Despite knowing the hostility he held for her and her mother, Clay was the closest thing she had to an ally at the moment, and Annabelle couldn’t bring herself to look away. His gaze held her as surely as if a cable connected them. Strangely, she felt her body straining toward him, every hair, every nerve, every muscle, but she tensed to remain rooted. And stranger still, his eyes suddenly changed, softening in a way that caused her breath to catch in her chest.
For a few seconds, everything around them fell away, and voices retreated to a distant buzz. His jaw relaxed and she marveled that he looked younger and less intimidating. Still, something akin to fear crept into her heart—a sensation far more threatening than a trip to the hoosegow. Because she realized she was being given a glimpse of his compassion, an experience that left her feeling oddly privileged. Regardless of his feelings toward her, she somehow knew this man would not allow harm to come to her, and the knowledge warmed her.
He broke eye contact first, enabling her to breathe again, and put his hand on the guard’s arm. “I believe we can clear up this matter to everyone’s satisfaction. Ms. Coakley is an Atlanta native and a respected attorney in Detroit. She’s visiting and is shopping with her mother, who is a close friend of my father, Martin Castleberry.”
How had the rich texture of his voice had escaped her before now? He took the garments from Suzanne and held them at arm’s length, the scanty garments incongruous next to his big hands. Annabelle swallowed. How could such a harmless act seem so intimate? Was she different? Was he? What had changed? Her cheeks burned from abject shame, both over her dilemma and her new awareness of Clayton Castleberry.
I-yie-yie. How quickly one’s circumstances could deteriorate.
*****
Clay stared at the silky underthings dangling from the tips of his fingers, a bit surprised that Annabelle’s tastes in lingerie ran a little on the savage side. With little effort, he imagined the sheer bra and panties wrapped around her long-limbed body, her hair fanned out around her—
He gave himself a mental shake. When Suzanne accused Annabelle of shoplifting, his sense of vindication that she harbored an unsavory streak had been short-lived. One minute he’d been anticipating informing Martin that at least one of the Coakley women was a kleptomaniac, and the next minute Annabelle had turned her wide hazel eyes in his direction, stealing his momentum. Along with his ability to reason, apparently, because when the security guard emerged and passersby stopped to gawk, protective feelings had welled in his chest, prompting him to speak. He wanted to think the woman was smarter than to shoplift unmentionables, but could he still trust his instincts? And now the group stood staring at him, expecting…what?
He cleared his throat and continued, willing the right words to come. “And if Ms. Coakley says she forgot she was holding these items when she left the store, then that is exactly what happened.” He met her gaze again and she squirmed, her face crimson. Suppressing a smile, he handed the items in question to the salesclerk from the bridal shop, then retrieved a black credit card from his wallet. “Put these things on my account, please.”
“I’ll pay for them—” Annabelle began, but stopped when he gave her a warning look and pressed her lips together. At least she knew when to hold her tongue…sometimes.
The older woman glanced at his credit card, then smiled with renewed respect. “Yes, Mr. Castleberry, right away.”
The jab of annoyance at people’s fickleness was superseded by the satisfaction that his name and his money afforded him the chance to bring Annabelle down from the high horse she’d ridden in on. Indeed, she was looking a bit subdued, her golden eyes soft and wary as she perused him, as if trying to determine his motives for rescuing her. He, meanwhile, wrestled with the same question.
Her expression riveted him, evoking visions of her lying beneath him, her eyes luminous with anticipation. But the imagined thrill of bedding Annabelle was soon displaced by the sobering reminder that many of life’s greatest dangers came disguised in tempting packages. The woman was likely a petty thief who had designs on the Castleberry bank account, and had somehow managed to wangle a bit of sympathy from him. He only helped her in order to regain the upper hand, and to keep his father’s name out of the mess.
Clay set his jaw against the irritating responses Annabelle Coakley evoked with a bat of her childishly long eyelashes. He had inherited his father’s physical characteristics, but he did not possess the same blind weakness where pretty faces were concerned.
As if she’d read his mind, Annabelle mouthed ‘thank you’ even as she blinked rapidly. Clay frowned and studied her convincingly pale face, all the while massaging a sudden knot of anxiety above his topmost rib.
He was nothing like his father. Nothing at all.
*****
“I can’t believe it,” Michaela said. “I just can’t believe it.”
“Mike, I wasn’t stealing the underwear.”
“Forget the stealing, I can’t believe you were buying naughty underwear.”
Annabelle sank back into the pillow on the couch and sighed. “It was a clearance sale.”
“And Clayton Castleberry came to your rescue. Oh, how romantic!”
She fished a stale jellybean from a dish on the end table and popped it into her mouth. “There was nothing romantic about it. He was simply trying to keep his father’s precious name out of a scandal. And he wanted to gloat.”
“Still, you have to love the guy for taking care of everything.”
Annabelle frowned, suddenly irritable. “I most certainly do not.”
“Hey, quick—turn the channel to the EBC late talk show.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know what they’re saying, but there’s a picture of Martin Castleberry behind the comedian.”
“Oh, great.” She picked up the remote and selected the channel, leaning forward.
“Yeah,” the comedian said over audience laughter. “Martin Casanova Castleberry is reported to be on his sixth, that’s sixth trip down the aisle.” The man hooted. “What is he, like a hundred and thirty years old? I can’t get a date, and this man has a frequent fiancé card.” The audience tittered as Annabelle’s stomach rolled. “Oh, well that just proves the old adage that there’s someone for everyone. Or, in Martin’s case, six someones.” More laughter sounded.
“Of course,” the comedian continued, his hands in his pockets, “this wedding comes on the heels of Martin’s recent settlement with a film company. What a coincidence, eh? I’m not saying the woman is a gold digger, but I heard she carries a pickaxe and rides a mule.” He shook his head as he moved on to another topic.
“Don’t let it get to you,” Michaela said. “It must have been a slow news day. He wasn’t even funny, the jerk. And it’s an obscure show—no one saw it, probably.”
“We saw it.”
“Poor Belle.”
“Mom will be a laughingstock if she marries that man. It’s just a matter of time before pictures of her are plastered on television,” Annabelle muttered, turning down the volume.
“How are plans for the big wedding coming along?”
She groaned. “Well, I helped her whittle down the guest list to a mere one hundred.”
“Wow.”
“They’re supposed to be married by Martin’s pool on Saturday.”
“That’s four days from now.”
“Don’t remind me. She’s ordering the cake and food tomorrow, and Martin’s publicist arranged for a photographer.” She popped another jellybean into her mouth. “The beast is gaining momentum.”
“What about the dresses?”
“She picked out the dresses today while I was being threatened with handcuffs.”
“How fun! What color?”
Annabelle rolled her eyes—Mike was such a girly-girl. “Pink.”
Predictably, Michaela squealed. “Oh, they sound fantastic.”
Inexplicably, the image of the beautifully simple white gown in the glass case rose in her mind
. Then she shook herself. “Mike, I think you’re forgetting the objective here is to stop the wedding.”
“But it’s such good practice.”
“For what—having a nervous breakdown?”
Her friend laughed. “For your own wedding, silly.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Do you know something I don’t?”
“No, but if a whirlwind romance can happen to your mother, it can happen to you.”
Annabelle scoffed. “Mike, if I were going to get married—which I’m not—I would hope I’d have enough sense—which I do—not to exchange vows with a man I barely know.”
“But haven’t you ever met someone and instantly felt as if you knew them?”
She hedged and hunted for a green jellybean. “That only happens in the movies. Black and white movies, I might add. And besides, just because you feel like you know someone doesn’t guarantee you’ll like them.”
Mike sighed. “Maybe, but a girl can hope.”
“Well, this girl has to figure out a plan before tomorrow. Buying dresses is bad enough, but I’m not about to let her put down a deposit with a caterer.”
“Isn’t Martin paying for everything?”
“She wouldn’t let him buy the dress, and I insisted on paying for mine.” She shifted, humming with disapproval. “His son owns the house he’s living in—I’m starting to think this Castleberry character might be marrying my mother for her money.”
“I thought he just got some sort of big lawsuit settlement.”
“Maybe, but who knows how many bills the man had, or how many bad habits he has to support?”
“But you said he bought her a rock of an engagement ring.”
She thought of the modestly beautiful ring her mother had given her wrapped in her dresser drawer, and her heart squeezed. “It’s an unsightly boulder, and he probably bought it on credit.” Annabelle snapped her fingers. “Or it’s fake!”
“How can you tell?”
“Outside of taking it to a jeweler, I don’t know.”
“Do you think Belle would mind if it’s phony?”
“Probably not if he told her up front.”
“But if it’s fake and he didn’t tell her—”
“Then she’d know she couldn’t trust him!” Annabelle said, whooping. “Mike, you’re a genius.” She tossed down another jellybean.
“Can I have a raise?”
“Sure, as soon as I get one.”
“Call me tomorrow with an update. And tell Mr. Clayton Castleberry the next time he’s in Detroit, there’s a nice, available, lonely woman in our building who’s in dire need of a hero.”
She fought an exasperated smile. “Mike, for the last time, I’m not interested in the guy.”
“I was talking about me, boss.”
“Oh…right.”
Chapter Seven
CLAY RUBBED HIS EYES against the morning light streaming through the curtains. He didn’t mind losing sleep—he thrived on five hours a night—but he did mind losing sleep over a slip of a freckle-faced girl. Annabelle Coakley frustrated him beyond belief with her argumentative, independent ways. She’d already caused him more headaches and energy than was warranted.
In fact, after watching a dolt of a comedian last night use Martin as a weak punch line, and while contemplating the ceiling fixture in the wee hours of the morning, he’d decided he’d wasted enough time in Atlanta. Maybe he’d jumped to conclusions concerning the Coakley women…maybe he would simply let Martin take his chances…maybe the three of them deserved each other.
The early morning light glinted off his platinum watch and he smiled. He might be able to catch a plane back to Paris this afternoon. Paris, where the women dressed like women—instead of wearing scruffy overalls—and did not live to aggravate the men around them. And since his father would be preoccupied with his new marriage, he might look into extending the lease on the Paris flat for himself.
Enormously cheered, Clay swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stretched away the remnants of what little sleep he’d snatched. He would tie up a loose end or two, and be eating fresh croissants by tomorrow morning. He retrieved his phone and punched in Henry’s number. The private investigator lived on an intravenous drip of black coffee, and appeared to be nocturnal. Sure enough, he answered on the first ring.
“Henry, this is Clay Castleberry. Give me what you have on the Coakley women.”
“Mornin’ to you, too,” Henry said, rustling papers in the background.
Clay moved to the open window, parted the curtains and looked out over the Coakley house. Which room was hers? Was she still slumbering in a tousled bed?
Henry coughed, then cleared his throat noisily. “Not much on the older lady. Fifty-six years old, married to a small-time attorney for thirty-odd years, never employed outside the home, no relationships since her husband died that I could dig up. Goes to church, volunteers at the library, with no evident vices unless you count Bingo at the garden club.” He laughed, then slurped something, probably java.
Clay strained for some sign of life at the windows, baffled when he realized his heart raced at the thought of a taboo glimpse of her. Disgusted with himself, he started to turn, but a movement at a window of the smaller house stopped him. The curtains parted and Annabelle appeared, her arms pushing aside the window coverings to allow the sun into her room. Crazily, his chest tightened.
“What about the younger one?” he asked Henry. Why was it almost painful to even say her name?
“Annabelle?”
“Right.” He wasn’t sure from this distance, but he thought he saw the flash of white teeth. She was smiling—would wonders never cease?
“Not much back on her yet, but I was able to tail her and her mother most of
yesterday. Lunch at Lenox Mall, during which she showed her mother an article from America’s News. They had a disagreement—the young gal raised her voice and said she was worried about something. I looked up the article; it was a piece that ran a few months back about the settlement your father received from the lawsuit. Want a copy?”
Stunned, Clay could only grunt. Next door Annabelle lifted the window and leaned out, resting on her elbows. She must have been worried that her mother might not get a chunk of the settlement money. His initial suspicions about her had been right after all…so why did he feel betrayed?
“After breakfast, the women did lots of shopping, more looking than buying. Even tried on fur coats—in the summer, can you believe it?”
She wore yellow pajamas. Her arms gleamed bare and her hair piled around her shoulders in a sleep-mussed stack. “Go on,” Clay managed past his thickened tongue.
“Then they met up with you and your father—nice of you to bail her out of that shoplifting mess, by the way.”
Not nice—stupid. How stupid of him to bail her out of that shoplifting mess. “You were there?”
“Yeah, trying on cuff links.”
Impressive. Of course, he’d been so distracted by Little Miss Innocent, he wouldn’t have noticed if the President himself had walked in to buy a tie. “What about after they left us?”
“They went to two car lots and test drove luxury sedans. Sounds to me like they’re planning to come into some money soon.”
Clay’s throat constricted as she stretched her arms high and tilted her face upward. No wonder she was so happy—she and her mother were on the verge of gaining access to a small fortune. To avoid detection, he dropped the curtain, then managed to thank Henry and asked him to report back when he received more information on the younger Ms. Coakley. After disconnecting the call, he wiped a fine sheen of perspiration from his brow and peeked through the slit in the curtains.
The window remained open, but Annabelle had disappeared. Sheer white panels floated out over the sill, riding on a summer breeze. Clay swallowed the bitter taste in the back of his throat, trying to block out the image of her golden eyes mocking him. Over the last several hours, he’d even imagined that he might be
falling—
No. Not falling. Stumbling, maybe, because he thought he’d seen something in her eyes that had spoken to him.
Perhaps he’d inherited more of his father’s weaknesses than he cared to admit.
Clay cursed and closed the window with a bang.
*****
“Annabelle, what happened yesterday between you and Clay?”
Annabelle hurriedly dropped the filmy leopard-print undergarments back into the drawer, then turned and leaned against the dresser.
Her mother stood in the doorway of Annabelle’s old bedroom, wrapped in a satiny robe, holding two cups of morning tea.
Annabelle donned a wide-eyed expression. “Happened?” Her voice emerged a tad on the squeaky side.
“Yes, dear. Between you and Clay.”
“Yesterday?”
Belle nodded, her face a mask of patience as she handed over one of the steaming mugs.
Annabelle stalled by blowing onto the surface of the milky liquid, then taking a sip. She’d lain awake some of the night pondering Clay’s motivation for rescuing her from the embarrassing predicament at the shopping mall. But she’d lain awake most of the night pondering her dawning attraction to the confounding man. Darn Mike for stirring up these ridiculous fantasies with all her silly talk.
“Annabelle?”
Glancing up guiltily, she knew her mother had already zeroed in on the circles beneath her eyes, but were her sudden disconcerting feelings toward Clay equally as obvious? “I’m not sure what you mean, Mom.”
“I mean it was obvious that the two of you had words, and frankly, I’m disappointed that you’re not making more of an effort to get along with Clay.”
Stop the Wedding! Page 7
