that it was only an invitation to dance.

They moved together across the tile floor to a slow tune of aching nostalgia. Race hummed snatches of it in a rich baritone. He moved well to the music, which wasn’t surprising, all things considered. Gina almost wished he had been a little less smooth, a little less assured. A little less professional.

All the same, it was necessary to keep reminding herself that he was holding her so near for the sake of appearances. That the way he gazed down at her, as if she were the most lovely thing he had ever seen, was just one of the tricks in his bag. That the firm circle of his arms was not meant to feel protective, nor was the taut musculature of his thighs moving against her intended to ignite the flare of response inside her.

Of course, Bradley was nowhere around. As far as she knew, he was still inside stuffing himself. It was possible, however, for him to appear, and that was enough.

The song playing was one she knew well. Called “The Dance,” it was a country-western paean to love that had been recorded and made popular by Garth Brooks. To chance the pain that could come of loving was a choice, according to the lyrics; the pain could be avoided, but only if you missed the dance of love itself.

It came to Gina, as the evening wind blew around her and she breathed the hidden scents of the night while moving in Race Bannister’s arms, that this was one particular dance she was glad she had not missed. There was a subtle magic in it, a magic that ran swift and beguiling in her veins.

She was alive, wonderfully alive, and she was whole within herself in spite of a near miss at the altar and Bradley’s betrayal. She had taken a wrong turn on the way to romance, but it was only a detour, not the end of the road. There was nothing wrong with her; she was eminently capable of feeling love and desire again. Someday, somewhere, she would find a man who was worthy of her trust and devotion, and he would love her in return.

Race had given her that sense of confidence and hope by the simple act of being himself. In a few short hours, he had made her feel attractive again, had shown her that she could respond to the right man, at the right time and place. He could not know it, of course, and she didn’t mean to tell him. Still, she was grateful.

But it could go no further. Seeing that it did not was something she must do for herself, from sheer self-protection. She was too vulnerable just now to risk an entanglement. Gratitude, however sincere, was no substitute for real caring.

At the same time, it was difficult to believe that she could be so affected by a caressing manner and a handsome face; it seemed there had to be something more behind it. Or perhaps she only preferred to think so.

Drawing back a little in his arms, she said, “You mentioned that a third party contacted you about this job, I think. Who was it?”

“I didn’t get a name. The office took the call and passed the information on through my answering service.”

Was he telling the truth? His face was open, he met her gaze without evasion, and yet she could not tell.

“So you showed up at my hotel room? Isn’t that a little dangerous? I mean, what if it turns out to be somebody’s idea of a joke, and an irate husband meets you at the door with a gun?”