“Come on, Dad, we’ve been through this before. Don’t tell me the thought that she’s interested in getting her hands on your settlement hasn’t crossed your mind.”
“I most certainly will tell you that, because it hasn’t.”
“Well, it crossed mine.”
Martin scoffed. “Obviously. Son, you’re too young to be so cynical.”
Clay bit the inside of his cheek. “And you’re too old to be so naïve.”
His father jogged a few more steps before saying, “Belle Coakley doesn’t have a manipulative thought in her head.”
With much effort, Clay resisted the urge to comment about the absence of other thoughts in the woman’s head. Actually, she did seem nice, but so did most of them, in the beginning. Besides, he was now less concerned about Belle Coakley than her cohort. “What about the manipulative thoughts in the head of her daughter?”
His father glanced at him sideways. “Annabelle? She seems like a nice enough girl, Clay. Kind of fetching, too, don’t you think?”
Clay stumbled, then regained his footing. “Don’t tell me you’ve decided to trade in the mother for the daughter.” Chagrin slashed through him every time he thought of mistaking Annabelle for his father’s fiancée.
Martin laughed, breaking stride long enough to clap Clay on the back. “Of course not. Belle is the woman for me. I was thinking of you, son. I thought I noticed a certain spark between the two of you.”
A dry laugh escaped him, and he inadvertently lengthened his stride. “That spark was from the girl’s white-hot poker tongue. And I don’t trust her.”
“That slip of a woman? What’s to be scared about?”
Clay frowned. “I said I don’t trust her.”
“Same thing, if a woman’s involved. A woman you like, that is.”
He stumbled again—damned new running shoes. “Your eyesight must be going, Dad. I certainly don’t like the woman.”
“No, still twenty-twenty,” Martin said, and laughed again. “It seems I am cursed with perfect physical health.”
It’s your mental health that worries me.
“She takes after Belle,” his father continued. “Quite a looker.”
Prima donna.
“And demure.”
Stuck up.
“And she’s an attorney, so she must be intelligent.”
Or conniving. “Dad, have you broached the subject of a prenuptial agreement?”
“For your information, Belle offered, and I turned her down.”
“Dad—”
“Clay,” his father cut in. “I want to grow old with Belle, and I don’t intend to curse our union by preparing for its end before we even take our vows.”
They reached the end of the running track and slowed. Clay pretended to concede with a conciliatory nod, but his father’s words erased the last doubt about the task before him: If Martin wouldn’t even insist on a prenuptial agreement, then he had no choice but to put a stop to the wedding.
His father put his hands on his hips to catch his breath. “Belle and I couldn’t be happier that you two kids are going to stand up with us at the ceremony.” Suddenly his eyes warmed. “Clay, I can’t tell you what it means to me that you cut your trip short to be here for the wedding.”
Protective feelings welled in his chest, followed quickly by guilt, which persisted more stubbornly than doubt. “No problem, Dad.” He funneled all his black emotion toward the Coakley women in general, and toward Annabelle Coakley in particular. Since his childhood, women had been the source of all the Castleberry family problems. Seductresses. Spendthrifts. Mischief-makers. Who needed them? He nodded toward the running path. “I think I’ll take another turn.”
“Sure thing, son, I’ll see you later. Remember—we’re due to be fitted for our tuxedoes at two.”
Clay wanted to object, but as long as the day’s plans didn’t include the presence of the Coakley women, he’d humor his father. “Two. Right.” Then he took off, digging in for a final lap, determined to outrun the troublesome thoughts of a certain leggy, mouthy brunette.
Chapter Six
ANNABELLE SHIVERED—bridal boutiques gave her the heebie jeebies. The notion of a store devoted entirely to the task of making a woman look good enough for her wedding day grated on her nerves. Especially since she’d known too many clients who’d later hocked those pricey gowns in order to have enough money to file for divorce.
Out of the corner of her eye, a sleeveless white floor-length crepe gown encased in a glass box the size of a phone booth captured her attention. She paused to examine the sleek lines and pursed her lips in begrudged admiration.
On the other hand, if she did by some remote miracle ever entertain even the thought of taking a chance on walking down the aisle someday in the very distant future, well, then this little frock wasn’t half bad.
“Do you like the pink one, dear?”
She whirled guiltily to inspect her mother’s choice. The color was a bit garish, but just as she had with the last twenty-seven dresses, Annabelle smiled and nodded. “It’s lovely.”
Belle’s brow wrinkled. “They’re all lovely, I’m afraid. I simply can’t decide.”
Growing weary, Annabelle sighed. “It really doesn’t matter—” She broke off at her mother’s hurt expression, then cast about for mending words. “It doesn’t matter which one you choose, because you’ll look beautiful, regardless.”
Her mother beamed, then turned when a salesclerk emerged with another armful of gowns. Annabelle fidgeted, not wanting to encourage her mother to take steps that would further cement her decision to be married.
A conversation with one of her clients came to mind, a woman who had filed for divorce within weeks of marrying. She’d explained to Annabelle that she’d discovered her fiancé was cheating on her a few days before the wedding. When Annabelle had asked her why she hadn’t simply canceled the ceremony, she’d shrugged and said, “My dress had a ten-foot train.”
To fight the suffocation assailing her, Annabelle wandered away from the lace-bedecked mannequins in the direction of the lingerie racks, squirming. She’d purchased a couple of pairs of shorts, and could borrow tops from her mother’s closet, but she still needed undies. And as luck would have it, the one bra spared the misdirection of the airline—the one she’d been wearing—had been the one with the wayward underwire. The darned thing had even set off the metal detector at the Detroit airport.
She fingered a simple, white cotton bra that would suffice, but recoiled when she turned over the price tag. Ouch. She’d gotten so used to squeaking by on a budget, she suspected that even if she graduated to a hefty paycheck someday, she’d always be a price-conscious shopper. Chewing on her lower lip, she moved to the clearance rack, which boasted less expensive but more colorful fare.
A backward glance convinced her Belle would be preoccupied for at least thirty minutes, so she launched a search mission for something remotely dignified. The first bra she selected was the correct size, but the red on black polka dots were a bit much, as was the next one, a filmy piece of yellow fabric shot with silver. A suitably boring beige number caught her eye, but the cups would have fit over her entire head. Her fingers stopped at a brown and black leopard print bra. Not bad—reasonably priced, dark, with good coverage, but a little…adventurous. Not that anyone would ever see it, unless they robbed the Sudsy Sam’s Laundromat on Wednesday night during her delicate wash cycle.
Annabelle smirked. When the act of buying taboo underwear could lift a woman’s spirits, her life was pretty dull. Then she shrugged. Dull was comfortable, and she wore it well.
On the other side of the rack, she found panties to match—a high-cut brief that looked as if it might pass the ‘creep’ test of sitting on an unpadded chair in a courtroom for taffy-long hours. She turned to a full-length tri-mirror and held up the garments over her overalls. Her hair had loosened from its clip, releasing long bangs she was trying to let grow out. Actually, the face-framing effect wasn’t bad, which meant
she would never be able to reproduce the look, not even with a dozen tools and two cans of hair spray. She worked her mouth from side to side, one plastic hanger under her chin and one mid-navel. The fabric was more sheer than she’d realized, but she liked the extra details—
A motion in the glass window to her left snagged her attention. She squinted, then walked closer. Martin Castleberry stood a few feet away on the other side of a glass divider, talking to—no, hugging a very young, very attractive woman. Incredulous, she pressed her nose against the glass. The neighboring store was a posh men’s clothing boutique, and Martin’s curvaceous companion seemed to be selecting ties for him, which apparently required that she touch him everywhere. Annabelle fumed—she’d caught him red-handed, the flirt!
Then in a flash her anger changed to triumph: She’d caught him red-handed. Now all she had to do was drag her mother over to witness his outrageous behavior, and this farce of a wedding would be off.
She turned on her heel and jogged back to the dress department where Belle seemed torn between a pale yellow suit and a coral-colored tea-length dress.
“Mother,” she said in a sweet voice. “You’ll never guess who’s here.”
“Who, dear?”
“Melvin.”
Her mother’s brow wrinkled.
“I mean Martin.”
Belle brightened. “Really? How wonderful! Where is he?”
“Right next door at a men’s clothing store—let’s go say hello.” Annabelle tucked the underwear beneath her arm and transferred a dress out of her mother’s hand to the sales clerk’s.
Her mother looked puzzled at her sudden burst of enthusiasm, but followed willingly enough when Annabelle grasped her elbow.
“Martin must be shopping for something new,” Belle offered, giving a worried backward glance at the abandoned dresses.
“That’s one way to put it,” Annabelle muttered, urging her forward.
As they threaded through racks of evening gowns, dressy suits, and elaborate wraps, her heart beat faster with bittersweet anticipation. Her mother would be hurt at first, but would soon realize she was better off sans Martin Castleberry. What luck to have stumbled onto the man while he sported his true colors—at least Annabelle wouldn’t wind up looking like the bad guy for saying less than favorable things about him. Cheered, she picked up her pace as she led her mother across the pale marble floor.
They exited the bridal shop and Annabelle practically dragged her mother into the men’s clothing store. Thankfully, Martin and his young lady friend were still there. The woman was looping a green and navy striped tie around his neck and tying it with long, manicured fingers. She was smiling wide with her head tilted back, her long flaxen hair streaming nearly to her impossibly small waist. And Martin, ever the entertainer, seemed to be simply delighted with the ugly tie. Annabelle kept her gaze glued on his face for the sheer satisfaction of his expression when he noticed her mother.
A split second later he looked over the blonde’s shoulder and his face erupted into a wide grin. “Belle! What a lovely surprise.”
“Hello, my dear.” Her mother smiled, seemingly unconcerned that another woman was draped over her intended. He sidestepped the young woman, and met Belle for a quick kiss on the mouth.
Martin extended a greeting to Annabelle, as if absolutely nothing was amiss. She could see why the man had been nominated for an Academy Award. “Martin,” she said in her most innocent voice, “aren’t you going to introduce your friend?”
As she expected, his brow furrowed in feigned perplexity. “My friend?” He followed Annabelle’s pointed look toward the young woman who stood watching them with a questioning expression. “Oh, my friend.” He beckoned the woman closer. A blip of panic assailed Annabelle when she saw the woman’s salesclerk badge. “This is Suzanne Jacobson. Suzanne’s father is my long-time friend and assistant—I was in the hospital waiting room when this young lady was born. Suzanne, may I present my fiancée, Belle Coakley, and her daughter, Annabelle.”
The woman flashed a dazzling smile—Annabelle had never seen so many teeth in one mouth. “I’m pleased to meet you,” Suzanne gushed. “I was helping Martin select a couple of ties while we waited for Clay.” The woman pronounced the latter name with wistful familiarity.
Frustrated that her plan had been thwarted, and doubly irritated to meet one of what must be a long list of Clayton Castleberry admirers, Annabelle sent a withering glance toward a sock rack and muttered, “If I hear the name “Clay” one more time—”
“Careful,” a male voice sounded near her ear, “my ears are already burning.”
She wheeled, not entirely surprised to see Clay Castleberry, who seemed to pop up at the most inconvenient times. Dressed in classic dark jeans, a white ribbed T-shirt, and broken-in leather tennis shoes, Annabelle thought she had a good idea of what Martin might have looked like during his movie-making days. Clayton Castleberry was a striking man, an acknowledgment that only rankled her further.
The subject of her agitation swept his dark gaze over her overalls and quirked a brow. “They don’t pay attorneys in Detroit enough to afford clothes?”
A flush scalded her neck. “The airline lost my luggage,” she said through clenched teeth, feeling like a hobo next to the glittery, coiffed Suzanne, who paraded over to stand next to Annabelle, crowning the comparison.
“Hello, darlin’,” the woman drawled to Clay, hiking out a rounded hip which had been vacuum-packed into a red skirt.
Clay’s eyes followed her movement. “Hello, Suzanne. I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“That’s your fault,” she said silkily.
“I’ve been busy.”
“Don’t tell me you’re getting married, too,” she said, sounding wounded, then
shot a suspicious glance toward Annabelle.
“No!” they said in unison.
Clay added a laugh, his voice casual. “I only came to help Dad select a tux.”
“And I’m only here to help mother pick out a dress,” Annabelle offered, hating that she felt the need to explain, and frowning at the older couple who stood engrossed in each other a few steps away. Belle straightened the hideous tie and Martin showered kisses upon her mother’s hands. Ugh.
“Annabelle, dear,” her mother said. “I’d like to show Martin that pink dress.”
Martin flashed a charming smile. “You can stay with Clay, Annabelle, and give your opinion on the jacket style I picked out. Add the tie to my account, Suzanne. We’ll be back in a few minutes.”
They didn’t even wait for an answer before strolling out of the shop, arm in arm. Annabelle gritted her teeth, lamenting the turn the day had taken. She’d been so close.
“Temper, temper,” Clay chided.
She glared in his direction. “Shut. Up.”
Suzanne glanced back and forth between them, then said, “I’ll get the jacket Martin selected,” and scampered away.
“You don’t have to keep up the act around me,” Clay said, folding his arms.
“What are you rambling about?” she asked, looking for somewhere to sit.
“I’m not convinced you’re against this marriage as much as you pretend.”
Her feet were killing her, and her head felt equally offended. She looked back to him and stepped closer, narrowing her eyes. “Mr. Castleberry, let me remind you that you dug a deep hole for yourself within the first ten minutes of our meeting.” With every word, she inched toward him, her ire rising. “You are the most arrogant man I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. And I couldn’t care less whether you find my behavior ‘convincing,’ because you have no say-so over any aspect of my life.” She jabbed a finger in his chest, and winced when it met unyielding muscle. “Got it?”
“Excuse me,” Suzanne said as she reappeared. Her voice had changed and she eyed Annabelle with unsettling smugness. A woman Annabelle recognized as the salesclerk who had assisted her mother stood behind the blonde.
“Yes?” Annabel
le prompted, not bothering to hide her impatience.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come with me,” Suzanne said. A grim-faced uniformed guard walked up and adopted a wide-legged stance.
“Is there a problem?” Annabelle asked.
“The problem,” Suzanne said, punctuating every syllable with attitude, “is that you were seen shoplifting in the bridal store.” She indicated the other salesclerk, who nodded curtly.
She knew her mouth had dropped open because she felt the cool air on her tongue. “What?”
“Let’s have a look at what you’re hiding under your arm,” the guard said, obviously relishing the moment.
“Hiding?” Outrage billowed in her chest, stealing her voice. These uppity people were high-strung and paranoid. She threw her arms in the air with exaggeration, to prove them liars.
Then watched the brown and black sheer leopard-print bra and matching high-cut panties fall to the marble floor.
If the devil had appeared at that moment offering invisibility in exchange for her soul, Annabelle would have considered it. Pure mortification swept over her as her mind raced ahead, predicting how a shoplifting charge would affect her career. Didn’t her employment contract negate the state’s obligation to repay her loans if she were convicted of a crime? Without a good reference, she’d have a difficult time finding a decent job. Without a job, she’d never qualify to buy a house. Sheer panic forced defensive words out of her mouth. “Th-those things are n-not mine.”
Suzanne scoffed, then bent and scooped the garments from the floor. Holding up the underwear, she scrutinized the orange clearance price tags with a look of disdain. “The bra appears to be your size.”
High-necked blouses effectively hid her nerve rashes in court, but she suspected her yellow T-shirt offered little concealment today. “I m-mean, I browsed through the lingerie, and I p-picked up—I mean, I considered b-buying the underwear… then I saw Melvin, er, Martin from the other store, and I forgot… ” She trailed off, gesturing with futility. “I… forgot I was holding them.”
Her excuse sounded weak even to her own burning ears. Inexplicably, her eyes went to Clay’s, hoping her expression wasn’t as vulnerable as she felt. Of all the people she could make a fool out of herself in front of, he was the last person she’d have chosen. His gaze locked with hers. She’d expected smugness, but his narrowed dark eyes pierced her with—anger? He was embarrassed to be involved by association. Clay already thought the worst of her, so he’d probably be glad to see her carted off to jail.
Stop the Wedding! Page 6
