Here Comes The Groom: Special Forces #1

by Karina Bliss

  “At least let’s finish this delicious lunch first,” he protested.

  “Why, will the offer give me indigestion?”

  Chris laughed, but when their plates had been cleared and he finally gave her the contract Jo did need an antacid to stomach it.

  “You probably have questions,” he said.

  “Only one.” Jo looked at Grant. “Did you have a hostile takeover in mind when you first approached me to sell?”

  His mouth dropped open. “Of course not!” Out of the corner of her eye, Jo saw Chris shift in his chair.

  “I believe you,” she said to Grant. “You know, Chris, I sent you the Chronicle’s accounts in good faith. I guess I should have known that, sensing a weakness, you’d pounce.”

  “That’s a little harsh.” He seemed hurt as he picked up his dessert menu.

  “Order the double chocolate cheesecake,” Jo suggested. “It’ll kill you quicker.” She discovered she was enjoying herself.

  Grant looked aghast, but Chris only laughed.

  “To be honest I was feeling guilty when I came here today,” she confessed. “You see, I’d already decided to decline your offer. How fortunate we’ve both been wasting each other’s time.”

  The two men exchanged glances, then Grant leaned forward. “Jo, you’ve done a great job,” he said earnestly. “In fact, you’ve held out longer than most small independents. But these days publishing success comes from economies of scale, not idealism.”

  Jo looked at Chris. “I’m assuming you’re the bad cop.”

  “Always coming out swinging…well…okay.” He put down the dessert menu. “Here are the facts. The Chronicle’s sixty-year monopoly in the region is no longer unassailable. The local population is more fluid—old loyalties hold less sway. It would be easy for us to set ourselves up in opposition and add value for advertisers.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen the puff pieces masquerading as impartial journalism in your publications. The Chronicle reflects the community’s interests, not advertisers’ interests.”

  Chris laughed. “Reports on every two-bit community group hardly make riveting reading, however inflammatory your news pages may be.”

  Grant shifted uncomfortably. “We’ve no wish to see an iconic brand fail. Neither do you, Jo, or you wouldn’t have looked for a buyer. Obviously we’d prefer to negotiate a sale—one that works for both of us—rather than launch a competitive paper and slug it out in the market.”

  “But make no mistake,” Chris smiled, “we will do just that if you turn us down.”

  Yes, she was definitely enjoying herself. “Give me your best offer,” she said, “and I’ll consider it.”

  When they’d left, she went to the bar, ordered a double espresso and nursed it in front of the fire. Chris had used Grant like a Trojan horse when Jo had been too beleaguered to smell a rat. The entrepreneur in her could appreciate his cleverness.

  She slipped off the high heels she’d worn for this meeting and stretched her stockinged feet toward the fire. She was really going to enjoy teaching him a lesson. I’m back.

  “Jo?”

  Anton tapped her shoulder. His signet ring glinted in the firelight as he held out a piece of paper. “Dan forgot his receipt. Will you give it to him?”

  Automatically she accepted it, then saw it was for a thousand-dollar deposit on a wedding supper. “Joke’s getting kinda thin, Anton.” Jo ripped it in two and dropped it on the coffee table.

  His brow creased. “I thought the joke was in the way you proposed?”

  She threw up her hands. “Why does everyone assume it’s true?”

  Anton picked up the pieces and handed them to her. “Because jokers don’t usually pay in cash.”

  Chapter Four

  Dan knew Jo had realized he wasn’t playing games as soon as he saw her striding down Main Street.

  Through the plate-glass storefront she looked like a gunfighter at the O.K. Corral, purposeful, with a determined set to her delicate chin as she steeled herself to shoot down the buddy who’d gone loco.

  Knowing her so well, he could even see she was a little frightened that he was so willfully destroying the status quo.

  “Earth to Daniel, can we concentrate please?” He returned his attention to Barry, who was rifling through the racks of suits labeled Special Occasions. “I’m hearing a no to the cummerbund and bow tie?”

  “You know me, Baz. A man of simple tastes.” Except in women. “You choose.”

  Dan glanced through the window. Jo stood at the traffic lights, arms folded, foot tapping impatiently as she waited for the green.

  The last time he’d seen her—at Auckland Hospital after the funerals—she’d been recovering from surgery on a rotator cuff injury after a fall on her shoulder. Even shattered by grief Dan had seen she wasn’t well enough to hear what he was going through so he’d said he was coping.

  Barry’s exasperated voice broke into his reverie.

  “Daniel Jansen, I’ve said the same thing three times.” His friend planted his hands on his slim hips. “Black or charcoal gray for the stroller coat?”

  “Charcoal gray.” Outside Jo had been waylaid by a well-wisher. He watched her gesticulate, shaking her head. He smiled. “The color of the bride’s eyes when she’s pissed.”

  “We need a contrasting color for the waistcoat and tie.” Barry flicked through the racks. “Taupe is hot this season.”

  Dan was momentarily diverted. “What the hell color is taupe?”

  “Fawn.” Barry pulled out a waistcoat to show him. “Is the bride going to be in white or ivory? You don’t want clashes on the day.”

  “I think the clashes might be earlier than that.” The anemic sun caught her auburn hair. The new-look hairstyle feathered around her cheekbones. It suited her.

  “So the waistcoat…full back or backless?”

  “Full back sounds more manly.”

  Barry grinned. “Not secure in your masculinity, sweetie?”

  “Not with my bride bearing down on us. Hide the scissors.”

  The bell above the door jangled and Jo swept in. “What the hell is going on?” she demanded.

  “We were discussing taupe,” he said mildly.

  Barry glanced from one to the other. “He wasn’t supposed to come without you, was he? The naughty boy. Jo, I like your suit.”

  “Thanks.” She took in the row of tuxedos and narrowed her gaze on Dan. “This farce has gone far enough.”

  “Now, why can’t you just be swept away by the romance of it all?” Dan complained. “Baz, forget taupe. Give me a waistcoat in silver.”

  Jo grabbed the garment first. “Oh, yeah, very romantic. Organizing a wedding without the consent of the bride.” Dan started to reach in his jean pocket. “And if you bring out the damn beer mat again, Jansen, I’ll ram it down your throat.” She handed the silver waistcoat to Barry. “Of course he’s not serious.”

  Dan raised his brows. “Why aren’t I?”

  “I don’t even know why we’re having this conversation.” Exasperated, she turned on him. “For one, I’m not interested in marriage and kids anymore. With anyone. For two, you never were.”

  “Groom’s prerogative to change his mind.” Dan reached past her for the waistcoat. “But not the bride’s.”

  Jo caught his hand in a death grip. “I’m trying to be diplomatic here.”

  He laughed. So did Barry.

  “I’m making a list of aiders and abettors,” she warned and Barry looked to him for guidance. Dan freed his hand from Jo’s and gestured for the waistcoat.

  Barry dithered. “You’re both my friends…. I don’t know whose side to take.”

  “Mine,” Jo ordered.

  Dan crooked one finger. Barry gave him the garment. “Sorry, Jo, he’s brawn. You’re mainly bluster. And, sweetie, he really does want to marry you.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Bewildered, she frowned at him.

  Walking over to the mirror, Dan held the waistcoat against his c
hest. “You want a family—I’m ready to settle down. Who better to marry than the only woman I’ve ever had a halfway decent relationship with? It’s a win-win for both of us.”

  She gave a strangled laugh. “Marriage isn’t a business deal. There’s a little matter of love.”

  “We love each other.”

  “Platonically!”

  “That means it will last.”

  “For God’s sake, Dan, get real. We’ve had fifteen years of being grown-ups when we could have got together and we never have. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

  “Yeah, that timing is everything.” He smiled at her. “Hit on me again now.”

  A rare blush colored her cheeks. “We don’t talk about that.”

  “We haven’t talked about it.” Dan shrugged on the waistcoat. “That doesn’t mean either of us forgot. Baz, you look like a man in need of a coffee. Give us five minutes, will you?”

  He waited until their buddy left the shop then said, “Funny, isn’t it? At the time I was mad that my best friend was coming on to me. But I never could get that image out of my head.” His voice grew husky. “The way your breasts looked under that chiffony thing—”

  “Don’t!” She turned away and all he could see was her profile as she began spacing a row of jackets. “Don’t build a future on one drunken pass I barely remember.”

  He did up the buttons on the waistcoat. “You suggested the marriage contract when you were drunk. You hit on me when you were drunk. Maybe your subconscious was trying to tell you something.”

  She scoffed. “Yes, stop drinking cocktails. I don’t get this sudden desire for matrimony. Didn’t you say you’d never get married?”

  “No, I said there was plenty of time.” In the mirror some idiot was standing in jeans, a flannel shirt and a shiny silver-gray waistcoat.

  There was a pregnant silence. “And you learned otherwise,” she said in a low voice.

  “Yeah, I learned otherwise.” Dan unbuttoned and took off the vest, his fingers leaving faint traces of cold sweat on the satin.

  As a soldier he’d accepted his mortality. But his mates’ deaths had rammed the lesson home on an emotional level that was hard to bear. “I can’t bring Steve and Lee back but I can honor their memory by making sure I live big for all of us.” Live like it matters. “Quit flitting from woman to woman and make my life count…settle down.” He tossed the waistcoat aside, tried on another one in black. “Jeez, a mustache and I’d look like Wyatt Earp in this thing.”

  Shrugging it off, he reached for a coathanger and replaced it on the rack. “When I packed up my stuff and found that beer mat I got to thinking, it’s not a stupid idea, marrying your best friend. You already know each other’s faults. And all the boring bits are taken care of.” He grinned. “Respect, commitment, loyalty. Which leaves the fun stuff to work on, like hot sex.”

  He looked over at her, his smile fading. “Given a do-over, Jo, I wouldn’t turn you down again.”

  “But you don’t get a do-over.” Her face was pale, her gaze steady. “You said I’d be relieved you rejected me when I sobered up, and you were right.” She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry about the tragedy overseas, but I want to leave our friendship as it is. And as I’ve already said, I don’t want a family anymore.”

  He watched the pulse beating fast in her throat. “I don’t believe you.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m not marrying you.”

  Dan picked up the silver waistcoat and rehung it. “You need some time to get used to the idea,” he said. “Here’s the deal. I’ll organize the wedding, all you have to do is decide whether to show up.”

  “Of course I’m not going to show up!”

  “See, that’s one of your faults—snap judgments,” he said kindly. “Try and keep an open mind. My failing, as you know, is stubbornness. Which sets us up for one hell of an interesting few weeks, doesn’t it?”

  As she stared at him, speechless, Barry stuck his head around the door. He took silence as safety and came in, holding a take-out coffee.

  “All sorted?”

  “Nearly,” said Dan. “So, honey, you weren’t serious about our bridesmaids wearing pink, were you?”

  “Pink!” Barry threw up his hands. “Jo, with your red hair?”

  His bride finally found her voice. “I am not marrying you!” Cheeks flushed, she advanced on him. “Quit fooling around and tell Baz.”

  “Uh-huh.” Dan put on a top hat, tilting it as he checked his reflection. “I’m practicing being a husband…soothing noises, not really listening.”

  Jo knocked his top hat off, and with a squawk, Barry scrambled to rescue it.

  “You seriously want to play chicken?” she asked incredulously. “With me?”

  “I was thinking tonight we could start working on the fun stuff.”

  She turned on her heel and wrenched open the door. Dingalingaling.

  He went to the doorway, waiting until she was fifty yards down the road. “If you really weren’t interested you wouldn’t have jumped me in Auckland!” he called.

  Glancing at interested passersby, she swung on her heel. “I was drunk!” she hissed.

  “Like I said then, the only time I’ve seen you drunk like that is when you’re in trouble.”

  She looked away. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “We became friends when we were five years old because you’d decided I’d be useful for carrying things. I’m still good at sharing the load, Jo.”

  She held his gaze. “Help me. My best friend’s crazy.”

  Dan leaned against the doorjamb. “How did your business meeting go?”

  Jo blinked. “Couldn’t be better.”

  “I hear Nan’s been diagnosed with dementia.”

  Jo lost her composure. “I wish people would mind their damn business.”

  “I’ll tell Mum that.”

  Her expression became hopeful. “She can’t approve of this.”

  “See how much you’ve already got in common?”

  “Ahhh!” She walked away, came back. “Dan, you’re my escape buddy, don’t do this to us.”

  “Did you ever see that Costner movie, Field of Dreams? About the guy who built a baseball field in a cornfield? It didn’t make sense even to him. He only knew he had to do it.”

  “That’s the dumbest reason I ever heard.”

  Barry joined him at the door and they watched Jo’s retreating figure. “What was that about?”

  “Bridal nerves.”

  “It didn’t actually sound like she wanted to marry you, Dan,” he ventured.

  “No,” he admitted. “But I’ve got twenty-two days to change her mind.”

  “So you have a Plan B, then?”

  Dan snorted. “Mate, I expect to hit the end of the alphabet before the wedding day.”

  * * *

  Jo swept along Main Street resisting the urge to barrel through pedestrians coming the other way.

  Typical of Dan to think he could stroll in and change the rules on a whim.

  Oncoming pedestrians started giving her a wider berth but, her eyes fixed on the pavement and her fists clenched, Jo barely noticed. All she’d suggested was one roll in the hay and he couldn’t even do her that favor. Now he was adding insult to injury by telling her she was the One…he’d settle for. And expecting her to settle, too. Her high heels wobbled, forcing her to slow down.

  Admittedly she’d let him think her desperate seduction had been driven by her fear of ending up alone and childless, but, dammit, her best friend should know her better than that. She was not—and never would be—pathetic and needy! Which was precisely why she hadn’t told him the truth. Actually this would be funny if it wasn’t so bloody infuriating.

  A horn tooted. The jeweler waved from his Volvo, stopped at the lights. “Congratulations, Jo,” he called through the open window. “Dan’s a great guy.”

  “No, he’s not and we’re—” the light changed and the car pulled away. She jogged two or three steps
in chase before the heels stopped her “—not getting married!” The girly tap, tap, tap of her shoes exacerbated her anger. To hell with this. Jo stepped out of them, feeling the chill pavement through her stockings. Someone bumped into her from behind.

  Mrs. Beasley, a crony of Nan’s, adjusted her hat. “My dear, I’ve been calling out to you for ages. I hear from the butcher that—”

  “We are not getting married!”

  “It’s your birthday,” Mrs. B finished in confusion. “Are you…having a happy day?”

  “Thanks, Mrs. B. Yes.” Jo smiled through clenched teeth. The old lady’s gaze shifted to the shoes Jo held in her hand.

  Jo said nothing and Mrs. B lost her nerve. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

  “I’m…” Jo trailed off. In her rage she’d walked halfway down the street instead of going upstairs to the Chronicle. “Well, nice to see you. Goodbye.” Jo started striding in the direction she’d come.

  “Who aren’t you marrying?” Mrs. B called hopefully. “I can tell people.”

  Great. The biggest gossip in Beacon Bay on the case.

  Somehow she had to fix this. Her steps slowed, Jo realized, because she was almost at the menswear store again. Dammit, I am not changing how I treat my best friend.

  Dropping her heels onto the pavement, she stepped into them and straightened her suit jacket with a short, sharp jerk. Then with every muscle twitching to run, Jo strolled past the plate glass storefront. I will not look, I will not so much as glance in that window. I am unconcerned.

  Her gaze darted left and two images were burned in her brain. Her reflected face, eyes furtive, hunted. And her would-be groom, naked to the waist, lean muscle rippling as he shrugged on a starched white shirt.

  She was past. Jo tugged open the Chronicle’s door and took the stairs two at a time. Halfway up she stopped and leaned her forehead against the wall. “Why are you doing this to us now?” she whispered. And going public was tantamount to emotional blackmail. Jo continued up the stairs.

  The newsroom was empty. Tomorrow’s paper was done—Jo only had to sign off on it before delivering it to the printers—but still, 4:00 p.m. was early to close an issue. In her office, she dumped her bag on her desk then sank into her chair and leaned forward over the desk, head on her arms. Loser’s posture. She sat up straight again, staring sightessly at the screen.