Save the Date

by Jenny B. Jones

  “I have a phone, you know. You could’ve called—instead of sneaking up on me like some sort of creep.” She twisted the dust rag in her hands. “A musically critical creep.”

  “Actually I went to your apartment, but Mr. Jenkins said you’d be here. Pleasant guy.” Alex dropped his voice a notch. “Though the wife’s a little bit of a nag.”

  She had a giant dust bunny occupying a prominent place on her blouse, but he decided to be a gentleman and not tell her.

  “If you were as good at politics as you are at stalking, I think you could make it all the way to the White House.”

  The words sliced, but he’d belt out some blues himself before he’d reveal that to her. “Funny you should mention politics—and thank you for the vote of support, by the way. I like a girl with vision.”

  “And I like a guy who knows when to leave when he’s not wanted.”

  “You really should lock your doors.” He shook his head as he counted the chairs at the table. It could seat half of Congress. “Anyone could walk in here.”

  “True.” She didn’t let her gaze waver. “There are pervs all over this town.”

  “Speaking of that, according to the papers and gossip rags, you and I are dating.” His lips stretched into an easy smile. “I’m a little hurt you don’t make me dinner more often, but other than that, you’ve been an exemplary girlfriend.”

  If she were a tiger, she’d be snarling and baring her claws. “Look, unless you have news about Sinclair’s donation, we really don’t have anything to say to one another.”

  “Oh, but I think we do.” He advanced another step. “I have a proposition for you.” He continued as she opened her mouth. “Hear me out before you decide to get offended.”

  “Talk quick. I have a lunch date.”

  “Cancel it.”

  “Go away.”

  “I said cancel it.”

  Lucy blinked. “Why?”

  That look in her eyes. That uncertainty. Alex found he liked her unbalanced. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “I realize after that People story half the female population is mad at you right now, but I’m not interested.” She pursed her lips as if in thought. “I do have a fourth cousin in Savannah who’d probably be up for a date.” She turned back to her cabinet. “She’s eighty-five.”

  Alex inhaled deeply. Did everything in his life have to be so unbelievably complicated? “Normally when I ask a woman out I get a different reaction. Like tears of gratefulness.”

  “Is this before or after you hand them a free autographed football?”

  Lucy was not a woman to be swayed by pretty words, so he got right to it. “I want to talk about a donation for your home. Now . . . break your date.”

  She lifted one brow. “So Sinclair Hotels is going to help us after all?”

  “No.”

  “But you just said—”

  “Sinclair won’t be helping you any more this year. But I will.” That look on her face was making this all worth it. This idea could be halfway enjoyable. A boon to his campaign and a cure for the boredom that had plagued him for months. “I don’t like to talk business on an empty stomach, and I’m a man in need of pie. Plus I don’t really want to discuss it here.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’m talking a large amount of money.”

  She watched him with guarded eyes. “And what do I have to do in return?”

  “All you have to do”—his cheek dimpled with a wolf ’s grin—“is marry me.”

  “You want me to do what?”

  “Be quiet, will you?” Alex smiled and nodded his head to a couple sitting two tables away from theirs in Jestine’s, a popular spot for home cooking, and the last place Lucy would have expected him to choose.

  Alex scanned the restaurant. “There are ears all over this place. Voting ears.”

  “Insane.” Lucy stabbed a piece of fried chicken on her plate. Oh, the nerve of this man. The insanity. She knew he was arrogant, condescending, and egotistical. But crazy? She had not seen that one coming. “I know you’ve had a lot of hits to the head over the last decade, but I’m not going to marry you just to get a check. I’m not some”—she could hardly process the thought—“mail-order bride. Some . . . prostitute.”

  “Easy now. Despite that article in OK!, I don’t associate with hookers.” Alex pointed his fork in her direction. “It’s business. Pure and simple.”

  She leaned low across the table. “There is nothing simple about this. Marry you for money? I happen to think better of myself than that.” She could hardly enjoy her food, which was just a batter-fried piece of heaven.

  “Hear me out for a moment. In the popularity polls this week, my numbers have been off the charts. And do you know why?”

  “You sent them eight-by-ten glossies?”

  “Because of those pictures from the gala. They’re everywhere.”

  “You and I both know they mean nothing.”

  “But it doesn’t look that way. And America likes what they’re seeing.” He speared a bite of chicken-fried steak and smiled. “I’m the number one search topic on Google.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes. “I bet the guy who won a Pulitzer is totally jealous.”

  “You’re number three.”

  She paused with the glass to her lips. “Three?”

  “Yep.”

  “Who’s number two?” Lucy took a few swallows and put down the glass. “Never mind. I don’t care about any of this. Just because the Enquirer thinks we’re interesting doesn’t mean we’re marriage material. I mean, I’m flattered.” Lucy adjusted her voice to a tone reserved for a young woman who needed some correction. “But let’s get real—I can do better than you.”

  Watching her, Alex slid the fork between his lips and chewed. It was all she could do not to squirm under his blatant scrutiny.

  “I don’t want a real wife.”

  “You want a fake one?” He was insane. He’d be perfect for politics after all.

  “Yes.” He looked out the window at the line of people standing outside, waiting to get in. “And no.”

  “I bet you’re just a whiz in campaign meetings.”

  “Allow me to explain our game plan.” Alex checked over both shoulders before continuing in a whisper. “You simply pretend to be my girlfriend. We hang out, we do dinner, you occasionally smile at me and try not to drip your venom on my golf shirt. After we date a short period of time, I will ask you to marry me. In a public place. There will be cameras. The whole world will see it. You pretend to by my fiancée for the duration of the campaign. Two months after the election, we go our separate ways. I leave with my new state office and you leave with a big fat check.”

  Lucy pushed her potatoes around on the plate. Nothing made sense. She saw Alex’s lips move. She heard the words come out. But they refused to translate into anything logical in her head. “Alex, this . . . is absolutely the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. I mean, I know you football players aren’t typically Mensa members, but even the village idiot would concede this is just wrong.” She had been praying for a miracle, but she’d never dreamed it would be hand-delivered by the president of Club Sin and Depravity.

  “I dominated on that football field. And I know I can do the same in Congress. I just need a chance to get there. My opponent is running a total smear campaign, and my image has taken a severe beating.”

  “Those mean ol’ cheerleaders. Darn them for expecting a commitment out of you.” She pressed a napkin to her lips. “All twelve of them.”

  “Now see, you’re gonna have to stop those little remarks.” He’d spent the last eight years in New York, but his voice was still as Southern as Dixie. “My future wife is supportive. Doesn’t believe everything she reads. Loves me with my faults. Probably even bakes me cookies from time to time.”

  “Your future wife must’ve had a lobotomy because nobody is going to go for that.”

  “Five months. That’s all.” Alex draped his arm o
ver the back of his chair as he lounged back, lazy as you please. As if he were discussing the weather. Instead of a dishonest farce. “Think of it as a long-term acting job.”

  The moral ramifications charged through her head like a running of the bulls. She would be living a lie. It was making a mockery of the political system. Of marriage. Of her life. “I can’t. I just can’t do this.” And there was Matt. He had just come back into her life.

  “But you’re tempted.”

  “Not even a little.” The lies. They were reproducing like roaches. She was desperate for Saving Grace to go on. Those girls couldn’t lose their home. It was so much more than a place to sleep for those women. But what Alex was suggesting . . . it was like something from a movie on cable. Starring Tori Spelling. Or one of those Olsen twins.

  He pulled his chair closer. His hand brushed against hers. “Lucy, I talked to Roger at city council today. Your building sold.”

  The ground shifted beneath her. “But Mr. Greene—he said he would honor the rest of our lease. He promised.”

  “A promise. Are you really that naive? Your agreement becomes null and void with a sale—with or without a promise. You know the city isn’t going to honor that lease. They need the property.”

  This was so unfair. Why was everything falling apart? “We’ll find another place.”

  “Your time is running out. You said yourself you only had months. I’m offering you the golden ticket here.” His brown eyes lingered on her face before focusing on her eyes. “Take it.”

  “This is just about winning to you, isn’t it? Are you truly that warped? The political race—and certainly marriage—they’re not just another game.”

  Alex unclenched his jaw. “I do want to win, make no mistake about that. But this is about a lot more than victory.”

  Lucy shook her head. She wasn’t buying it for a second. “You can’t stand to lose. Everyone knows that about you.”

  Alex spiked his fingers through his hair. “Lucy, I . . .” He closed his mouth and drummed a hand on the table, as if weighing a decision. “I want to win for personal reasons, okay? Can we just leave it at that?”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  He gave a growl that had probably intimidated a few opponents, but she wasn’t about to back down.

  “Fine,” he said after a moment. “I . . . I want to make a difference.”

  Lucy snort-laughed. “Oh, that’s a good one.” As if people like him cared about anyone but themselves. “That almost sounded believable. For a second there I—” Cold eyes stared back at her. And was he . . . blushing? Alex Sinclair? “Oh. You’re serious.”

  “Of course I’m serious.”

  She didn’t know where to go from here. So she just stared. And shrugged. “But still . . . your tactics—”

  “No matter what the news says right now, there’s a very good chance my brother is dead,” he said evenly. “Will was the good one. Worked for everything he had and left an amazing legacy.” Alex stared at his hands as he spoke. “We couldn’t have been more different. He spent his life helping others—making a difference. He saved the world—I played sports. He was planning on coming back home in a few months after he got that last school built.”

  Lucy knew Will had stayed out of the family business, so she hadn’t seen him in person in years, but he had been kindhearted. Gentle. Soft-spoken. The antithesis of his tornado of a brother, right down to their opposing looks. She had watched him go from a local reporter to a favorite CNN correspondent and humanitarian.

  She licked her lips and carefully stepped back into the conversation. “So you want to make a difference for your brother?” Alex said nothing. “You want to fill the hole you think he left.”

  “Something like that.”

  “But you’re not Will.”

  His eyes went hard. “You think I don’t know that?”

  “Why me? Of all the women you know, you pick me? The scuttle over that last People magazine article will wear off soon, and all those bimbos will stop giving you the cold shoulder. What you need is a good trophy fiancée.” She couldn’t believe the track of this conversation. She was helping the man find a fake bride. “Someone perky. Who poses well. Someone with a sweet disposition.”

  Alex straightened as a waitress paused at their table to gather the empty plates. “The numbers are there,” he said when they were alone again. “People respond to you. They like you.”

  “Um, pretty sure it’s you they like. You’re the famous face.” She lightly coughed. “And underwear.”

  “You bring the qualities I lack.”

  “Like a fully functioning brain?”

  “Like a big heart, down-home charm, family values. You’ve dedicated your life to helping at-risk young women. You’re not wealthy—people relate to that.”

  “You mean I’m poor.”

  “You value life over things. You’re a self-made success.”

  “So are you.”

  “As long as there’s a silver spoon in your background, no success is ever truly your own.”

  “Lucky for me and my poverty,” she drolled.

  “Think of it as a job. One that pays very, very well.”

  With the way he was looking at her, she could see why half the Warrior cheerleaders had fallen at his feet and declared their blind allegiance. That face could convince any woman to toss aside her morals for ten minutes of sin. And that voice. A man could take over the world with that deep, Southern drawl.

  “You know I can’t do this. I have . . . someone in my life.”

  “That stuffed shirt from the gala?”

  She eyed her butter knife and had a vision of sticking it somewhere besides the margarine. “Matt is more of a man than you’ll ever be.”

  Alex leaned his head back and laughed, a deep, throaty sound that would’ve made her smile under different circumstances. “Clearly you don’t know what a man is. But luckily for you, I’m willing to teach—”

  “No deal, Sinclair.”

  Alex’s expression shifted like a storm cloud. “Lucy . . . have you ever done one reckless thing in your life?” He leaned so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. He smelled like shampoo and spice. “If my brother’s dead, he went out giving it all he had. Aren’t you tired of living safe?”

  Yes, as a matter of fact she was. But that didn’t mean she wanted to swim with sharks.

  “I save your house, while you save your girls. And I get my ticket to Washington, where I can make a difference. And something tells me, you don’t want this town to see you fail. All you have to do is go on a few dates and pretend you like me.”

  “You do know I don’t like you, right? We’re clear on that?”

  “My pride is bleeding, but I can deal with that.” His eyes sparkled in the candlelight. “What do you say?”

  “I—” Lucy’s phone buzzed in the purse at her feet. “I, um, better get that.” Grateful for the interruption, she checked the display. “Hello? Yes, this is she.” Dread soaked into her spine as she listened to the frantic voice on the other end. “Okay. Don’t panic. I’ll be at the police station as soon as I can.” She punched a button and ended the call. “I have to go.”

  His forehead wrinkled in a frown. “What’s the problem?”

  “A new girl who visited Saving Grace. She’s been picked up.”

  Alex stood up as Lucy came to her feet. “I’ll drive you.”

  “No.” She held out a halting hand. “Thank you.”

  He stepped in front of her, blocking her exit, moving into her personal space like it was just another thing he owned. “Think about what I said. Your girls need you.”

  She shook her head. “Not at this cost.”

  “Wait.” Pulling out a folded check from his pocket, he opened her fingers and placed it in her palm.

  “What’s this?”

  His warm hand closed over hers. His eyes seared. “That, my lady disdain, is your future.”

  Lucy’s phone buzzed again. “I really have to
go.”

  “Be careful driving.” He turned back toward the table. “We have a wedding to plan.”

  Chapter Eight

  It was impossible. Unthinkable.

  Alex Sinclair had to be out of his mind. A life of excess and too many quarterback sacks had robbed him of logical thought. A post-dated check for two million dollars? It was an unfathomable amount of money to her, but probably a small cut of Alex’s argyle sock allowance. She couldn’t wait to tell Morgan this one. Lucy, from the wrong side of the tracks, engaged to Alex Sinclair, professional football’s Playboy.

  Lucy walked through the Charleston police department. Never having been there, she simply stared wide-eyed until someone noticed her.

  “Can I help you?”

  A man in cuffs burst through the entrance, held up by two officers on either side, yelling obscenities. The uniformed woman in front of her didn’t even blink.

  “Don’t worry. That’s Abe McGillis.” She rolled her eyes. “He gets drunk every few days, stands on the Exchange building steps, and preaches about the dangers of tattoos, the Internet, and red-headed women. Can I help you?”

  Lucy tore her eyes away from the raving Abe. “Yes, I got a call from Marinell Hernandez.”

  “Are you her guardian? Because she says she doesn’t have one.”

  “She doesn’t. Eighteen. On her own.” Lucy struggled to focus her spinning thoughts. “Where is she?”

  “Come on back.”

  The woman led Lucy into an office in need of a few windows. Lit only by a weak fluorescent, it was a grim room to send a scared teenager into.

  “I’m Detective Benningfield.” A tall man with hair graying at the temples shook Lucy’s hand. Beside his desk sat Marinell, looking defiant as she clutched a juice box.

  “I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

  “We just brought her in here so we could talk,” Benningfield said. “And to get her some food. I don’t think she’s eaten in days. Are you a family member?”

  Marinell shot a glance at the fair-skinned Lucy. “Yeah, we’re twins.”