by Shirley Jump
Candace glanced at Michael. He shrugged and grinned. Candace let out a sigh, but closed her eyes.
There was a soft drum roll of fabric. “You may open them now.”
Cinderella would have been envious. Hell, she might have sued the fairy godmother for substandard services if she'd seen this dress.
The dress had a princess silhouette with a basque waistline. Thin, beaded spaghetti straps connected the bodice in a swirling pattern of diamond-like beads that curved across the front, then swooped down the center of the bodice like a tree of tiny gems. The skirt was made of the same pristine off-white silk shantung, dropping down to the floor with sleek precision, then swirling outward with a gentle swoosh. The beading picked up again across the hemline, curving around the base of the gown and trailing back down to the train.
“It's... oh, God... it's beautiful,” she managed.
“Would you like to try it on?” Francesca held it closer, within touching distance.
Candace shook her head. “If I do, I'm going to want it.”
“That's the point,” Michael whispered in her ear.
“No, no it's not.” Candace put up her hands as if she could ward off the want churning in her stomach. “I could never afford something like this. If I put it on, I'm going to love it. This is the Mercedes. I can't get a Honda after this.”
Francesca took a step back, lips pursed, brows raised. Raving lunatics didn't come into Reverie Bridal looking for dreams. She glanced at Michael for help.
“Try it on,” he said. “It won't bite.”
“But...”
He took the gown out of Francesca's hands and pushed it into Candace's arms. The fabric whispered against her arms. Buy me. Buy me. “But nothing. Who knows? You might hate it.”
“And I might hate you for making me fall in love.”
The air between them stilled. A heartbeat passed, then another, before Candace realized what she had said and why it seemed to weigh so much. “Uh, with the dress, I mean.”
“Uh-huh.” He gave her a gentle shove toward the fitting room, his hand against the small of her back. Just before she ducked into the room, he leaned down, breath warm against her neck. Teasing. Tempting. Take me. Take me. “Let me see how you'd look if you were my bride instead of his.”
She shut the door with a shaky hand, never looking back. Because if she did, she knew she'd be searching his eyes for clues as to whether he was merely playing the game... or being sincere.
Candace hung the dress on a hook and hesitated. What would it be like to be marrying Michael instead of Barry? To be wearing this dress for him—and no one else?
Yeah, and what would it be like to throw herself off a cliff without a parachute into shark-infested waters?
Insane, that's what.
She tore off her T-shirt, determined not to think about Michael anymore.
A double knock sounded at the door. “Dear, do you need some help?” Francesca called.
“Uh, no. I'm okay.”
“The dresses can be quite difficult to maneuver on your own. If you need some assistance, I'm right here.”
After all the dress shopping she'd done with Maria and Rebecca, Candace knew her way in and out of a wedding gown. A handy skill for her wedding night, too.
She slipped off her capris, unzipped the back of the elaborate dress, puddled it at her feet, then stepped into the white pool and pulled it up. She turned toward the door to ensure there was no lurking Francesca, then slipped off her bra and slid the bodice up, putting her arms through the delicate straps. With minor contorting, she managed to zip the back.
“Dear, your groom is awaiting your appearance.” Francesca's voice sang through the door.
“He's not—” Candace stopped. Michael was right; the explanation was more complicated than a Hollywood divorce agreement.
“What do you think, dear?”
Candace pivoted toward the wall mirror, expecting to look like an exploded white mushroom, as so many other dresses had made her appear. “I...”
This dress didn't look like anything she'd tried on before. Not even the dress she'd originally chosen, lost in the shop fire. This one fell with perfect grace against her hips, while the slight scallop of the bodice lifted, giving her breasts a swell both provocative and sweet.
With one hand, she twisted her honey-blond hair on top of her head in a crunch of curls. This was how she could look. Like a princess.
“I look like a freaking fairy tale,” Candace whispered. “I... I love it. I want to buy it.”
She lowered her arm and it brushed against the price tag, reflecting the number in the mirror. A single digit followed by a lot of zeroes. More zeroes than had attended her senior prom.
Candace stumbled back two steps. Prince Charming would have needed a second mortgage on the castle to afford this dress. After he had auctioned off the white horse, too.
Candace stuck a hand against the door for stability and sucked in a breath, then another.
“Let me help you with that zipper,” Francesca said, jerking open the door and spilling Candace into the hallway. “Oh, dear, you are a vision! Absolutely delightful!” She clasped her hands together and took a step back, assessing. She reached forward, adjusted here and there. “Perfect. Now, when you walk out there, do it slow, with drama. You're the bride, darling. Let it show.”
“I can't.” This was getting ridiculous. She wasn't here for the Academy Awards. Just a dress. At this point, she'd settle for a sheet with lace edging. And in this store, that was probably all she could afford. “I don't think I can go out there like that. This dress—”
“You're right! You don't have shoes. You can't walk properly without shoes.” Francesca turned to a shelf outside the fitting room. “I'd say a seven?” she withdrew a box, removed the lid and unveiled a pair of strappy white sandals studded with rhinestones at each juncture.
“Oh, no. You don't have to—. Oh. Oh!”
Now those were shoes.
She let out a half-squeak of protest when Francesca pushed her into a Louis XV-style chair and slid the sandals onto Candace's pedicured feet. After the straps were fastened, the saleswoman held her foot up for display.
“Delightful, aren't they?”
“Delightful,” Candace agreed. They probably cost as much as the national debt, she thought. Now she'd gone and fallen in love with a Mercedes and a Beemer. Big mistake. Huge, terrifying, stupid mistake. She pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh God, I can't breathe.”
Francesca patted her hand. “It's jitters, dear. Now go on out there and dazzle your groom. He's insisting on seeing you, even though I told him it's bad luck. Says he doesn't have to worry about that with you.” She smiled. “He's a keeper, all right. I'm sure once you see the joy in his eyes, everything will be right again.”
“I shouldn't...” Breathe. “I...” Breathe, breathe. “I...”
“Of course you can.” Francesca took advantage of her weakened state, helped her to her feet and guided her out of the fitting area. She slid a veil into Candace's hair, tugging out a few curly strands, then turned her toward Michael. “Remember, be the bride,” she whispered, then stepped away, leaving Candace to walk the last few feet alone.
Michael had his cell phone to his ear and was talking when he saw Candace. Their gazes met and he paused in midsentence. His jaw dropped. He clicked the phone shut without a good-bye.
She took a step forward and the skirt swooshed around her legs in a white cloud. Another step, and a second cloud of fabric swirled into the first. The lights above twinkled in the crystals, stars in a midnight sky.
Michael's gaze swept over her like a slow, tender touch. He started at the top, drifting past her hair, along her bare shoulders, trailing along the scoop of the bodice, down the leafy crystal pattern.
Candace breathed in and her breasts heaved upward, along with Michael's eyes. An odd rush of power surged through her. She slowed her pace a tiny bit more and stepped with deliberate movement. Another breath and Mi
chael's pupils dilated.
This control over a man was heady stuff. She inhaled and like a puppet on a string, he responded with another glance at her breasts.
And she'd thought the shoes had been exciting.
“Don't forget these!” Francesca stuttered forward on her high heels to thrust a bouquet of silk flowers into Candace’s hands. “There. That's exactly what you need to be a complete bride.”
“No, it's not.” Michael moved forward, took the bouquet from her and tossed it back to Francesca, whose jaw dropped all the way to the carpet. She sputtered something unintelligible that was probably the opposite of “delightful.”
“Every bride needs flowers,” Candace said.
The shop phone rang and Francesca disappeared out front to answer it.
“Not you.” His sapphire eyes met hers and once again, her breath began to come in hitches, but this time for a whole other reason than the price of the dress. “You're perfect already.”
“It's the dress. It costs—”
“It doesn't matter what it costs. It's perfect for you. Buy it.”
She laughed. “Are you nuts? I don't make this much in a month. I can't waste this kind of money on my dress. I've got a budget all set in my planner.” She stepped to the side, to get the ubiquitous organizer out of her purse and prove the numbers to him, but he held her hands.
“Indulge yourself.”
“The way you say that, it sounds sinful.”
He grinned. “Sometimes it is.” He ran the back of one finger along the slim strap, then down the bare skin of her arm. Shivers of delight tingled along her skin, begging for more. “You are exquisite. Any man who saw you in this would marry you on the spot.”
“Even you?” Where did that come from?
“I'm a confirmed bachelor,” he said, his finger still traveling along her arm, as if it had miles to go before he could sleep, “but if I wasn't...”
The implications in his voice were enough to make her wonder what kind of game she was playing this afternoon between the lunch and the shopping. It sure as hell wasn't Parcheesi.
“It may be a beautiful dress, but it's too expensive.” Her grin wobbled on her face. “I'm a girl from Dorchester. I'm kitsch, not couture.”
“Have you looked in the mirror? Have you really seen yourself in that dress?”
“Listen, it doesn't matter what I wear for the wedding. Barry doesn't care. He probably won't even notice the dress. He's not that kind of guy.”
“He should notice your dress. He should notice everything about you.” Michael lowered his face to hers. “Because I sure as hell do. If you came down the aisle in that dress, and I was standing at the other end, I'd notice and you'd know I had noticed.”
She drew in a breath and saw his gaze dip to her neckline, then back to her face again. “Well, Mr. Confirmed Bachelor, that isn't going to happen. And neither is this dress. It's a fantasy. And I don't have time for those.”
She turned on her heel and headed back to the fitting room before she could fall any farther in love with the dress. Or the shoes.
Or anything else in Reverie Bridal Shop.
4 ounces bittersweet chocolate
3 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
2/3 cup butter, softened
3/4 cup sugar
2 eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla
raspberry jam to taste
Whatever you've done, the best way to get out of it is to bake cookies. They make good peace offerings, as well as help you forget bad choices. Start by melting the chocolate. Don't let the kids anywhere near it. This is your chocolate.
Combine the flour, baking soda and salt. In another bowl (don't worry, that's what dishwashers are for), beat the butter and sugar until it's as fluffy as a clear conscience. Add the eggs, one at a time, then the lovely vanilla and chocolate. Turn on the ceiling fan or burn a pine candle to mask the scent of goodies. Beat until blended.
Divide dough, wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate for two hours. Yeah, that's the hard part. The waiting. If need be, get to the mall and do some shoe shopping therapy in the meantime.
When the dough is firm and cold, roll it out to a quarter-inch thickness on a lightly floured surface and cut into dainty two-inch circles. Take half the circles and cut center circles out (like donuts, only better, since you don't have to fry them). Bake the cookies for nine or ten minutes at 350 degrees. Wave the pine scent around the house to throw uninvited cookie gobblers off the scent.
When the cookies are cool, assemble them by putting one whole cookie circle on the bottom, spreading the top with jam, then topping with a cut-out cookie. Voila! Cookie sandwiches. Sounds healthy enough for lunch.
CHAPTER 11
The spaghetti slithered across the plate, zipped up into the air and slurped down Bernadine's throat like a snake on a string. “This is great food,” she said. “These Boston people really know how to cook Eye-talian. Too bad the lighting in here is so bad I can barely see what I'm eating.”
“Mother, it's mood lighting. Adds a little romance to our dinner.” Barry reached across the table at Fazo's Fast Italian Food and grasped Candace's hand. “Don't you agree?”
“Uh, what'd you say?”
“I said, the lighting is perfect for a little romance before the wedding.”
“Oh yes, it is.” Dinner out with Bernadine was about as romantic as playing with Play-Doh. Candace stirred at her rigatoni and meat sauce with her fork.
“What's the matter? Didn't you find a dress today?”
She shook her head. “Not exactly.”
“Good,” Barry said.
“Good?”
He was grinning. “Because Mother and I have a surprise for you.”
She swallowed the bite in her mouth. It settled in her stomach like a ball of lead. “You do?”
“We took the liberty of doing a little shopping today and—” he looked at his mother, then back at Candace, his smile broad “—we bought you a dress.”
“Barry, you didn't. Tell me you didn't.”
“I know, I know. I'm already paying for half the wedding, but this gown was wonderful and Mother thought it would fit you perfectly, so we had to buy it. When I saw it”—he gripped her hand—“I knew it was you.”
“Where ...” Candace swallowed. “Where is it?”
“Hanging up in my apartment. We were going to surprise you after dinner. But you seemed so glum; I couldn't keep it to myself.”
He was more excited than Percy with a new sweater. Candace glanced at Bernadine, who gave her a satisfied Cheshire cat smile.
This was all about the back alley. Bernadine had made her first preemptive strike.
She gave Candace a second beam of victory, then avoided her future daughter-in-law's horrified face. She slurped up more spaghetti, the pasta strands slapping at her housedress on their way up to her mouth, leaving little red pathways amid the tropical floral print.
Candace picked up her drink and gulped down some diet soda. “Is it...” She glanced again at Bernadine's florid dress. “White?”
“Of course it is.” Barry raised a brow and gestured behind his hand toward his mother. “You're a virgin, so you should wear white.”
The soda sputtered out of Candace's mouth. Bernadine stopped chewing and looked over at her. Barry kneed Candace under the table.
“You haven't been doing the hokey-pokey with anyone, have you?” Bernadine asked.
“The hokey-pokey?” Candace managed. “Uh, not exactly.” Although, she had done a damned good electric slide in Michael's living room. And Barry himself had been known to like dancing with Candace, but apparently his mother was under a different impression.
“Good.” Another strand snaked its way up her dress and into her mouth. “My Barry deserves a pure woman.”
“And that's my Candace,” Barry said, clasping her hand with his.
“I need some air.” Candace shoved back her chair
and got to her feet, yanking her hand out of his and dashing for the door of the restaurant. Once she reached the cool night air, she sucked in oxygen in quick, thirsty bursts.
Barry caught up to her a moment later. “Are you okay?”
“A virgin, Barry? Why on earth would you say that?”
He shrugged. “My mother doesn't like loose women.”
“I'm not loose! I can count on one hand the number of men I've been to bed with.”
His face pinched up like a rotten tomato. “I know all about your past. The minute the gold band goes on your finger, all that will be erased.”
“All what? It's not like I was working the streets in the combat zone. Barry, you knew this when you met me.” Candace paced the sidewalk, expending some of her anger before she punched it into Barry. She paused in front of him, hands on her hips. This had never been an issue between them before. He'd never said a word about her wanting to put on this show of virginal innocence for his mother. In fact, he'd been seeking the exact opposite when he'd met her. “I thought you liked being with a woman with a little more experience than you.”
His lips tightened into a thin line and for the first time, Candace worried about spending her life with a man who did that with his face. “Well, now that we've been together for two years, I'd say we're about even in that department, aren't we? I know how to make you happy in bed.”
Why did thoughts of Michael Vogler pop up at the most inappropriate times like R-rated previews before a kiddie movie? Her evil, traitorous mind replayed snippets of the kiss in his apartment, as if taunting her with the thought that another man hadn't just made her happy—he'd practically made her scream with just one kiss.
But those kinds of kisses came at a high price. With a fickle man, an admitted playboy. If she allowed herself to get swept up in passion, she'd end up like her mother, married more times than Larry King.
She'd been down that path once before. No need for a return trip.
“Aren't you satisfied, Candace?” Barry asked.
