Stand-in Groom

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Johnny tried to smile pleasantly despite the rude tone of Mr. Spencer’s voice. He could understand how a father might be a little bit upset to find out his daughter had married a man who was a complete stranger to her family. “Actually, we met as a result of Chelsea getting her purse snatched.”

  “Her purse …” Something flickered in Spencer’s eyes. “She never told me about that.”

  “I’m sure most children don’t tell their parents about a lot of things.”

  “And she met you when?”

  “No, I wasn’t the one who mugged her,” Johnny said, his words only half-joking. “I got her purse back for her and helped her get cleaned up.”

  “So naturally, in gratitude, she married you.”

  Johnny laughed. “Hey, that’s a good one, Mr. S.”

  “I wasn’t joking.”

  Johnny gave up trying to play nice. He lowered his voice and stepped closer to the older man. “Look, the fact is, I’m married to your daughter. I like being married to your daughter, and I intend to treat her really well, so you don’t have to—”

  “The fact is,” Howard Spencer interrupted, “Chelsea married you solely to acquire her inheritance. I applaud her ingenuity but question her choice of … business partners. I’m just warning you, in one year, when this farce of a marriage is over, you will take whatever deal she’s made with you and quietly slink back to whatever hole you came out of. If you don’t attempt to stay married to her, or to contest the divorce in any way, I’ll triple whatever payment she gives you. And I’m prepared to make you that offer in writing.”

  Triple. Just like that, one truckload of money could become three. But what good would three truckloads of money be without Chelsea to share it with him?

  “You know where to reach me when you decide to take the money,” Mr. Spencer said with smug certainty, then walked away.

  Johnny’s heart was pounding and his mouth was dry. God, what he would have given to deck that guy. Just one punch, that’s all he wanted. Of course, that guy was his father-in-law, and in most circles, decking your father-in-law was considered bad form. But, damn, he wanted to. He’d also wanted to shout that if in a year Chelsea wanted him to stick around, dammit, he was going to stick around, and there was no amount of money in all the world that would convince him to do otherwise.

  He grabbed a glass of champagne off a tray as a server went past, then turned to look for Chelsea.

  He found her almost instantly. She was standing out on the sundeck, leaning against the railing, sipping a sparkling water and talking to Benton Scott.

  “They look good together, don’t they?”

  Johnny glanced up to see Chelsea’s brother Troy standing next to him, watching his friend and his sister through the glass in the French doors. They did look good together—both slim and blond and elegant.

  “Bent told me just yesterday that he and Nicole have finally called it quits. He filed the divorce papers last week.” Troy looked questioningly at Johnny. “I’m sorry—what was your name again?”

  “It’s Johnny,” he answered flatly, then added, “Does everyone know?”

  “That you’re not Emilio? Pretty much. It’s hard to keep a secret in this family, especially one of that magnitude.” Troy laughed. “It was funny how it slipped out, actually. The real groom—I mean, the former groom—had a mutual friend who knew my brother Michael, and that friend kind of let slip the news that Emilio was getting married next month to a girl from Greece, and Michael thought, gee, that’s odd, this is the same guy who just married my little sister. Not long after that the cat was totally out of the bag.” He paused for breath. “So I hear Grandpa went overboard with the amount he left for Chelsea. What’s your share?”

  “That’s not your business,” Johnny said evenly.

  “I’ll find out sooner or later, but suit yourself.” Troy turned to look at Chelsea and Bent. “I think those two are going to end up together—you know, after she divorces you.”

  Johnny tried to stay cool despite the fact that with every beat of his heart, rage-heated blood was surging through his veins. Somehow, again, he managed to stay silent, and after a moment Troy faded away.

  As Johnny watched, Chelsea gave Bent a smile and walked toward the house. The man’s eyes followed the soft sway of her hips, and Johnny knew that if it were up to Benton Scott, he’d steal Chelsea back in a heartbeat. He swore silently. Could this situation possibly get any worse? Chelsea’s family obviously thought Johnny was beneath her, her father had tried to buy him off, and now the man whom she confessed had at one time been the love of her life was clearly interested in rekindling their romance.

  He had a sick feeling that when he got home and finally went through yesterday’s mail, he was going to find a notice of an impending IRS tax audit. The day was going that well.

  But then Chelsea spotted him, her eyes warm with pleasure. She hadn’t looked at Benton Scott that way, had she?

  But instead of coming over to him, she took a left turn as she approached, veering away from him and toward the front hallway. She glanced back over her shoulder, gesturing slightly with her head for him to follow her.

  Johnny set his glass down on a passing server’s tray and trailed slightly behind her. In the entry-way, she went quickly up a flight of thickly carpeted stairs, glancing back again to see if he was following.

  “What’s up here?” he asked, taking the stairs two at a time to catch up with her at the top landing.

  She put her finger on her lips in a gesture of silence and looked carefully down the hallway in either direction. She glanced back down the stairs, then she stepped into a dark doorway, pulling him with her and shutting the door behind him.

  Johnny laughed as she locked the door, and just like that, his unpleasant conversations with Chelsea’s father and brother were instantly worth it. Johnny literally had to hold his tongue between his teeth to keep from telling her, right then and there, how deeply he loved her.

  Because they were in the bathroom. Out of all the places they could have gone to talk privately, Chelsea had chosen this one because she knew it would make him laugh—and make him wonder if she was bold enough actually to make love to him with the party going on downstairs. He was wondering. Boy, was he wondering. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, but she pulled away.

  “My sister told me everyone knows you’re not Emilio,” she told him, “but my father hasn’t said anything to me yet.”

  “He said something to me,” Johnny told her.

  Chelsea winced, her blue eyes filled with worry. “I’m so sorry. Was it awful?”

  “It was … educational,” he said diplomatically, deciding not to tell her about her father’s offer of money. He didn’t want to talk about what was going to happen when this year was over. He didn’t want Chelsea even thinking about it until she had a real chance to see that being married to him wasn’t a threat to her independence. He didn’t want to talk about it until she’d gotten used to him being around, and maybe—please, God—even loved him a little. “But I survived intact.”

  Chelsea ran her hands up his chest and down his shoulders. “Maybe I should check, just to make sure.”

  Her touch had the power to make him crazy, so he pulled away slightly, needing to look into her eyes as he asked a question he knew he shouldn’t ask. “I saw you talking to Benton Scott. Did he tell you he’s getting divorced?”

  She gazed back at him. “He did. Apparently it’s been rather nasty. He wanted to have lunch sometime this week to talk about it.”

  Johnny felt his insides twist. He kept his face and his voice carefully neutral. “Oh?”

  “What do you think?” she asked. “Should I go?”

  Both her voice and the pure wideness of her eyes were far too innocent, and Johnny realized she had worked very hard to hide the smile that now slipped out.

  “Only if you want me to kill him,” he told her.

  Her smile turned into a laugh of disbelief. “Oh, my God,
you are jealous!”

  “I can’t help it,” he admitted. “I know your history with this guy and …” He caught her beautiful face between his hands and looked searchingly into her laughing blue eyes. “I need to hear you tell me you don’t want him anymore.”

  “I don’t want him anymore,” Chelsea said. “I stopped wanting him the first time you kissed me.” She smiled at him, bewitchingly. “I think you know what I do want, though. It has something to do with you and me and the guest bathroom during one of my parents’ parties …” Her smile turned to a grin, heat and devilment sparkling in her eyes. “I believe the expression is: Put up or shut up.”

  Pulling her into his arms, giddy with relief and desire, Johnny did both.

  “He was really jealous of Bent. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

  Moira looked at Chelsea in obvious exasperation as she poured the grounds for their morning pot of coffee into the filter. “Have you asked him how he feels? When grown-ups want to know how other grown-ups feel, they usually ask.”

  “I know how he feels. He likes me. He really likes the physical side of our relationship. But the biggest attraction for him is the money he’s going to get when the year is over.” Chelsea closed her eyes. “Sierra called to tell me that Daddy offered Johnny a huge amount of money—provided that at the end of the year he really does divorce me and disappear.”

  “And Johnny didn’t mention that to you?” Moira added water and clicked the coffeemaker on.

  “Nope.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah.”

  “In that case, okay, I can understand why you might not want to take the risk of telling him that you love him.”

  Chelsea sighed, gazing out her window at the early-morning sunshine already warming the city street. “I have a year to figure out how to make him fall in love with me.”

  “A lot can happen in a year,” Moira said reassuringly.

  “Maybe if I offer him even more money, he’ll stay,” Chelsea said morosely. “God, I can’t believe I just said that.”

  In the outer office, the bell tinkled. Someone had come in.

  “Hey, how’d they get in without buzzing?” Moira asked, frowning. The building had an outer door that locked. People coming into the offices had to be screened through an intercom before they were buzzed in.

  “The lock’s not working again,” Chelsea said. “At least it wasn’t when I came in. I already called the landlord.”

  “Are you expecting a client?” Moira asked.

  Chelsea shook her head. “No.” Her heart leaped. Maybe it was Johnny, stopping in after his Meals on Wheels rounds. It was still a little early, but maybe … Eagerly, she pushed herself out of her chair and followed Moira into the outer office.

  “Hey!” she heard Moira say in outrage. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  The man rifling through the drawers of Moira’s desk definitely wasn’t Johnny.

  He was ragged and dirty, his short hair matted against his head, his face streaked with grime as if he’d slept, facedown, in the back alley. His hands were shaking and his eyes were red and tearing. He looked up, teeth bared in a growl of anger and frustration that made him seem more animal than human, an enormous handgun tightly clenched in one trembling hand. “Where the hell is your cash register?”

  Chelsea’s heart was pounding, but she spoke calmly as she gently took hold of the waistband of Moira’s pants and slowly, an inch at a time, began backing them both away from that deadly looking gun. “We don’t keep any money here. This is an office, not a retail store. We don’t have a cash register.”

  “You’re lying,” he bit out. He needed both hands to hold the gun steady, he was shaking so badly. He turned suddenly, and fired three fast, deafening shots that shattered the front window. Chelsea couldn’t hold back a scream as Moira crumpled in a dead faint.

  “Show me where the freakin’ cash register is, or I’m going to freakin’ kill you!” the man shouted.

  ——

  Finding a big enough parking spot around the corner from Chelsea’s office, Johnny pulled the Meals on Wheels truck into it, feeling particularly triumphant. His luck had been right on all day. Even Mr. Gruber had seemed much better, upbeat and cheerful for all of Johnny’s visit.

  And now he was going to drop in on his wife, see if he couldn’t talk her into going home with him for an early lunch. Lunch, and maybe a little nonfood refreshment …

  He rounded the corner, a definite jaunt in his step, but then stopped short.

  There were three police cars and an ambulance haphazardly parked in the middle of the street, as if they’d arrived in a big hurry and skidded to a stop. Uniformed officers were crawling all over the place, going in and out of the building.

  A crowd had gathered, and someone had put out yellow crime-scene tape, keeping them back—away from the main door to the building Chelsea’s office was in.

  It was the yellow tape that did it, the yellow tape that sent Johnny’s heart into his throat and twisted his insides into a knot. He’d grown up in a part of town where he’d seen that yellow tape too often, and nine times out of ten, when that yellow tape appeared, there was a dead body or two to go with it.

  Johnny broke into a run, and as he got closer the fear that was gripping his chest tightened its grasp as he saw the entire front window of Chelsea’s outer office had been broken from the inside out. Jagged shards of glass littered the sidewalk.

  He pushed through the crowd and slipped under the yellow tape, only to come face-to-face with a cop the size of a professional wrestler. “Where do you think you’re going, pal?” the man demanded roughly.

  “My wife works in there.” Johnny pointed to the office beyond the broken window. He could barely get the words out, his throat felt so tight. “What happened? Was anyone hurt?”

  “I don’t know yet,” the cop told him, sympathy in his eyes, moving aside to let him pass. “I’m just working crowd control. All I know is gunshots were fired and someone called the ambulance.”

  Gunshots fired. Ambulance.

  Johnny took the stairs up to the door three at a time, bracing himself for the worst, preparing for the scenario that he dreaded finding—the woman he loved, her life snuffed out, lying in a pool of blood.

  For the first time since his mother had died, Johnny found himself praying.

  Several plainclothes detectives were standing and talking with several uniformed officers. But there was no sign of Chelsea—dead or alive.

  “I’m Chelsea Spencer’s husband,” he nearly shouted at one of the police officers. “Where is she? Is she all right?”

  “She’s one of the women who worked here?” the policeman asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then she’s with the paramedics,” the policeman told him, “in the back office. Someone was hurt, but I don’t know who. Junkie came in, needing a fix, went ballistic with a gun.”

  “Oh, my God.” The door to Chelsea’s office was closed, but Johnny went toward it anyway, intending to knock it down if he had to, imagining Chelsea lying there, in her office, bleeding to death while the paramedics stood nearby, unable to save her.

  But he didn’t have to knock the door down, because before he got there, it swung open.

  And Chelsea was standing there. “Johnny? I thought I heard your voice.”

  She was alive. She was whole. Unbloodied. Unhurt.

  Johnny reached for her, holding her tightly, unable to breathe, unable to hear from the rushing of the blood in his head, unable to see from the blur of tears that filled his eyes, unable to say anything but her name.

  She held him just as tightly as he lifted his head and kissed her.

  It wasn’t a kiss of desire, although there was always a spark of passion each time their lips met. It was more a kiss of affirmation, a kiss of possession, a kiss of gratitude. It was a kiss that drove home to Johnny all that he would have lost had Chelsea been killed today, and it pushed him beyond his limit.

&n
bsp; Holding tight to Chelsea, Johnny wept.

  “Johnny, my God …” He could hear the surprise in her voice.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, laughing at himself, but unable to stop the flow of tears. “God, when I saw that yellow tape, I thought …” His laughter became a sob and he kissed her again, harder this time, molding her body against his own, uncaring of who saw them kissing, and who saw him crying.

  He let her pull him into her office. Moira was there, lying on the sofa, an ice pack on her head and a paramedic sitting at her side, taking her blood pressure and pulse.

  Chelsea pushed him down into the chair behind her desk and then sat on his lap.

  Johnny took a deep breath, closing his eyes and letting his head rest against the softness of her breasts. He felt her hands in his hair, her fingers soothing. God, talk about losing it.

  When he finally opened his eyes, she was looking down at him, her expression so sweet, her eyes so tender. Yeah, he’d lost it, but she didn’t seem to mind.

  He wiped his face with his hands, took a deep breath, forced a smile and tried to joke. “Let me get this straight. You’re the one who was face-to-face with a strung-out gunman, but I’m the one who’s being comforted. What’s wrong with this picture?”

  “Excuse me, Ms. Spencer.” One of the plain-clothes cops was standing in the door and Johnny and Chelsea both looked up. “If it’s possible, we’d like to ask you some questions now.”

  “I have a few questions of my own.” Chelsea slid off Johnny’s lap. “I thought I overheard someone say you caught the man with the gun—is that true?”

  “Yes, ma’am. A suspect similar to the one you described to the 911 operator was apprehended carrying a firearm.” The police detective stepped into the room. He was an older man, slightly overweight, with thinning hair combed futilely over a bald spot. But his eyes were sharp as he gazed at them and around the room, seeming to miss no detail. “What we’d like is to get your statement, and then take you down to the station, to ID the suspect in a lineup.”

  “Will that take long?” Johnny asked.

  The detective focused a pair of cool gray eyes on Johnny. “Are you the husband?”