The Rent-A-Groom (8 page)

“Just a minute, Dillman!” The elevator doors were already closing behind the maid. The long hallway outside was empty. Race left the suite, advancing on the man with hard purpose.

“Yeah?”

It was a good thing Dillman decided to face him. He didn’t trust himself not to put a fist in the man’s face if he had to chase him down. “What’s with you, showing up here, playing stupid games?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do,” Race answered, the words hard, uncompromising. “Keep it up and I promise you won’t like what happens.”

“What’s between me and Gina is none of your business.”

“Not much left between you, far as I can see. She’s done with you, it’s over. Annoy or harass her again, and you’ll answer to me. Got that?”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Damn straight.” Race didn’t wait for a reply. Turning on a bare heel, he left Dillman glaring after him. The itch between his shoulder blades told him it was a good thing the former groom didn’t have a knife in his hand.

Back in the foyer, he paused, listening. Gina was still asleep. Thinking of her lying in her bed brought his blood to a boil. He didn’t know which fired it more, the thought of Dillman trying to spy on her or the knowledge that she was so close, so soft and warm, so unprotected.

He needed to cool off. He needed it now.

It was a good thing the hotel swimming pool was always open.

:: Chapter Five ::

Gina woke to the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. It wafted around her in a rich and enticing cloud. She opened one eye to a slit without lifting her head from where she lay on her stomach, hugging her pillow.

There was a man down on one knee directly in front of her. He held a cup of coffee in one hand while he waved the steam from it toward her with the other.

Her eyes snapped wide. She pushed up from the pillow so fast she almost jerked a crick in her neck. Then she remembered. Exhaling in a rush, trying to control the staccato thumping of her heart, she rolled to support herself on one elbow.

Race’s mouth tugged in a slow and entirely too confident grin. “Morning.”

“What,” she asked in hollow tones, “do you think you’re doing?”

“Finding out whether you’re a morning person.”

His tone and the words were genial, not at all encroaching. She said after a moment, “The answer is maybe. Sometimes.”

“I figured. So the coffee is a peace-offering, in case it could be what makes the difference.”

His hair was damp and still had comb marks in it. His shirt of madras plaid was left unbuttoned over a pair of cutoff jeans, and his bare feet were pushed into canvas deck shoes. He seemed altogether too fresh, too cheerful, and too casually attractive to be true. Gina closed her eyes to recruit her strength, then turned to her back and pushed herself up in the bed. Propping pillows behind her, she leaned against the ornate headboard of black lacquer painted with roses and gilt ribbon, then reached wordlessly for the coffee cup.

He had the decency, or maybe it was the good sense, not to try to talk to her immediately. Pouring himself a cup of coffee from the carafe on the tray beside him, he moved to the end of the mattress, where he settled himself, reclining against the footboard.

Gina thought of ordering him off her bed, but it was too much effort. Instead she watched him from under her lashes as she sipped the reviving brew she held. He made such an incongruous picture, so obviously masculine against the background of the ultra-feminine room.

The atmosphere didn’t seem to bother him, however; she had to give him that. It wasn’t that he was superior or impervious to it, but rather so secure within himself that it made no difference. It was an attractive quality.

To wake with a man around was a new experience. If this was the way it was going to be, she thought she might get used to it. Easily. Too easily.

Something about the way he was watching her made her abruptly self-conscious. She glanced down at the front of her white silk gown, wondering if the material was more transparent than she had thought, if maybe the darker aureoles of her nipples were visible through the soft cloth. She could see nothing. Regardless, she crossed her arms over herself as best she could without being too obvious about it.

At the same time, she could not help wondering what it would be like if the two of them really were honeymooning. How would it be to have him lounging at her feet in whatever he wore to sleep? What would happen if, when they finished their coffee, she shifted to stretch out beside him, reaching for him, pressing close? What would it be like to fit herself to the hard musculature of his body? Would he wrap his arms around her to pull her nearer before he pressed her down into the softness of the bed? How would it feel to know that all barriers between them had been set aside, that they had all day, all week, to make love?

A warm and turgid longing flooded over her, cresting somewhere deep inside. Painful in its pressure, it threatened to swamp her good sense, never mind her better intentions. She held her breath against it, and against the ache of need for that kind of deep, enduring acceptance, that human connection.

This would not do. It would not do at all.

Clearing her throat, she said, “Is there some reason you’re so bright-eyed and busy this morning?”

“Not exactly. Except I’ve already shocked the maid out of her pink socks, had a run-in with Bradley-the-idiot, and splashed half the water out of the hotel pool. I thought it was time to let you in on some of the fun.”

She stared at him. “Come again?”

He explained, and was so droll about it she couldn’t help laughing. She conquered her amusement by taking quick swallows of coffee. When he finished, she asked, “You think Bradley sent the maid in on purpose?”

“What else? He sure didn’t see us going out.”

“True.” She narrowed her eyes. “We really ought to retaliate.”

“We could nail his door shut,” Race suggested hopefully.

 “The hotel might not appreciate the nail holes. But maybe we could send people to his room as he did ours, order towels and ice and a TV repairman. Or we could call room service and have a huge breakfast sent to them—Bradley doesn’t eat breakfast.”

“You have a diabolical mind,” he said with a slow smile. “I love it. And it would be a great plan, except that your late groom and maid of honor are having lunch even as we speak.”

“Lunch!”

Irony crept into his eyes. “It is that time of day.”

“You’re joking.” She gazed at him with her cup suspended halfway to her lips.

“You must have needed the rest,” he said, tipping his head a little as he watched her.

“Yes, I—must have.” That she had slept so soundly and long while he was close by was amazing. It seemed having him in the next room had made her feel more secure rather than less.

“Overwork leads to sleep deprivation,” he suggested. “Ditto worrying. And stress. Depression. You have something on your mind lately? Other than a canceled wedding, I mean?”

“Nothing special,” she answered, though she turned her gaze toward a table draped in ruffles and the window behind it, where daylight made a bright noon glow at the edges of the draperies.

He was quiet a long moment, staring at nothing while he drank his coffee. Then his gaze focused on her once more. “So what’s on the agenda for the rest of the day? A leisurely brunch on the balcony? A walk around the lake? Golf? Shopping? Museums? You choose, and I’ll make the arrangements. Or the other way around. I’m easy.”

So was she easy, or so it seemed, since she did not refuse immediately to go along with him. The agreement had been that he would stay the night to throw Bradley off the scent. Nothing had been said about the morning after, or the afternoon.

Still, what were a few more hours after spending the night together? How much difference could it make?

Race Bannister had kept his word; he had not tried anything during the night. If he wanted to forget that they had a deal, then so could she. For a little while. Just a little while longer.

They ate on the balcony while sharing the Sunday paper. The warm breeze rustled the masses of ivy and the leaves of the potted shrubs in glazed pots that created islands of privacy along the open space. It lifted the edges of the pink linen tablecloth and brought the scent of new-mown grass drifting up from below. Sparrows winged to join them, hopping around under the table or perching hopefully on the railing. The food was delicious, the coffee perfect. Peace and tranquility and an odd sense of comfort flowed between them.

Gina had not bothered to dress, but only thrown one of the hotel’s white terry-cloth courtesy robes on over her gown. She tried at first to keep it securely belted and closed over her chest and knees, but finally gave up the struggle. Once, she caught Race’s gaze resting on the lace and tiny pearl buttons revealed between her breasts as the heavy robe fell open. The smile he gave her then seemed lazy, almost sleepy, yet she glimpsed hypnotic intensity in its depths before his lashes flickered down to conceal it. He looked away, and did not make the same mistake again.

Talk between them was sporadic and based mostly on bits and pieces culled from the paper. The easy comments were punctuated by long periods of silence broken only by the rustle of pages and the clink of a cup on a saucer.

It was the Sunday comics, after they had pushed back their plates and were finishing the last of the coffee, which brought up the subject of cartoon movies. They fell into a mild argument about the effects of cartoon violence, with Gina maintaining that movies such as
Beauty and the Beast
or
Aladdin
were far better for kids than simplistic kick-and-slash shows with heroes like the Ninja Turtles. Race would not be convinced. While admitting the excellence of Disney productions, he claimed that the values of loyalty and cooperation portrayed in the turtle movies made up for their emphasis on action. Besides, he maintained, nobody ever stabbed the turtles in the back, and no giant tiger’s head opened up and swallowed them whole, as happened with Disney animation.

Gina had to laugh and agree. At the same time, she was struck by his knowledge of children’s cartoon fare. The only reason she was familiar with the stories was because of Diane’s son Corey, a pint-sized genius with a passion for electronic gadgets who was usually watching some kid’s cartoon on his portable DVD player while Gina visited her friend. What excuse could a man like Race have? Unless he was married and had children?

But no, he had said he was unattached. That didn’t make it the truth, of course; men had been known to lie about such things.

As Gina thought of Corey and Diane, she realized with a start that she hadn’t phoned her friend again, as promised the night before. Diane would be frantic. It was a wonder she hadn’t called the police, or at least sent someone from hotel security to check on her.

Gina set her section of the paper aside as she got to her feet. “Excuse me a second, if you don’t mind. I need to make a call.”

Race nodded toward an extension of the suite’s phone half-hidden behind a pot of greenery. “There’s one over there.”

“That’s all right. My cell is in the living room, and I’ll make a pit stop before I come back.” Before he could reply to that hasty improvisation, she opened the French door and stepped inside.

Diane answered on the second ring. Gina rushed into her explanation since she was half-afraid she might have to cut her call short if Race decided to move back in from the balcony. Diane heard her out without interrupting. When Gina stopped speaking, a small silence fell.