Stand-in Groom

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “Why do you need a husband?” he asked. “Are you in trouble? Are you going to have a baby?”

  It was funny, but Chelsea had the feeling that if she said yes, he’d seriously consider helping her out and marrying her so that her baby would have a name. Or maybe it wasn’t funny. After all, Giovanni Anziano was the kind of man who voluntarily spent several mornings each week delivering food for Meals on Wheels. He wasn’t paid for driving that white truck—she had learned that after talking to the receptionist at the charity organization. And he was the kind of man who took the time from his busy schedule to play a game or two of cards with one of the lonely old men on his route.

  “I’m not pregnant,” she said. “I’m in a different kind of trouble. I’m in kind of a financial bind.”

  He had been watching her intently, but now he glanced up. A waitress had come to their table.

  “I’ll have a coffee,” he said. “Cream and sugar.” He looked at Chelsea. “You too?”

  “Herbal tea, please.”

  The waitress shook her head. “Don’t have it. Only regular tea or coffee.”

  “Then just a pot of hot water with lemon, please.” Chelsea glanced at Johnny as the waitress left. “I don’t do caffeine.”

  “Too bad. I make a mean espresso.”

  Chelsea had to look away. There was something highly volatile that seemed to spark and burst into flames every time she so much as glanced into this man’s eyes. That wasn’t good. She wasn’t looking for a sexual playmate—she was looking for a business partner.

  But this guy was so damned attractive, it was hard to keep her mind on business.

  Still, now that Emilio had backed out, too attractive or not, John Anziano was the only man around. He was her only hope.

  “My college roommate and I started our own business last year,” she explained. “Computer software. Moira—she’s my friend—is a programmer, too, and we figured why work for someone else when we could work for ourselves. But we underestimated our start-up expenses and reached a point a few months ago where we either had to call it quits and lose everything or get creative in our financing.”

  The waitress returned with their order, and Chelsea poured steaming-hot water from a tiny, silver-colored teapot into her mug. John added cream and sugar to his coffee as she continued.

  “We streamlined, moving into that office in a lower-rent part of town. We also got creative with our assets. You see, when my grandfather died a few years ago, he left money in trust for all of his grandchildren. But according to his will, we can’t get our hands on that money until we’re legally wed.”

  She glanced across the table and into Johnny’s chocolate-brown eyes. Chocolate was one of the few things that she truly missed since she’d cut sugar out of her diet several years ago.

  “So you’re getting married in order to get your hands on your inheritance,” he said.

  She shielded her slice of lemon with one hand as she squeezed the juice into her mug of hot water. “It’s a little more complicated than that,” she admitted. “After Emilio agreed to marry me, I went to a bank and got a loan—kind of an advance on the money I’d be receiving from the trust fund. I have to start making those loan payments in a few weeks, and the business isn’t up to bringing in that kind of money yet, so …”

  “Why not just borrow the money to repay the loan?”

  She took a sip of her hot water and lemon. “Do you know someone who’ll lend me over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, interest-free?” she asked.

  He nearly dropped his coffee mug. “That’s how much you need to pay back the loan?”

  “No, but that’s how much I’ll get from my inheritance. I was intending to sink that money into the business.” She gazed at him. “I need to get married. And not just for the money. This whole thing has gotten bigger than I imagined. The ceremony, the reception—I have relatives already arriving from out of town. I can’t cancel now.”

  “Chelsea, you know, it happens sometimes. It’s really not that big a deal. People call weddings off.”

  “Yeah, well, Spencers aren’t ‘people.’ Spencers are above making such nasty little messes with their lives. Or so I’m told.”

  “Emilio’s the one to blame. He’s the one who walked. You had no control over his actions.”

  “I should have—at least that’s what my parents will say. I should have made certain that a prize catch like Emilio Santangelo didn’t get away. After all, he’s in a power position at one of the biggest financial institutions in Rome—not to mention the fact that he’s descended from royalty. That went over really well with Mother and Daddy.”

  “He is?”

  “See, even you’re impressed. You can bet I’ll be lectured for years on how it was my mistake that I let him get away. The same way I’ve been lectured for the past seven years on what a mistake it was not to get married right out of college. My parents believe a woman isn’t complete without a husband. Forget your degrees and all those years of studying—you can become the CEO of General Motors, and you still won’t be whole until you find a man and get married. After that you can fool around with your little career all you want—as long as it doesn’t get in the way of your devotion to your beloved lord and master.”

  Johnny was laughing at her vehemence.

  Chelsea sat back in her seat, giving him a rueful smile. “Sorry. I’m a little irate about the whole thing. They’ve been pressuring me to get married for close to an eternity now. It gets old after a while. If it was up to me, I’d never get married. I’m quite complete on my own, thank you very much.”

  “So you didn’t tell your parents that you and Emilio were only tying the knot to get the money,” Johnny said.

  “No, I didn’t. I just told them I was finally getting married and let them take it from there. And they took it and ran. The reception is going to be huge. My parents have a guest list of nearly six hundred people.”

  Johnny whistled. “Holy God, who’s catering that?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t care.” She gazed down at her mug and sighed. “I just wanted it to be over.” She glanced up at him. “Here’s my offer: I’ll give you seventy-five thousand dollars and a trip to the Virgin Islands if you show up at the church on Sunday and pretend to be Emilio. After the reception, you’ll fly out to Vegas with me and we’ll get married for real. We’ll go from there to St. Thomas, spend a few days at the beach, then show up at the lawyer’s office with our marriage certificate in hand. We’ll get the money, and in a few days—a week or two at the most—we’ll quietly get the marriage annulled.”

  He took a long sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim of his mug. When he put the mug down, he laughed in disbelief. “This is definitely one of the more bizarre days of my life.”

  “I know it sounds crazy, but, John, I really need your help.”

  “You don’t know me. What if I’m some kind of weirdo?”

  “You work for Meals on Wheels. Little old ladies open their doors for you, remember?”

  “Explain to me the part about Vegas again,” he said. “I’m not sure I follow that. We get married twice?”

  Chelsea felt a burst of hope. Was he actually considering doing this? She tried to keep her voice even and matter-of-fact. “Vegas is to make it legal. I’ve already checked into it—there’s no way we can get a Massachusetts marriage license by this coming Sunday.”

  He nodded slowly. “Seventy-five K, huh?”

  “Yes.” She held her breath. She could almost see the wheels turning in Johnny’s head. God, what she would have given to know what he was thinking.

  “And a honeymoon in St. Thomas too? How many days?”

  “Four days, three nights.” She crossed her fingers under the table, making a wish. Please, please, please, say yes.

  “I’ve got some time off coming to me,” he said, thinking aloud. “Rudy, my boss, isn’t going to like me springing it on him with hardly any notice, but …”

  “Does this mean
…?” she whispered, hardly daring to hope.

  He smiled. “If we’re going to do this, we oughta do it right, don’t you think?” He reached across the table and took her hand, lacing their fingers together. “Chelsea Spencer, will you marry me—for a week or two?”

  Chelsea felt a rush of tears fill her eyes. His hands were big and warm and they seemed to engulf hers completely. It was an odd sensation. “Yes,” she said. She smiled at him across the table, blinking back her tears. “Thank you, John, so very much.”

  This was one crazy idea.

  Of course, Johnny had had some experience with crazy ideas in the past. He’d pulled some particularly insane stunts before—like hopping aboard the red-eye to Paris with a friend from the Culinary Institute simply to settle an argument over whether it was lovage or cilantro that master chef Donatien Solange of the Hotel Cartier used in his world-famous lemon-lime chicken.

  It was lovage.

  Johnny had been right. He’d won the argument, but the round-trip ticket had cost him all of his second-semester spending money.

  He squeezed his VW Bug into a half of a parking spot on Boylston Street, wondering what this latest crazy idea was going to cost him.

  He was marrying Chelsea Spencer on Sunday. The thought still made him laugh out loud. It was one hell of a first date, and one amazingly crazy idea.

  Supposedly it was going to cost him nothing. Supposedly he was going to get seventy-five bills gigundo for the pleasure of giving the lovely Ms. Spencer his name—albeit only temporarily. But if there was one thing he’d learned so far in life along with how to make a near-perfect crêpe, it was that crazy ideas always had hefty price tags.

  But how could he turn down seventy-five grand? The money would put him a year and a half closer to owning his own restaurant. And how could he not notice those tears of gratitude that had flooded Chelsea’s crystal-blue eyes when he’d told her he’d help her out? And how could he not think about the fact that he’d be flying to some Caribbean paradise to share the honeymoon suite for three hot, tropical nights with a lady who made his blood pressure rise?

  The possibilities were endless and extremely tantalizing.

  He got out of his car, glancing again at the address Chelsea had scrawled on the back of one of her business cards. Her attorney’s office. It was a Newbury Street address—just a few blocks away.

  He picked up his pace as the first fat drops of rain began to fall.

  Newbury Street was made up of graceful old brownstones, some elegantly restored, but some renovated with gleaming metal and shining glass. It was a jangling mixture of old and new, a vibrant neighborhood filled with trendy restaurants, upscale fashion boutiques, and avant-garde record and CD stores. Offices and condos were nestled in among the shops, and on the other side of the heavy wooden front doors, those offices tended to be either crumbling and slightly seedy or gorgeously preserved.

  Johnny took the stairs up to the attorney’s building, betting he was going to see an office that was gorgeously preserved.

  He wasn’t disappointed.

  The reception area was something out of an old movie. The wood trim around the windows and doors gleamed. The ceilings were high, and polished brass gas fixtures were still in place.

  An elegant-looking receptionist was sitting behind an enormous oak desk, gazing at him over the top of a pair of half glasses. “Are you here to pick up the delivery?”

  Johnny had to laugh. Figures he’d be mistaken for the hired help. “No. Actually, I’m here to see Tim von Reuter.”

  “Really?” She gave him a very pointed once-over, lingering disapprovingly on his shoulder-length hair, his faded jeans, and his rain-spotted T-shirt.

  He returned her gaze just as steadily, feeling his temper start to rise. “Yes, really.”

  “I’m sorry, you don’t seem to be in Mister von Reuter’s book. You’ll have to call for an appointment. Good day.” She turned away from him.

  Johnny knocked on her desk to get her attention. “Hate to disappoint you, lady, but I do have an appointment. One o’clock. You can tell Mr. von Reuter that Mister Anziano is here to see him.”

  “John. Good, you made it.”

  He turned to see Chelsea coming into the outer office, closing the door behind her.

  His fiancée.

  Nobody would mistake her for a delivery person.

  She was still wearing the same dark suit she’d had on this morning, and she still looked like about a million very elegant bucks. He forgot all about the snob lady behind the desk as Chelsea set her umbrella in a brass stand and smiled at him. It was a sweet smile, almost shy. She met his eyes only briefly as she set her enormous purse on a chair and shrugged out of her raincoat. “I was half-afraid you wouldn’t come.”

  “I said I’d be here.”

  “John, it’s okay if you want to change your mind—”

  “Do you want to change your mind?”

  “No!” She looked up at him then, her blue eyes wide. She glanced at the receptionist and lowered her voice. “I just … I know you must be having second thoughts and doubts, so …”

  “I definitely have some questions to ask the lawyer before I sign anything,” Johnny said evenly.

  She took a deep breath and gave him a somewhat wobbly smile. “Then let’s do it. Let’s talk to Tim.” She turned to the receptionist. “Mrs. Mert, will you please tell Mr. von Reuter that we’re here.”

  “We?” the lady asked icily, with another grim look at Johnny.

  “My fiancé and I,” Chelsea said, with a hint of that same chill in her voice. “We’re here to sign a prenuptial agreement.”

  Mrs. Mert stood up and moved silently down a corridor with one last disapproving look back at Johnny.

  “Is that a class you can take in private school?” Johnny asked. “You know, Chilly Disapproval 101? She’s definitely a master, but you’re not so bad at it yourself.”

  “Oh, God, please don’t compare me to Mrs. Mert. She wasn’t exactly hired for her tolerance.”

  “No kidding. I think she likes me about as much as she likes getting a piece of bubble gum stuck on the bottom of her shoe.”

  She smiled at him. “The gum she can take care of with some ice and a putty knife. You look a little bit more difficult to get rid of.”

  “Why, because I’m not wearing a business suit and a noose—I mean, tie—around my neck?”

  “That’s part of it.” Chelsea gazed at him. “But I think it’s mostly your hair,” she said.

  “My hair?”

  “Wait a sec.” She sat down and dug to the bottom of her purse, coming up with a ponytail holder. “Try this.”

  He sat down next to her. “It’s more than my hair. It’s the ‘us versus them’ theory. Mrs. Mert thinks she’s ‘us,’ and I’m definitely ‘them.’ You’re ‘us,’ too, although your status is shaky now that you’ve been seen with me.”

  Chelsea studied him almost pensively as he raked his hair back with his fingers, gathering it into a ponytail. “You’re probably right,” she said. “People like Mrs. Mert feel threatened by people like you.”

  “People like me.” Did she mean people in his tax bracket, or people who were born in a crummy part of town with a less-than-pure pedigree?

  “People like you,” Chelsea repeated, “who are too sexy for their shirts.” She was doing her best not to smile, but she couldn’t hide the sparkling amusement in her eyes.

  “Damn,” he said with a laugh. “You’re never going to let me live that down.”

  “You know what they say about first impressions.”

  “Let’s see, if I remember correctly, I wrestled your handbag away from muggers, staring down a pretty nasty-looking switchblade knife in the process, and okay, yes, I was wearing a dumb T-shirt. But somehow you only seem to remember the shirt part.”

  “Some things just stand out above the rest.” She grinned at him. “I heard that song on the radio just about an hour ago, and it occurred to me that we should use
it for our first dance at the reception.”

  “Your parents would love that.” Dance. They were going to have to dance at the reception. He would have to hold her in his arms and—

  “I would ask the band to play an instrumental version—my parents would never know.”

  “Whoa, you’re not kidding, are you?”

  She just smiled at him. “We need to get you fitted for a tuxedo,” she said. “And do you happen to know your ring size?”

  “Ring size? Not a chance. But I already have a tux.”

  “Black shoes?”

  “Got ’em. Italian leather—Emilio would approve.”

  She pointed to his ponytail. “That’s definitely the way an Italian investment banker would wear his hair. It’s very high finance.”

  “Are you sure I don’t need a scrunchee with dollar signs on it or something?”

  “No scrunchees. Unless they’re Italian leather.” She paused. “John, it’s occurred to me that you may not know much about banking and the stock market and all that. I mean, I don’t even know where you work—besides Meals on Wheels.”

  “I work at Lumière’s—it’s a restaurant downtown.” He could see from her eyes that she didn’t recognize the name. He could also see that she was not impressed. Most people weren’t—until they tasted his cooking. “And you’re right,” he said. “The most that I know about banking is that my savings account doesn’t make nearly enough interest anymore. And as far as investments go, right now my sole investment is a two-dollar quick-pick lottery ticket I’ve got for next Wednesday’s drawing.”

  “I’m going to have Emilio give you a call,” Chelsea decided. “He can give you a crash course in international banking.”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  “Oh, yes, it is. What are you going to do when my father starts asking you questions about the Italian economy?”

  “I’ll do this.” Johnny leaned forward slightly, bringing his finger up to his lips in a gesture of silence. He spoke with a faintly foreign-sounding accent. “Shhh. Today is a day of pleasure and celebration, not business. We will talk of such things another time.”