Stand-in Groom

by Suzanne Brockmann

  To his surprise, despite the fact that she’d tried to hide behind her Ice Princess facade, her eyes filled with tears.

  And when she spoke, her words surprised him. “God, I miss that nasty old man. He always swore he’d get back at me for all those times I beat him at chess.” She laughed, one fat tear escaping down her cheek. “I guess this is his idea of a good joke.”

  “The good news is that he left you nearly eight times the amount he left your brothers and sisters,” Von Reuter told her.

  Eight times? Johnny flipped to the back of the document and there was the amount of money that had been placed in trust for Chelsea. That money, combined with the interest it would have made all these years, was the equivalent of winning the lottery. Chelsea would be set for life.

  “Screw the money. I don’t want the money. If I can’t get to it now, it doesn’t do me any good.” Chelsea stood up, wiping her face. “How long will it take to get this marriage annulled?”

  It was obviously not a question Tim von Reuter had been expecting. “Why don’t we finish talking about the ramifications of this trust before we—”

  “I want to talk about the annulment now. How long will it take?”

  Von Reuter shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, that depends on a lot of different variables. …”

  Chelsea swore, leaning over his desk almost threateningly. “If you don’t know, will you please just say you don’t know?”

  The lawyer nearly choked on the words. “I don’t know.”

  There was a note of desperation in her voice. “Give it your best guess, Tim. Please?”

  “Best-case scenario? I know we’ll need to schedule a court date. … Maybe a month?”

  Chelsea seemed to crumble, holding on to the edge of the desk. “Oh, my God. That long?”

  Johnny stood up. “Lookit, Chelsea, I know you’re disappointed, and I know that you don’t want to be married to me for even one second longer than you have to, but a month’s really not that much time in the grand scheme of things.”

  “Oh, John, no—you don’t understand.” She turned to face him, her blue eyes enormous in her face. “This doesn’t have to do with me not wanting to be married. This is about not wanting to wait a whole month to”—she glanced almost furtively at Von Reuter and lowered her voice—“to be with you.”

  Johnny nearly staggered from the impact of her words. She was upset, incredibly upset, because she didn’t want to have to wait an entire month to make love to him. His heart was in his throat. “So we’ll have to get a divorce. Big deal.”

  She shook her head. “Without that money, I probably couldn’t afford a divorce. Everything I’ve got is tied up in my business. I haven’t even made the mortgage payments on my condo for the past three months.” She looked as if she were about to burst into tears.

  Johnny turned to Von Reuter. “Tim, is there somewhere Chelsea and I can talk privately?”

  The lawyer stood up. “Use my office. Please. If you’ll excuse me?”

  Johnny waited until the door closed behind Von Reuter. Then he turned to Chelsea. “Here’s what we’re going to do, okay? We’re going to stay married for a year. After that you’ll be able to afford all the divorces you want.”

  She stared at him in total disbelief. “You’d do that? For an entire year?”

  “Let’s see, an entire year, married to the most beautiful, incredible woman I’ve ever met?” he asked, pretending to consider it. “Somehow I’ll suffer through.”

  He couldn’t tell if she was going to laugh or cry.

  She took a deep breath and did neither. “So what’s your cut?”

  Johnny shook his head, not understanding. “My cut?”

  “Yeah. What percentage do you want?”

  “Percentage?”

  “Of the money.”

  Johnny didn’t want a percentage. The money was the last thing he’d been thinking about. But letting her think he was in this for the money was better than telling her the truth and scaring her to death. He shrugged. “I don’t know. Ten percent?”

  “That’s all?”

  “Ten percent of the money waiting for you in that trust fund is nothing to sneeze at.”

  “I’ll give you twenty-five percent.”

  He had to laugh. “If this is the way you negotiate, no wonder your business is short of funds.”

  “We’re talking about a solid year of your life—I still can’t believe you would do this for me.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I kind of like you,” he told her. “I asked you out first, remember?”

  “You asked me to go to dinner,” she reminded him. “Not to marry you for a year.”

  “If my choice was between zero or three hundred and sixty-five dinners, I’d take the three sixty-five.”

  Chelsea’s eyes were filled with tears again.

  “I get more than the money for doing this, you know,” he continued softly. “If we’re going to be married for a year, we’re going to be married for a year. Starting tonight, you’ll be my wife. For real.”

  She took a tissue from a box near Von Reuter’s desk and wiped her eyes and nose. “Only starting tonight?”

  Johnny checked his watch, dizzy from the possibilities. But it was nearly nine-thirty. They still had to talk to Tim, tell him what they planned to do, make sure there were no loopholes they’d overlooked. Even if that took only five minutes—and it would surely take longer—that still left them only an hour. And an hour wasn’t long enough to do what he wanted to do. He swore softly.

  “I promised my boss I’d be at work by ten-thirty,” he told her.

  “I thought you worked in the evenings.”

  “I do. Mostly. But there’s a private party that starts at four, and he’s counting on me to be in early to help prepare.”

  She was looking at him as if he were one of his gourmet dinners. “I don’t want to wait,” she said suddenly.

  He didn’t want to, either. The thought suddenly occurred to him that they could lock Von Reuter’s office door and get it on right there on the lawyer’s desk. But as appealing a thought as that was, he knew he didn’t want to make love to Chelsea that way for the first time. He didn’t want to rush. He wanted to take his sweet time.

  “Since the party starts early, it’ll end early,” he promised her. “I’ll be home by ten.”

  Home. “Where do you live?” she asked. “God, I don’t even know where you live.”

  “I have a condo near the harbor, but … why don’t I just plan to come out to your place.” He smiled. “As a matter of fact, why don’t you give me a key?”

  ELEVEN

  “SO YOU THINK with today’s market, we can list it at five hundred K?” Chelsea asked, making a note on her pad as she spoke on the phone.

  “I would even try five twenty-five,” the real-estate agent told her. “In that building, in that part of town, with two bathrooms and all those renovations you’ve done … For the type of upscale condominium that you have, it’s definitely a seller’s market.”

  “But I need to sell it fast,” Chelsea said. “Immediately. As in, the day before yesterday.”

  She did the math on her notepad for both numbers, figuring in the agent’s commission, the closing costs, the amount of equity she had, minus the last few mortgage payments she’d missed and the ensuing penalties. If she sold the place for five hundred thousand, she’d walk away with just under forty thousand, of which she’d have to pay about half in taxes. But if she wanted to sell for five hundred, she’d have to list it higher. …

  “Let’s go with five hundred twenty-five,” she told the agent. “How soon can you get it listed?”

  “I’ll messenger the paperwork to your office for you to sign. And I’ll put the listing in the MLS computer this afternoon,” he said. “We’ll have to set up a time for the agents in my office to see the unit.”

  “The sooner the better,” Chelsea told him. “You set it up—I’ll adjust my schedule to fit yours.”


  As she hung up the phone she looked up to see Moira standing in her doorway.

  “I can’t believe you’re really going to do it,” her friend said. “You’re selling your condo and moving in with a guy named Giovanni Anziano.”

  “I’m selling my condo to make the first payment of the loan,” Chelsea reminded her.

  Moira sat down across from her, resting her elbows on the edge of Chelsea’s desk and her chin in her hands. “Do your parents know?”

  “That I’m selling my condo? No. I just made that decision.”

  “I’m not talking about the condo,” Moira said. “I’m talking about the truck driver. Do your parents know that the guy you married isn’t descended from Italian royalty?”

  “John’s not a truck driver,” Chelsea said. “He works in a restaurant … or something.”

  “He’s a waiter? That’ll go over almost as well.”

  “He’s not a waiter,” Chelsea said. “At least I don’t think so. I think he’s some kind of assistant cook … or something.” She didn’t know. In all of the conversations she’d had with Johnny, she hadn’t asked him what, specifically, he did at the restaurant downtown. God, she couldn’t even remember the restaurant’s name. Had he even told her?

  “Your parents are going to have a cow.” Moira was grinning. “Can I be there when you tell them?”

  “Even if he is a waiter, there’s nothing wrong with that,” Chelsea said, defending Johnny. “He’s not going to be a waiter forever—he wants to open his own restaurant.”

  “With your money, I bet.”

  “No, with his share of the trust fund.”

  “Relax, I’m just teasing.”

  Chelsea forced a smile, but truth was, her friend’s teasing hit too close to home. Johnny was getting paid for the favor he was doing for her. But really, did she honestly expect that he’d agree to stay married to her for an entire year and not get paid?

  “On an entirely different note,” Moira told her, “there was a nifty little stash of crack vials and needles in the doorway when I came in this morning. I talked to Sylvia—you know, the woman who works over at H&R Block—and she gave me some special trash containers marked ‘Biohazardous Waste,’ that her office gets from the board of health.”

  “You need to be really careful when you pick up those needles,” Chelsea said.

  “No kidding. But as I was out there, being really careful, it occurred to me that we may want to find a location for our office that doesn’t double as a nightly hangout for addicts.”

  “Moira, God, you know we can’t afford to move. Right now we can’t even pay the rent on this place!”

  Moira pushed herself out of her chair. “I know.” She shook her head. “Do you think Sears sells needle-proof gloves?”

  “Tomorrow, I’ll pick up the trash,” Chelsea told her.

  “You mean, the biohazardous waste.” Moira turned back to look through the doorway. “You know, the sad part of what you just said is that we both know there most likely will be vials and needles there again tomorrow.”

  Chelsea pressed her forehead against her palms. Damn, she needed cash, and she needed it fast.

  But what she really needed was Johnny.

  She longed to hear his voice and she nearly picked up the phone and called him at work. But wanting to hear his voice didn’t seem like a good enough excuse to call him—and certainly one she’d have trouble admitting.

  She glanced at her watch. It was only two o’clock. Would this day never end? The phone rang, and she scooped it up, hoping that it was Johnny.

  It wasn’t. It was the real-estate agent again. “I just spoke to some of the people in my office about setting up a realtors’ open house at your condo,” he told her, “and I found out if we don’t do it first thing tomorrow, it won’t happen until next Wednesday at the earliest.”

  “First thing as in what time?” Chelsea asked. She had plans for the morning. They involved sleeping late, breakfast in bed … and Johnny.

  “Seven-thirty.”

  She cringed. “Can’t you do it later? Say, noon?”

  “Not tomorrow. If you want, we could set it up for next Wednesday at noon.”

  “Wait. No,” Chelsea said. “Go back to tomorrow at seven-thirty. Do I have to be there?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “In that case, it’s fine. I’ll send over a key with the paperwork.”

  Chelsea hung up the phone and glanced at her watch: 2:07. Time had never dragged like this before.

  But … Now she had a good reason to give Johnny a call.

  She flipped to the back of her date book and quickly dialed the number he’d given her. The phone rang six times before it was picked up.

  The man who answered had a heavy French accent, and Chelsea didn’t catch the restaurant’s name. It might have been Lou’s or Louie’s, but she wasn’t sure.

  “Is John Anziano there, please?” she asked.

  “Who this is?”

  “Chelsea Spencer.”

  “Who?”

  She tried to speak slowly and clearly. “Chelsea.”

  “You say you call from Chelsea?” Chelsea was also the name of one of the towns north of Boston.

  “No, Chelsea’s my name,” she tried to explain.

  “Oui, is what I asking you. For your name?”

  “Please,” Chelsea said, giving up. “Just tell Johnny his wife is on the phone.”

  “Aha! Hold now.”

  It was nearly a full minute before the line was picked up, and Johnny said, “My wife’s on the phone.” He laughed. “Sorry it took me so long, but I’m not used to having a wife, and I was sure Jean-Paul had made a mistake, and that the phone was for Jim or Philippe, who do have wives. Jean-Paul’s English is a little basic.”

  “So of course he’s the one who answers the phone,” Chelsea said, happy beyond belief to hear his familiar, husky voice.

  “He’s the dessert chef. He just happened to be the only one of us not up to his elbows in lobster bisque. So what’s up?”

  I’m drowning in an ocean of debt and despair and I wanted to hear your voice. “Actually, I’m calling because I was hoping it would be okay if we changed tonight’s plans a little bit.”

  He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke she could tell he’d stopped smiling. “Change them, huh? You mean, cancel them?”

  No! she nearly shouted into the phone before she caught herself. “God, no. I was just wondering if you’d mind if I came to your place instead.”

  “No, but … Are you sure that’s what you want to do?” He lowered his voice. “I was looking forward to using that key you gave me.”

  Chelsea swallowed. “I was too. But I put the condo on the market this afternoon, and there’s going to be about two dozen realtors walking through the place at seven-thirty tomorrow morning.”

  “You’re selling your condo?”

  “I have to,” she told him. “I still have those loan payments to make. As it is, even if I sell the thing tomorrow, I’m going to be late with the first payment.”

  “So … are you going to … Do you … intend to move in to my place? With me?”

  His voice sounded funny, and Chelsea was instantly anxious. “Not if you don’t want me to. I guess I thought, since we’re going to be married for a whole year …”

  “Are you kidding? Where else would you live? It would be weird if you lived anywhere else. I mean, you’re my wife, right?” He laughed. “I know because Jean-Paul said so, and he’s French, and everyone knows the French know everything. I just thought you’d probably want us to live at your place.”

  “No, I’ve got to sell it,” Chelsea said. “I need the cash, and besides, it’s too far away from the office anyway. I’ve actually been thinking about selling for a while.”

  He snorted. “What a liar. You told me you just finished renovating the bathroom.”

  “Well, it turns out I don’t really like the color tile I chose for the floor, so—”
She broke off, realizing she wasn’t fooling him—or herself. “It sucks. But the alternative is to borrow money from my father, and the fact is, I’d rather try to sell my condo first.”

  “Because you think asking your dad for money will be admitting you failed.”

  “Are you going to tell me where you live, or will I have to track down your address through the phone company?”

  “You’re changing the subject,” he noted.

  “Give the man a cigar. Come on, I’ve got my pen ready. Stop psychoanalyzing me and tell me how to get to your place.”

  She quickly wrote down the directions Johnny gave her.

  “Look, I’ve got to get back to work,” he told her then. “I’m trying to speed things along so I can get out of here at a reasonable hour. The way it looks right now, I’ll definitely be able to leave by ten.”

  “So … I guess I’ll see you at, say, ten-oh-one …?”

  Johnny laughed. “How about ten-thirty? I’ll want to take a shower right away and maybe vacuum the living-room rug.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not every day that your wife comes over to your condo for the first time. First impressions count, you know.”

  Chelsea laughed.

  “No rude comments about silly T-shirts, please,” Johnny continued. “Look, I’ve got to run. You know I’d love to talk to you more. …”

  “Go,” Chelsea told him. “And call me if you think you’ll be done sooner.”

  “Oh, I will.” He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was huskier than usual. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Bye, John.” Chelsea hung up the phone and looked at her watch: 2:30. Eight more hours. She rolled her eyes in exasperation.

  God, would this day never end?

  There was a pair of boxer shorts hanging from the back of one of Johnny’s dining-room chairs. He scooped it up as he breezed past on his way upstairs, taking off his shirt and kicking off his shoes and pants as he went.

  He took the quickest shower in the history of Western civilization and vacuumed the living-room rug as he dried himself off.