The Tycoon's Bought Fiancée (5 page)

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Authors: Sandra Marton

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It was just that there was something about Stephanie. All that frost. Or maybe the heat. It was crazy. A woman couldn't be hot and cold at the same time, she couldn't look at a man as if she wanted to be in his arms one minute and wanted to slap him silly the next unless she was a tease, and instinct told him that whatever she was, she was not that.
What he ought to do was walk right on past the bar, out the door and to his car. Drive to the airport, catch the shuttle back to D.C….
David's brows lifted. He began to smile.
“Chase?” he called.
There was no mistaking the set of shoulders in front of him. It was his old pal, Chase Cooper, the father of the bride.
Chase turned around, saw David, and held out his hand. “David,” he said, and then both men grinned and gave each other a quick bear hug. “How're you doing, man?”
“Fine, fine. How about you?”
Chase lifted his glass to his lips and knocked back half of the whiskey in it in one swallow.
“Never been better. What'll you have?”
“Scotch,” David said to the bartender. “A single malt, if you have it, on the rocks. And a glass of Chardonnay.”
Chase smiled. “Don't tell me that you're here with a lady. Has the love bug bitten you, too?”
“Me?” David laughed. “The wine's for a lady at my table. The love bug already bit me, remember? Once bitten, twice shy. No, not me. Never again.”
“Yeah.” Chase nodded, and his smile flickered. “I agree. You marry a woman, she turns into somebody else after a couple of years.”
“You've got it,” David said. “Marriage is a female fantasy. Promise a guy anything to nab him, then look blank when he expects you to deliver.” The bartender set the Scotch in front of David, who lifted the glass to his lips and took a drink. “Far as I'm concerned, a man's got a housekeeper, a cook, and a good secretary, what more does he need?”
“Nothing,” Chase said a little too quickly, “not one thing.”
David glanced back across the ballroom. He could see Stephanie, sitting alone at the table. Annie had left, but she hadn't bolted. It surprised him.
“Unfortunately,” he said, trying for a light touch, “there is one other thing a man needs, and it's the thing that most often gets guys like you and me in trouble.”
“Yeah.” Chase followed his gaze, then lifted his glass and clinked it against David's. “Well, you and I both know how to deal with that little problem. Bed ‘em and forget 'em, I say.”
David grinned. “I'll drink to that.”
“To what? What are you guys up to, hidden away over here?”
Both men turned around. Dawn, radiant in white lace, and with Nick at her side, beamed at them.
“Daddy,” she said, kissing her father's cheek. “And Mr. Chambers. I'm so glad you could make it.”
“Hey.” David smiled. “What happened to ‘Uncle David'? I kind of liked the honorary title.” He held out his hand to Nicholas, said all the right things, and stood by politely until the bridal couple moved off.
Chase sighed. “That's the only good thing comes of a marriage,” he said. “A kid of your own, you know?”
David nodded. “I agree. I'd always hoped…” He shrugged. “Hey, Cooper,” he said with a quick grin, “you stand around a bar long enough, you get maudlin. Anybody ever tell you that?”
“Yes,” Chase said. “My attorney, five years ago when we got wasted after my divorce was finalized.”
The men smiled at each other, and then David slapped Chase lightly on the back.
“You ought to circulate, man. There's a surprising assortment of good-looking single women here, in case you hadn't noticed.”
“For a lawyer,” Chase said with a chuckle, “sometimes you manage to come up with some pretty decent suggestions. So, what's with the brunette at your table? She spoken for?”
“She is,” David said gruffly. “For the present, at least.”
Chase grinned. “You dirty dog, you. Well, never mind. I'll case the joint, see what's available.”
“Yeah.” David grinned in return. “You do that.”
The men made their goodbyes. Chase set off in one direction, David in the other. The dance floor had grown crowded; the band had launched into a set of sixties' standards that seemed to have brought out every couple in the room. David wove between them, his gaze fixed on Stephanie. He saw her turn and look in his direction. Their eyes met; he felt as if an electric current had run through his body.
“Whoops.” A woman jostled his elbow. “Sorry.”
David looked around, nodded impatiently as she apologized. The music ceased. The dancers applauded, and the crowd parted.
Table seven was just ahead. The Blums were there, and the Crowders.
But Stephanie Willingham was gone.
CHAPTER THREE
T
HE only thing worse than leaving Washington on a Friday was returning to it on a Monday.
Every politician and lobbyist who earned his or her living toiling in the bureaucratic fields of the District of Columbia flew home for the weekend. That was the way it seemed, anyway, and if Friday travel was a nightmare of clogged highways, jammed airports and overbooked flights, Mondays were all that and more. There was something about the start of the workweek that made for woefully short tempers.
David had made careful plans to avoid what he thought of as the Monday Morning Mess. He'd told his secretary to book him out of Hartford on a late Sunday flight and when that had turned out to be impossible. he'd considered how long it would be before he could make a polite exit from the Cooper wedding reception and instructed her to ticket him out of Boston. It was only another hour, hour and a half's drive.
A simple enough plan, he had figured.
But nothing was simple, that Sunday.
By midafternoon, hours before he'd expected to leave Stratham, David was in his rented car, flooring the pedal as he flew down the highway. He was in a mood even he knew could best be described as grim.
Now what? He had hours to kill before his flight from Boston, and he had no wish whatsoever to sit around an airport, cooling his heels.
Not ever, but especially not now. Not when he was so annoyed he could have chewed a box of nails and spit them out as staples.
There was always the flight out of Hartford, the one he'd turned down as being scheduled too early. Yes. He'd head for Bradley Airport, buy a ticket on that flight instead.
Maybe he should phone, check to see if there was an available seat.
No. What for? Bradley was a small airport. It didn't handle a lot of traffic. Why would a plane bound for D.C. on a Sunday afternoon be booked up?
David made a sharp right, skidded a little as he made up his mind, and took the ramp that led north toward the airport.
The sooner he got out of here, the better. Why hang around this part of the world any longer than necessary?
“No reason,” he muttered through his teeth, “none at all.”
He glanced down, saw that the speedometer was edging over sixty. Was fifty-five the speed limit in Connecticut, or was it sixty-five? Back home—back in his
real
home, Wyoming—people drove at logical speeds, meaning you took a look at the road and the traffic and then, the sky was the limit.
But not here.
“Hell,” he said, and goosed the car up to sixty-five.
He'd done what had been required, even if he had left the reception early. He'd toasted the bride and groom, paid his respects to Annie, shaken Chase's hand and had a drink with him. That was enough. If other people wanted to hang around, dance to a too loud band, tuck into too rich food, make a pretense of having a good time, that was their business.
Besides, he'd pretty much overstayed his welcome at table seven. David figured the Blums and the Crowders would make small talk for a month out of what had gone on between him and Stephanie, but they'd also probably cheered his defection.
The needle on the speedometer slid past seventy.
“Leaving so soon?” Bobbi Blum had asked, after he'd made a circuit of the ballroom and then paused at the table just long enough to convince the Blums and the Crowders that he really was insane. Her voice had been sweet, her smile syrupy enough to put a diabetic into a coma, but the look in her eyes said, “Please, oh, please, don't tell us you're just stepping outside to have a smoke.”
Maybe it had something to do with the way he'd demanded to know if any of them had seen Stephanie leave.
“I did,” Honoria had squeaked, and it was only when he'd heard that high-pitched voice that reality had finally made its way into David's overcooked brain and he'd realized he was acting like a man one card short of a full deck.
And for what reason? David's mouth thinned, and he stepped down harder on the gas pedal.
It wasn't Honoria's fault—it wasn't anybody's fault—that he'd let Stephanie Willingham poison his disposition before she'd vanished like a rabbit inside a magician's hat.
“Give us a break, Chambers,” he muttered.
Who was he trying to fool? It was somebody's fault, all right. His. He'd homed in on Stephanie like a heat-seeking missile and that wasn't his style. He was a sophisticated man with a sophisticated approach. A smile, a phone call. Flowers, chocolates…he wasn't in the habit of coming on to a woman with all the subtlety of a cement truck.
He could hardly blame her for leaving without so much as a goodbye.
Not that he cared. Well, yeah, he cared that he'd made a fool of himself, but aside from that, what did it matter? David's hands relaxed on the steering wheel; his foot eased off the pedal. The widow Willingham was something to look at, and yes, she was an enigma. He'd bet anything that the colder-than-the-Antarctic exterior hid a hotter-than-the-Tropics core.
Well, let some other poor sucker find out.
He preferred his women to be soft. Feminine. Independent, yes, but not so independent you felt each encounter was only a heartbeat away from stepping into a cage with a tiger. The bottom line was that this particular babe meant nothing to him. Two, three hours from now, he'd probably have trouble remembering what she looked like. Those dark, unfathomable eyes. That lush mouth. The silken hair, and the body that just wouldn't quit, even though she'd hidden it inside a tailored suit the color of ripe apricots.
Apricot. That was the shade, all right. Not that he'd ever consciously noticed. If somebody had said, “Okay, Chambers, what was the widow wearing?” he'd have had to shrug and admit he hadn't any idea.
Not true. He
did
have an idea. His foot bore down on the accelerator. A very specific one. His brain had registered all the pertinent facts, like the shade of the fabric. And some nonpertinent ones, like the way the jacket fit, clinging to the rise of her breasts, then nipping in at her waist before flaring out gently over her hips. Or the way the skirt had just kissed her knees. He'd noticed the color of her stockings, too. They'd been pale gray. And filmy, like the sheerest silk.
Were they stockings? Or were they panty hose? Who was it who'd invented panty hose, anyway? Not a man, that was certain. A man would have understood the importance of keeping women—beautiful, cool-to-the-eye women—in thigh-length stockings and garter belts. Maybe that was what she'd been wearing beneath that chastely tailored suit. Hosiery that would feel like cobwebs to his hands as he peeled them down her legs. A white lace garter belt, and a pair of tiny white silk panties….
The shrill howl of a siren pierced the air. David shot a glance at the speedometer, muttered a quick, sharp word and pulled onto the shoulder of the road. The flashing red lights of a police cruiser filled his rearview mirror as it pulled in behind him.
David shut off the engine and looked in his mirror again. The cop sauntering toward him was big. He was wearing dark glasses, even though the afternoon was clouding over, as if he'd seen one old Burt Reynolds' movie too many. David sighed and let down his window. Then, without a word, he handed over his driver's license.
The policeman studied the license, then David.
“Any idea how fast you were tooling along there, friend?” he asked pleasantly.
David wrapped his hands around the steering wheel and blew out a breath.
“Too fast.”
“You got that right.”
“Yeah.”
“That's it? Just, ‘yeah'? No story? No excuse?”
“None you'd want to hear,” David said after a couple of seconds.
“Try me,” the cop said. David looked at him, and he laughed. “What can I tell you? It's been a slow day.”
A muscle clenched in David's jaw. “I just met a woman,” he said. “I didn't like her. She didn't like me, and I think—I know—I pretty much made an ass of myself. It shouldn't matter. I mean, I know I'll never see her again…but I can't get her out of my head.”
There was a silence, and then the cop sighed.
“Listen,” he said, “you want some advice?” He handed David his license, took off his dark glasses and put his huge hands on the window ledge. “Forget the babe, whoever she is. Women are nothing but grief and worry.”
David looked at the cop. “That they are.”
“Damn right. Hey, I should know. I been married seven years.”
“I should, too. I've been
divorced
seven years.”
The two men looked at each other. Then the cop straightened up.
“Drive slowly, pal. The life you save, and all that…”
David smiled. “I will. And thanks.”
The cop grinned. “If guys don't stick together, the babes will win the war.”
“They'll probably win it anyway,” David said, and drove off.

* * *

A war.
That's was what it was, all right.
Men against women. Hell, why limit it? It was male against female. No species was safe. One sex played games, the other sex went crazy.
David strode into the departures terminal at the airport, his garment carrier slung over his shoulder.
That was what all that nonsense had been today. A war game. The interval with the policeman had given him time to rethink things, and he'd finally figured out what had happened at that wedding.
Stephanie Willingham had been on maneuvers.
It wasn't that he'd come on too hard. It was that she'd been setting up an ambush from the moment in church when they'd first laid eyes on each other. He'd made the mistake of letting his gonads do his thinking and, bam, he'd fallen right into the trap.
On the other hand… David frowned as he took his place on the tail end of a surprisingly long line at the ticket counter. On the other hand, the feminine stratagems she'd used were unlike any he'd ever experienced.
Some women went straight into action. They'd taken the equality thing to heart. “Hello,” they'd purr, and then they'd ask a few questions—were you married, involved, whatever—and if you gave the right answers, they made it clear they were interested.
He liked women who did that, admired them for being straightforward, though in his heart of hearts, he had to admit he still enjoyed doing things the old-fashioned way. There was a certain pleasure in doing the pursuing. If a woman played just a little hard to get, it heightened the chase and sweetened the moment of surrender.
But Stephanie Willingham had gone overboard.
She hadn't just played hard to get. She'd played impossible.
The line shuffled forward and David shuffled along with it.
Maybe he really wasn't her type. Maybe she hadn't found his looks to her liking.
No. There was such a thing as modesty but there was such a thing as honesty, too, and the simple truth was that he hadn't had trouble getting female attention since his voice had gone down and his height had gone up, way back in junior high school.
Maybe she just didn't like men. Maybe her interests lay elsewhere. Anything was possible in today's confused, convoluted, three-and-four-gender world.
No. Uh-uh. Stephanie Willingham was all female. He'd bet everything he had on that.
What was left, then? If she hadn't found him repugnant, if she wasn't interested in women…
David frowned. Maybe she was still in love with her husband.
“Hell,” he said, under his breath. The elderly woman standing in front of him looked around, eyebrows lifted. David blushed. “Sorry. I, uh, I didn't expect this line to be so long…”
“Never expect anything,” the woman said. “My Earl always said that. If you don't expect anything, you can't be disappointed.”
Philosophy, on a ticket line in Connecticut? David almost smiled. On the other hand, it was probably good advice. And he'd have taken it to heart, if he'd needed to. But he didn't, because he was never going to see Stephanie Willingham again. How come he kept forgetting that?
End of problem. End of story. The line staggered forward. By the time David reached the ticket counter, he was smiling.

* * *

“Mrs. Willingham?”
Honoria Crowder let the door to the ladies' room of the Stratham Country Club swing shut behind her.
“Mrs. Willingham? Stephanie?”
Honoria peered at the line of closed stalls. Then she rolled her eyes, bent down and checked for feet showing under the doors. A pair of shiny black pumps peeped from beneath the last door on the end.
“He's gone,” she said.

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