She lifted an eyebrow. “Have you ever been married?”
He laughed without humor. “No.”
A dubious look came over her face. “Not even a near miss?”
“No. No time or inclination.” The waiter reappeared with more champagne and refilled their glasses.
“Hm. So tell me about your job.”
Darn it, he was supposed to be asking the questions. “What do you want to know?”
She shrugged. “Describe your typical day.”
He felt stubbornly resistant to disclosing details of his life, personal or not. “There’s no such thing as a typical day, but I spend most of my time reviewing start-up companies and their products, then marrying them with an investor or group of investors.”
“You’re a glorified matchmaker?”
Clay frowned. “That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.”
“And do you ever invest in these companies?”
Was she trying to determine his earning power? “Sometimes,” he said carefully. “But my value comes more from having strategic contacts, and recognizing the right fit people-wise.” She popped a small section of melon into her mouth. He’d never known the simply act of chewing could be so provocative.
“So,” she said, angling her head at him. “In a way, you can tell if two people are right for each other.”
Clay balked. “Strictly in the business sense.”
She drank more champagne. “But isn’t marriage sort of like a business deal?”
In spite of wearing a collar-less shirt, he suddenly felt pretty hot around the collar. “I never thought about it.”
“What with prenuptial agreements, and vows, and community property laws.” She smiled. “Not to mention bribes.”
“I suppose there are some similarities.” Clay shifted in his seat, wondering how the heck the tables had turned.
“So, in a way, you are able to tell if two people are right for each other.”
“I don’t think—”
“Or at least wrong for each other?”
Clay swallowed hard. Her eyes shone, her skin was luminous. Was she still talking about their parents, or someone else? In an amazingly short period of time, Annabelle Coakley had mastered the uncanny ability to turn his thoughts inside out. They were even more wrong for each other than their parents…weren’t they?
Luckily their entrees arrived, suspending the line of questioning. Clay exhaled and tried to relax, but became irritated when the waiter lingered at Annabelle’s elbow an inordinate amount of time, offering an array of unnecessary spices, condiments, and services. The transparent fellow, however, couldn’t seem to take his eyes from her chest. Clay cleared his throat noisily and frowned at the young man, who quickly moved along. Pesky pup.
“Mmmm,” Annabelle murmured after tasting the mahi-mahi. “This is incredible.”
He closed his eyes, resisting the urge to tell her to keep her sounds of satisfaction to herself. Instead he asked, “So what’s a typical work day for you?”
She chased the food with a quick sip from her glass, then lifted her slim shoulders in a shrug. “I meet with clients in the morning, then I’m in court all afternoon, then I do research in the evening.”
An ambitious schedule, if she spoke the truth. “I hope you take weekends off.”
She shook her head, dislodging a strand of dark hair that fell in front of her right ear. “I prepare for cases on the weekends.”
“That doesn’t leave much time to see your fiancé,” he observed.
At her hesitation, he knew he’d hit a nerve. The woman was hiding something.
“Does your job require you to travel a great deal?” she asked.
He pretended not to notice the shift in subject. “I can control my schedule based on the projects I select. This year I’ve traveled quite a bit by choice.” To avoid his father, he acknowledged silently.
“To avoid your father?”
Clay frowned. “Why do you say that?”
“Because it’s obvious the two of you aren’t close.”
“We’re different,” he said with a shrug.
“My mother and I are different, but we’re still close.”
He didn’t owe her an explanation, this virtual stranger. Especially since she might have ulterior motives. Still, he felt compelled to say, “My father wasn’t around much when I was growing up.”
“And now that you’re grown, you aren’t around much.”
He bit down on the inside of his cheek. “Don’t judge me.”
“I’m not judging you,” she added, holding up her hand. “Just making an observation based on my own experience. I left my mother alone, too, moved hundreds of miles away. You know, we only have ourselves to blame that they ended up in the arms of someone we don’t approve of.”
“We have to live our own lives,” Clay said, unwilling to accept one iota of blame for his father’s foolish behavior.
“Are you happy?” she asked, leaning forward on her elbows.
Clay realized from the glossy look in her eyes that she did not have a high tolerance for alcohol. And good champagne could be deceptively intoxicating to a small person on an empty stomach. Her tongue was getting loose, all right, but she was turning philosophical on him. “I, uh…yes...I’m happy.”
“You don’t seem happy.”
Irritated, Clay frowned. “I’m happy, I tell you.”
“I’m happy, too,” she said quietly, her frown mirroring his, as if she was confused.
She started to take another drink from her glass, then set it down and pushed it away. Mesmerized by the emotions crossing her face, he watched her shake herself, sit upright, and turn her attention to her meal. Anyone could see an invisible shield had slid into place around her.
The strains of music and the buzz of conversation sounded all around them, but after a few minutes of silence, Clay missed the sound of her voice. He attempted to engage her into conversation, but her answers were monosyllabic and vague. Perturbed at her for her moodiness, and at himself for caring, he withdrew into his own thoughts, which, unfortunately, seemed to be dominated by his beautiful companion. He itched to dance with her again, to have an excuse to hold her close, but frankly, the woman spooked him. If she could get under his skin in a matter of days with his guard firmly in place, what damage might she wreak if given free rein? And he didn’t like the kinds of thoughts she unleashed in his mind.
Happy? He scoffed—of course he was happy.
Clay ate quickly, but Annabelle pushed aside her plate even sooner and turned in her seat to watch the singer perform, her fingers drumming lightly on the tabletop. He memorized her tilted profile, feeling excluded, but more intrigued than on his last date with a woman who fawned over him all night, yammering until he was tempted to stuff the cork from the wine bottle into his ears.
But this woman…this woman captivated him.
Bewildered by his fixation on her, he flagged the waiter for the check, paid for dinner over Annabelle’s protests, and shepherded her inside his car after the valet drove up to the sidewalk.
“Thank you for dinner,” she said, fastening her seatbelt.
“You’re welcome.” He put the car into gear and pulled out onto the street. “You fell quiet in there all of a sudden.”
Annabelle turned to stare out her window. “Sometimes I talk too much.”
Clay pursed his mouth. Was she afraid she had almost revealed something damaging? He hoped Henry would find out something soon to either prove or disprove his suspicions that Annabelle Coakley was up to something.
They drove home in relative silence, although the interior of the car was filled up with her—her scent, her aura. Clay found himself leaning toward her, straining to hear the little sighs she uttered, to catch the rise and fall of her breasts. Worse, the tiny strap of her bra had fallen down her left shoulder a couple of inches—a strap he recognized. Knowing she was wearing the skimpy animal-print underwear had him smoldering.
Clay
shifted restlessly, turning up the volume on the radio to waylay his libido. Darkness, he acknowledged, had a way of blinding a man to all the reasons he shouldn’t be attracted to a woman, instead evoking images of delectable nighttime activities. By the time they neared their parents’ neighborhood, he had worked himself into a state he hadn’t known since his teenage years, when sex was new and exciting, before he’d experienced the emotional baggage that went along with becoming involved with a woman.
“Shall I drop you at your mother’s house?” Clay asked.
“Drive on to your father’s. I’ll collect mother and take her home,” she said as if she were snatching a child out of harm’s way.
He had to hand it to her—she certainly acted as if she opposed this wedding. She was perhaps the most beautiful con woman he’d ever met.
When they entered his father’s house, Martin waved to them from the den off the foyer. He was watching television alone, smoking a pipe. “Belle was tired and wanted to turn in early. How was dinner?”
Excruciating. Clay forced a tight smile and said, “Fine.”
“Can I get you a drink, Annabelle?”
She declined. “I’d like to catch Mother before she goes to sleep.”
“I’ll drive you,” Clay offered.
“Thanks, but I’ll just use the path. Goodnight.”
Clay watched her walk to the door, riveted to her legs, and acknowledged that he wasn’t quite ready to end the evening. “I’ll walk with you,” he said, and exited with her, ignoring her protests.
He retrieved a flashlight from his car, then walked alongside Annabelle through the darkness as she picked her way along the side of the house until she came upon the faint, uneven path that led into the patch of woods between their parents’ homes.
“You really know your way around here,” he observed.
“I used to put out salt block for the deer where your father’s swimming pool is,” she said, her dry tone not lost on him.
He held aside low branches, the sticky June humidity seeping into his skin. Crickets and cicadas quieted, then resumed their song in waves as the crunch of their footsteps sounded in the night. Clay was struck by the fact that most women he knew wouldn’t dream of traipsing through the woods in a nice dress and heels, but Annabelle seemed unfazed. The woman had potential, he conceded.
And a fiancé, his mind whispered.
*****
Annabelle was all too aware of Clay moving through the woods next to her, even though she couldn’t see him. In fact, with her vision hampered, her other senses seemed to heighten. She smelled his soap and cologne. She felt his big body displacing the foliage around her. She heard his footfalls, his steady breathing. Her nerves danced from Clayton Castleberry overload.
The man was simply too…too much. Too handsome, too intelligent, too moody, too confusing. Frankly, she couldn’t wait to reach the safety of her mother’s home. Spotting the backyard lights ahead, she picked up the pace, then promptly stepped into a hole, and fell flat on her back.
Hard. An unladylike “woof” escaped her as the breath was chased from her lungs.
Before she could inhale again, strong fingers circled her upper arms and pulled her to a sitting position. “Are you all right?” Clay asked, concern coloring his voice. The flashlight he’d abandoned lay on the path, fanning a fixed beam over her legs and feet.
“Just had the wind knocked out of me,” she croaked, mortified.
“Can you stand?”
She nodded, then realized he couldn’t see her, which was good because her back felt moist—her dress was surely ruined. “Yes,” she mumbled.
He slowly pulled her to her feet, assuming her weight. When the absurdity of the situation struck her, a laugh bubbled out of her throat. In the darkness, the noise sounded strange even to her own ears, but under the circumstances, laughing was better than the alternative—crying.
Would this day never end?
To her immense relief, Clay’s soft chuckle floated out to mingle with hers, which fueled her laughter further, weakening her limbs. She leaned into him, brushing at her dress, rubbing a tender spot on her hip. “Our parents have probably traveled this path a thousand times without mishap, and I almost come up lame.”
Suddenly conscious of his proximity, she cleared her throat and tried to stand on her own. He shifted, and his face was thrown into relief from moonlight pushing past the trees above them. His dark eyes were crimped at the corners, shining with humor—a different look for him. And a good one. She emitted a small laugh. “This has not been the best of days.”
His answering silence only made her more nervous, especially since he seemed slow in relinquishing his hold on her. His hold on her. She swallowed, trying to identify the sensation that hung in the air between them. Lust? Curiosity? Loneliness?
“Perhaps we can salvage what’s left of the day,” he whispered, and the light disappeared as his body eclipsed the moon.
She was ready when his lips found hers, ready to satisfy the unexplainable yearning she had come to associate with his presence, ready to move past this insane attraction and return to comfortable indifference. His mouth moved firm and eager upon hers, as if he, too, wanted to extinguish the mysterious heat between them. At first he held her loosely, but as his warm tongue sought hers, his hands splayed against her back, wedging her body against his.
She threaded her fingers into the thick hair at the nape of his neck. He moaned into her mouth, overriding the symphony of night sounds around them, sending her senses soaring. He tasted of sweet champagne, smelled of warm musk, and held her with restrained power emanating the length of his body. They plundered each other’s mouth ruthlessly, seeking relief in—or perhaps from—the other.
Seconds evaporated, then minutes, and even though her lungs screamed for oxygen, she was unwilling to end the exhilarating kiss. But when his hands slid down over her hips, she was jarred back to reality—there was no sensible end to this madness.
She turned to pull out of his embrace, gasping for air, and wrapped her arms around herself. What was she thinking? Skulking around in the dark, kissing, when she should be trying to stop her mother’s ill-fated wedding. Annabelle shook herself—had both of the Coakley women lost their minds?
“I should get back,” she said, her voice echoing loudly in her ears.
After a few seconds’ hesitation, he retrieved the flashlight and waved for her to precede him. She wished she could see his face, but she could only guess from his casual body language that the accidental encounter hadn’t been nearly as earth shattering an experience for him. He shined the light in front of her feet as she walked, and although he maintained a respectable distance as they entered her mother’s backyard, his fingers brushed her back twice, sending shooting reminders of their passionate kiss to her midsection. Fighting the urge to hurry lest she fall again, Annabelle picked her way carefully along the rock walkway she’d helped her father lay when she was fourteen.
When the motion detector light for the deck blinked on, Clay extinguished the flashlight. With her heart still thumping with latent desire, Annabelle dug in her tiny purse for the house key, half-anticipating, half-dreading a serious talk with her mother about their foolishness.
Er, their parents’ foolishness, that is.
“Thanks for walking me home,” she said hurriedly, hoping that, where Clay was concerned, out of sight would mean out of mind.
He averted his eyes and scratched his temple. “Annabelle, about what happened back there—”
“There’s no need to apologize,” she cut in.
A frown creased his brow. “I wasn’t going to apologize.”
Perturbed, Annabelle put one hand on the doorknob. “Just like you didn’t apologize the first time?”
“No,” he sputtered. “I mean…yes!”
Pretending the knob was his head, she twisted it hard and pushed open the door. Why she’d ever let the man kiss her, she didn’t know. “Goodnight,” she said through gritte
d teeth.
“What’s so good about it?” he snapped.
“This.” She stepped inside and slammed the door in his handsome, infuriating face. “Oooooh!” she muttered at the closed door, so tempted to make a demonstrative gesture. The man brought out the worst in her!
“And what was that all about?”
Annabelle whirled around and sheepishly faced her mother, who sat at the breakfast bar in her robe under the low glow of a nightlight, her hands around a mug, her eyebrows high.
“I, um…Clay walked me to the door.”
Her mother sipped. “And you had words?”
Annabelle managed an off-hand smile and walked toward the bar. “It was nothing, really.”
Her mother squinted. “What on earth happened to your dress?”
“I fell on the path between the Castleberry house and here.”
Belle stood, instantly on Mom-alert. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” she assured her quickly, leaning over to unbuckle the thin ankle straps of the silver sandals. “I only humiliated myself in front of Mr. Perfect.” In more ways than one.
“Oh.” Her mother walked around the counter, wearing a smile. “So that’s why you sounded so defensive. Were the two of you civil long enough to at least have a nice dinner?”
Annabelle nodded, eager to change the subject. “Martin said you were going to turn in early—aren’t you feeling well?”
“Just tired from all the excitement, I suppose, but I wasn’t able to sleep.” She held up her cup. “I thought a little warm milk might help. There’s more in the pan, want some?”
Annabelle smiled, then opened an overhead kitchen cabinet. Her fingers lit upon her father’s favorite coffee cup, a black mug that featured the words ‘Love sustains, maintains, and above all, remains.’ Taking the coincidence as a sign, she removed the mug and held it out for her mother to fill with milk. Belle hesitated for half a second when she saw the cup, but poured without comment from the still-warm pan. “Vanilla?”
Annabelle nodded, comforted by the familiar routine of her mother adding a few drops of pure vanilla to the mug. “Just like old times,” she murmured.
Stop the Wedding! Page 11
