RSVP...Baby

by Pamela Browning

  “Chill out, Caro,” Eric said mildly, provoking a decidedly frosty rather than merely cool stare from his agitated fiancée.

  The sinking sun poured a lambent wash of golden light over the honey-colored stones of the Folly, where they’d all gathered promptly at six. Through the crumbling structure Neill saw that a haze was forming above the pond, partially obscuring the swans. The scene was lovely and romantic, and Neill didn’t want to see the evening ruined.

  Eric, ignoring Caroline, said, “I hope Bianca’s okay. I’ll send Kevin to find her.”

  “Yes, do,” urged the minister, a distant cousin of Genevieve’s.

  Neill thought fast. “I’d better go,” he said, thinking he’d better leave the two not-so-loving lovebirds to patch things up. Besides, he feared the worst. He wouldn’t put it past Bianca to walk out on this whole shebang, considering that she had done exactly that last year.

  “Hurry,” said Eric, casting an ominous look at Genevieve and another one at Caroline, who seemed undecided about whether to pursue looking miffed.

  “Tell jokes or something to get their minds off things. I’ll be right back. With Bianca, I hope.”

  “With Bianca. For sure,” Eric called after him on a note of desperation.

  AS NEILL STRODE away from the gathering, he suddenly realized that he didn’t know Bianca’s room number. He certainly didn’t want to go back to the disgruntled group milling around in front of the Folly. So he confronted the desk clerk, a rosy-cheeked summer intern with a badge that gave her name as Suzie and who took her desk duties seriously. Too seriously, as it turned out.

  Suzie confirmed that Bianca was still a guest at the hotel, which relieved Neill somewhat. But she wouldn’t tell him where to find her.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Bellamy, we don’t give out guests’ room numbers, but you can leave a message,” she said primly.

  “Ms. D’Alessandro is late for the Knox-Bellamy wedding rehearsal. She’s a bridesmaid.”

  “I’m sorry, but I—”

  Neill clenched his fists and cautioned himself to be patient. “Let me talk to the manager.”

  “He’s at dinner.”

  “The assistant manager?”

  “On vacation.”

  Neill drew himself up to his full six feet three inches, pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket, and waved it in front of Suzie’s fascinated eyes. “Hainsworth Knox, who owns this hotel and is the father of the bride, will be very angry, Suzie, when he finds out that you haven’t helped me find Ms. D’Alessandro. Mr. Knox will curse and yell at the manager. He will fire the assistant manager. And when I inform him that you, the desk clerk, did not give me my own sister’s room number—”

  “Ms. D’Alessandro is your sister? Why didn’t you say so? She’s in room 141. In the east wing.”

  He tossed the twenty on the desk and slapped a fiftydollar bill beside it. “Do me a favor, Suzie. Send a tray of cocktails out to the wedding rehearsal, charge them to my room, and you keep the fifty. Got that?”

  Suzie scooped up the bills. “Got it, Mr. Bellamy.”

  “Thanks,” Neill said, taking off at a sprint.

  Well, Bianca wasn’t really his sister. But for fifteen months she had been his stepsister.

  He flew down the hall of the east wing, adjusting his pace as the hall bent this way and that. He paused to listen for a moment at the door of room 141, hearing no sounds within.

  “Bianca?” he said.

  No reply. Neill raised his hand to knock and noticed that the door wasn’t locked; it wasn’t even closed properly. He considered calling Security, but because time was short he didn’t want to wait around for someone to arrive. Instead he nudged the door with a forefinger until it swung open.

  In the big bed under the window overlooking the garden, Bianca was lying on her back, one hand flung outward, the other resting on the sheet across her chest. Her eyes were closed.

  Neill was across the floor in two strides, grasping Bianca by the shoulder, shaking her awake. She opened her eyes slowly and saw his face only inches from hers, and then, incredibly, she lifted her arms and slid them around his neck.

  “Neill,” she whispered, her lips moist, her skin fragrant. She pulled him down to her, and his mind whirled with memories, and even as they chased through his mind, he found himself beside her on the bed. He registered that Bianca wasn’t wearing much; only the sheet lay between him and her beautiful breasts.

  Her breasts. They had been so pale in the moonlight that night in the gazebo, and the tips had been so taut, puckering invitingly beneath his fingertips, and when he’d kissed her there she had sighed and whispered his name.

  But that was last year. This was now. The wedding party was waiting, and he broke the kiss. He wrenched himself from Bianca’s arms and stood looking down at her for a brief moment during which her very vulnerability hit him somewhere in his viscera. In her wide pupils he saw his own reflection, miniaturized and desirous. Careful, he told himself. Because if it had been remotely possible, he would have stayed with her. He would have feathered his fingertips across those slightly parted lips, cupped his hand around the curve of her cheek, and joined her between those cool, soft sheets.

  To hide his reeling thought processes, he threw Bianca’s suitcase open and began tossing underwear and hose her way. Her bras and panties were delicate lace; of course Bianca would wear only the best.

  “Get decent,” he said tersely. “You’re late for the rehearsal.”

  Bianca was now fully awake. Neill had startled her out of fantasy dreams in which they had both thrown their inhibitions to the wind. Thrown them right out of the convertible, which in her dreams Neill drove masterfully until he parked it in a dark unspecified place smelling of lilacs, and where she had reached across the seat to touch the nape of his neck while he pulled her sweater out of her waistband and slid her skirt up around her hips, and then he was kissing her and she was moaning and he was caressing her breasts, and then there he was beside her, really there, and the car had become her bed at the hotel and only a sheet separated her naked body from his. Only at that point it hadn’t been a dream. When she’d pulled him down to kiss her, she’d found that out. He’d actually pushed her away, a complexity of emotions chasing across his face.

  He must be angry with her. For good cause. She shouldn’t have fallen asleep; she should have dressed right after her shower and gone downstairs and been sociable with whomever turned up.

  Bianca was so shocked at the way she’d practically thrown herself at Neill that she didn’t speak. She felt pale and shaken, unnerved by her loss of control. True, she’d been asleep. True, she’d thought he was only a dream. But Neill didn’t know that. Bianca was sure that nothing she could say would improve the situation. Cautiously she reached a hand out from under the sheet and grabbed the bra that he’d tossed at her. At first she tried to put it on inside out and had to start over again. She felt all thumbs, clumsy and slow.

  Bianca noticed that Neill kept an eye on her as she finally managed to wriggle into her bra under the sheet. When she reached around to fasten the clasp, the sheet slipped, revealing—well, nothing Neill hadn’t already seen. She didn’t know why she was so shy with him; it was ridiculous considering. He turned away as she shimmied into her underpants, still under the sheet, still not speaking.

  Finally she found her voice. “Neill, I’m perfectly capable of getting dressed by myself.”

  “It was bad enough the day of the engagement party. You could at least be on time for the rehearsal.”

  Bad enough? What was bad enough? Disappearing with Eric, her dearest friend, for a little alone-time before he got completely caught up in wedding, wedding, wedding?

  What had only moments ago been like a dream come true, with Neill in her arms, now seemed like a nightmare. Deciding that modesty wasn’t important, Bianca stumbled out of bed. She was still tired, still jet-lagged, and clear on one thing at least—Neill didn’t think much of her after all. To Neill she was
still funny little Beans, not the sophisticated woman she’d become. Not the mother of his child. How could she be? He would never know about it.

  “Another thing. The hotel has taken extra security precautions but they won’t do any good if you leave your door unlocked.”

  “Yes, Neill. You’re right, Neill. I won’t do it again, Neill. Now will you please leave me alone?”

  “What are you going to wear?” He spoke mildly, standing with his arms crossed over his chest. He might have been asking if she’d like to dance, and it was hard to stay angry with him when he was so appealing.

  “Basic beige.”

  He plucked the dress out of her suitcase, handed it to her, and sat down on a chair at the end of the bed. Fortunately she had already stowed Tia’s bags in the closet.

  “You can go now,” she said with as much dignity as she could summon under the circumstances.

  “Nope,” he said. “I’m not leaving until you do. Hurry up, Gen’s worried that the beef Wellington might fall.”

  “Beef Wellington? Fall?”

  “Or whatever it does when people don’t show up to eat it.”

  “Soufflés fall. Beef Wellington sogs.”

  “And Gen rants. Plus the situation with Eric and Caro is iffy at best. Hurry up, Bianca. Or have I mentioned that already?”

  Bianca didn’t care if Genevieve ranted until doomsday, but concern about the situation between Eric and Caro spurred her into a faster mode. She struggled into the dress, mindful of Neill’s watchful eyes. The dress was another clingy knit, the kind the Italians did so stylishly. It fit more tightly than it had before Tia was born; she’d gained a couple of pounds, which were all too evident when she wore something like this, but she had no intention of changing. It didn’t make that much difference to her what she wore. All she wanted was for the wedding to be over and done. And to fly back to Paris.

  Damn! The back zipper was stuck. She twitched at it and realized that the slider was hung up on a loose thread. What was worse, she was afraid if she pulled too hard, the knit might unravel.

  “Neill, the zipper is stuck. Would you mind...?”

  He stood up slowly and strode to where she was standing, assiduously avoiding her eyes. He zipped the dress in short order, but did she imagine that his fingers lingered too long on the silky skin of her back? Probably.

  “Put on some makeup. Get rid of those circles under your eyes.”

  “What difference does it make to you if I look like death warmed over?” she shot back.

  “Not much, but it matters to you.”

  “The only thing that matters to me—” She stopped talking in midsentence. She’d been about to say that Tia was the only thing that mattered to her anymore. Which seemed like a jaded outlook, but true.

  “The only thing that matters to you is what?” Neill followed her into the bathroom and leaned against the door, hands in his pockets.

  “Is getting you off my case and me back to Europe.”

  “If I were really on your case, you’d know it. I’m merely trying to help. I said I wouldn’t come back without you and I mean to deliver.”

  Bianca smoothed on foundation, considering how to reply to this. “For two cents I’d make a liar out of you,” she said.

  “Oh, great. Here I am, trying my best to get you on track, and this is all the thanks I get?” He was regarding her with a mock-tragic smile, and it was one of those expressions that had always made him so appealing to her. It was all she could do not to turn around and look at him, since his face was reversed. In the mirror image, the lopsidedness of that smile was disconcerting.

  “You always were bossy,” she said, smoothing her eyebrows. She picked up a brush and fluffed her hair. “Instead of merely standing there, you could get my shoes out of the shoe bag in my suitcase.”

  He rolled his eyes and went to dig around in her suitcase. Bianca breathed a sigh of relief. She felt as if she were fourteen again, the age she was when her mother married Budge, and Neill was once again the older stepbrother who never could understand what it was that was always cracking her and Eric up, who never joined in their fun and games, who put as much distance between himself and the two of them as he possibly could.

  “Here,” he said, handing her a pair of shoes. He’d found the right ones for this outfit; that was surprising. Bianca sat on the edge of the bed and slid her feet into them.

  When she stood up, he said approvingly, “Nice. Let’s go.”

  “I should wear jewelry,” she said. She located her jewelry case, slipped on a gold bangle, and found a pair of spectacular earrings of her own design. No time to put them on now; she could do that as they walked.

  “I’d better change purses,” she said.

  Neill appropriated her arm and walked her out the door. “No time. You’ll do.”

  “Thanks,” she said, but the sarcasm was lost on him. Bianca managed to slide the posts of the earrings through her pierced earlobes while skipping occasionally to keep up with Neill’s long strides as they hurried through the maze of corridors to the lobby.

  As they approached the bottom of the garden, he placed a guiding hand at the small of her back, and it was all Bianca could do not to lean into his touch. She didn’t know whether he put his hand there to urge her along faster or whether it was a gesture of support and meant to give everyone else the idea that she was under his protection. Whatever it was, her skin tingled through the knit, but she didn’t pull away.

  The wedding party was waiting restlessly, and dusk was gathering in the shadows. Caroline and Eric greeted Bianca with relief, and Bianca murmured appropriate apologies, including the words jet-lagged and hope you understand.

  Despite a few rancorous looks from Genevieve, the rehearsal proceeded under the tutelage of a wedding consultant who was cultivating a patient attitude. Following Fawn, Neill and Eric’s five-year-old half sister, who was the flower girl, Lizzie Muldoon was the first bridesmaid down the aisle, followed by Bianca, followed by Petsy, followed by Winnie. Neill, as best man, was already waiting beside Eric as Bianca began to walk slowly between the lines marking where the chairs would be set up for the wedding guests. Bianca tried to catch Eric’s eye and wink, but Eric was craning his neck to look past Winnie, the maid of honor, to where Caroline stood with her father, and it was Neill’s eye that Bianca actually caught.

  She couldn’t help it. She felt her heart stop in her throat, and her hands, clasped around the artificial bouquet that she carried for the rehearsal, began to tremble. If only Eric wasn’t watching Caroline and would smile back at her, but he was oblivious. Neill, however, was not He raised his eyebrows as if to say, “Pay attention. Don’t slack off.”

  Caroline and her father, the dignified Hainsworth, started toward The Folly. “Looks like there’s going to be a wedding after all, doesn’t it?” whispered Lizzie, the bridesmaid who stood next to Bianca.

  “Is there some doubt?” Bianca whispered back.

  Lizzie shrugged. Bianca turned her attention back to Eric, but he wouldn’t look at her. He was focused on his bride-to-be.

  But someone was looking at her, too. Neill Bellamy, standing beside Eric, was staring at her with an expression that she couldn’t quite fathom.

  When Neill caught her looking at him, he arched his brows emphatically as if to ask a question.

  Bianca didn’t dare think about what the question might be. Because it could never be the question she’d so often dreamed he might ask. Because she knew she could never be Mrs. Neill Bellamy.

  Chapter Four

  At the rehearsal dinner, held in Odette, the hotel’s elegant dining room, Neill hovered no more than an arm’s length away from Bianca.

  “No martinis,” he warned her under his breath when they first arrived.

  She stared out one of the arched windows overlooking the starlit grounds. “I’ve only had two martinis in my life, and that was two too many.”

  “If you can still say ‘two too many,’ I won’t worry about yo
u.”

  “As I said, I’ve only had tee martunis in my life—” she began, hoping she could make Neill laugh, and he did.

  “Uh-oh, you’re starting to sound more and more like Genevieve,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, I’m sticking to my usual wine,” she assured him. Those two martinis had thrown her for a loop last year and might be part of the reason that she’d let her inhibitions slip. Well, okay, so there was more to it than that. On that night one year ago, she’d wanted Neill Bellamy. It was a time when it had seemed as if she’d have no better chance to live out her secret fantasies about him. The only problem was that she’d gotten something more than she bargained for, and that something was now sleeping in a cradle at the Ofstetlers’ house.

  Bianca turned to a waiter and pointedly ordered a glass of Chardonnay. She thought that once Neill realized that she intended to drink nothing stronger than wine and only one glass of that, he’d back off. She was wrong.

  As Bianca was trying to figure out where she could turn next without bumping into Neill, she heard a small voice say, “You sure are a pretty lady.” She glanced down and saw Lambie, short for Lambert Thorpe, Petsy’s four-year-old son. He had wide brown eyes and a face like a mischievous monkey.

  “Why, thank you,” she said. She stooped to munchkin height so her face would be level with his. “I’m Bianca,” she said.

  “I know. My mother said you’re a werry strange lady. I think you’re a werry pretty lady. Because you have werry nice earrings.”

  “I designed these earrings myself, Lambie. I’m glad you like them.”

  “What’s design?”

  “It means I planned the way the earrings would look. I drew a picture and then the man who made the earrings built them exactly like the picture.”

  “Like with Legos?”

  “Something like that,” she said, trying not to smile.

  “That’s werry interesting,” Lambie said solemnly.

  “You know what, Lambie? I think you’re the nicest boy here.”

  “I’m the only boy. Everyone else is big. Fawn isn’t a boy. She’s only a girl. But I like her werry much.”