The Marriage Merger

by Leiber, Vivian

  “What about those women at Olivia’s shower?” Sam asked. “They knew I had broken up with Melissa. They’ve got to know that we haven’t been engaged all this time. And if Rex ever compares notes with those ladies...”

  “That’s what I was worried about, but I don’t think it’ll ever happen,” Patricia insisted. “Nobody ever met Melissa except me. And I only did because my office is two doors down from yours.”

  “And because she once gave you her car keys and told you to go out to the parking lot and start her air-conditioning because the heat would ruin her hair.”

  “Now I remember.”

  “I’ve always assumed that your ignorance about how to get the air conditioner to work was intentional.”

  Patricia bit her lip.

  It wasn’t anything she’d have admitted to while he was engaged to Melissa....

  They both laughed at the memory.

  “Point is, no one knows Melissa by sight,” Patricia continued. “They only know that a woman named Melissa existed. That she was listed as your guest for the party and now she’s not.”

  “That’s bad enough.”

  “I’ve been giving this some thought this afternoon. I have a plan.”

  “Your plans are always good.”

  “All you have to do is say Melissa was a code name for me. So when the office gossips heard you talking about going out with Melissa, you were actually talking about me.”

  “Good idea. Thank God her family was so opposed to her marrying me that they never officially announced the engagement. Otherwise, our pictures would have ended up in the society page and Mildred Van Hess would know.”

  “Why would Rex’s assistant know about the Stanhope family?”

  “She reads the society page every day,” Sam said. “Whenever I go into Rex’s office, she has some new tidbit about which Hollywood starlet is buying a condo in Phoenix and which business leader is getting married. I never talked about Melissa with her—now I’m glad I didn’t.”

  “But she would know the Stanhope name?”

  “Absolutely. On any Monday morning, she’ll be able to tell you which of the best Phoenix families had a good weekend and which ones didn’t.”

  “Then I guess it is good Melissa’s family wouldn’t officially announce the engagement. Why didn’t they?”

  “Because they thought I was social climbing.”

  “You’re just as good as Melissa!” Patricia cried out indignantly. She ducked her head as a woman seated at the next table stared blankly.

  “Patricia, I grew up in a shack made out of corrugated steel and two-by-fours,” he said gently, although the tension in his face made it clear that the memory of his early years strung. “My mother considered it a move up when we got a trailer. My father ran off when I was little and my mother died when I was eleven. I started with nothing and the Stanhope family was always concerned that I’d end up with nothing. Or worse, that they’d have to bail Melissa out of a disastrous marriage.”

  She felt his anger and humiliation radiate at the memory.

  “You’re better than them.”

  “You’re a good friend to think so. And you’re already a better fiancée than Melissa.”

  Friend. Fiancée. Friend. Fiancée.

  He had no idea how the words affected her. And how she was going to change how he felt about those words... and about her!

  The busboy cleared away their plates just as the waiter rolled a butler’s tray to their table.

  “Enjoy your dinner,” he said, as he proudly presented their plates.

  “So tomorrow let’s take the afternoon off,” Sam said, cutting into his steak. “We’ll find you a dress for the party. And you said you wanted a haircut? How ’bout a manicure, too?”

  Patricia looked down at her bitten-to-the-quick nails.

  “I don’t think it would do much good. But I’d better do it—because these don’t look so good.”

  “Oh, Patricia, you have no idea how nice you are,” he said, tousling her hair. He didn’t notice how she winced at the word nice. “But if this stuff will make you more comfortable in your role as my fiancée, I want you to do it. My treat. Unless you have a regular salon you use, I’ll call Gascon tonight and tell him to fit you in tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Gascon?”

  “He owns Gascon Salon, the best in Phoenix. He’s usually booked months in advance, but he grew up in my neighborhood. We played basketball together. He’ll fit you in. We’ll go right after lunch. We just have to finish reviewing those files, don’t we?”

  “Yes. There’s only about ten to go.”

  Within minutes, they were hotly debating the merits of the many college students who hoped to work for Barrington Corporation when they graduated.

  The busy valet was grateful when Patricia said she’d just as soon get her own car as wait in line. Escorting Patricia to her car, Sam was aware of how Patricia walked just slightly ahead of him and kept a distance between them that was comfortable for a long-standing friendship.

  Buddy distance, but not intimate.

  A couple walking nearby put their arms around each other. The woman’s head rested on her man’s shoulder.

  “Patricia, we’ve got one other problem.”

  She produced her key chain from the bottom of her purse and struggled to slip her car key back onto it.

  “What problem?”

  “I know we said no sex. But we have to be able to...touch.”

  She looked as startled as if he had announced they were going to suck each other’s blood. Didn’t do a lot for a man’s ego.

  “Touch... How?”

  “Well, I know we just put together that seminar for the managers about how they shouldn’t put their arms around their staff or make comments about their appearance or in any way suggest...”

  “That’s sexual harassment.”

  “Well, I’m always watching myself to make sure I don’t cross over any lines of professional behavior.”

  “You never do.”

  “But I just realized this isn’t going to work unless I can dip over that line a little bit—at least at the party.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “All I’m talking about is holding hands or putting my arm around you,” Sam continued. Gee, the look on her face was enough to make any man feel unsure of himself. “Maybe even a kiss. It won’t be terrible, I promise.”

  He couldn’t make out her features—she turned away from the glare of the streetlight just as he thought he saw a blush emerge on her cheeks.

  “I suppose it won’t be as bad as dissecting frogs in eighth-grade science.”

  “Thanks, Patricia.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “How did Belmondo hold your hand?”

  She looked at him blankly.

  “Belmondo?”

  “The skiing instructor.”

  “Oh, yeah! I forgot who he was for a moment.” Sam wondered if there were so many men in her life that she couldn’t remember them all...perhaps her freckle-faced innocence wasn’t true to herself.

  “We just... held hands like everyone else, I guess.”

  Sam took her hand, entwining his fingers through hers, careful to not squeeze too hard. Her fingers were so delicate and small. And one of her nails scraped gently against his palm.

  “Like this?” he asked.

  She kept her gaze firmly pinned on a window across the street. What could possibly be so interesting about the grocery store?

  “And what about kissing Belmondo?”

  She glared at him.

  “I would never think of...I mean, of course we did. Kissed all the time. Every opportunity we got.”

  “Could I kiss you?”

  “Now?”

  “No, I’d like to make an appointment.”

  “Okay, okay, you can kiss me.”

  “Just for practice. If we get into a situation where we need it, I don’t want to be too awkward.”

  For th
e first time in his life, he was worried about awkwardness with a woman!

  “Okay, go ahead,” she said breathlessly.

  She closed her eyes, raising her face upward.

  Sam stared.

  He didn’t know what to make of her.

  Maybe this came from having a European lover—she was used to loving more cultured than he could provide.

  He put a firm hand on her lower back and drew her to him.

  Her soft gasp made him hesitate.

  Her eyes flew open, and when she swallowed, her throat pulsed at a tiny sliver of vein visible at a fold of her collar.

  Was it even possible that she wasn’t as sophisticated as she had indicated? But no, he thought, what possible reason would she have for misleading him? Why would a woman claim to be more sexually experienced than not?

  He touched her lips with his. He had never felt such softness before, and a swift primal reaction rose up from his loins.

  He kissed her again, this time not for show or for practice or for keeping his job. No, this was for him, because something about her delicate scent or the way her lips yielded to his drove him on. He kissed her, his mouth guiding hers to open, and his tongue touched the gently serrated teeth and then the core softness of her mouth.

  And then suddenly he stopped. Withdrew. Kept one hand firmly on her back to steady her, but pulled his head back as far as his own physiology would allow.

  “Sorry,” he said, his mouth unexpectedly dry and words difficult to manage. “That was more than strictly necessary. It might take a while for me to figure out what’s right and what’s wrong. When we’re strictly colleagues, the line is pretty clearly drawn. But this is a little more murky.”

  “No, no, that’s quite all right,” she said, burying her face in his chest. “My fault. I wasn’t ready.”

  “No, if it’s anybody’s fault, it’s mine,” he said steadily. “We kissed. I liked it a little too much. That’s all. But it was just a kiss. And you know what they say.”

  She looked up, met his gaze and then laughed. “A kiss is just a kiss.”

  “Exactly. And now we’re in practice.” he said. “Or at least we won’t bump our noses into each other if we need to do it again.”

  She nodded enthusiastically.

  “This is my car,” she said, tapping her keys on the hood of a small, blue hatchback. “I should get home. I have to call our man in the Bahamas tomorrow about a new chef and they’re four hours ahead of us.”

  He didn’t want to let go of her, but he knew another moment of her in his arms...and he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from kissing her again. And again.

  She seemed unsteady, but a glance down proved the problem was merely that her right foot had slipped out of its shoe.

  “You know, your job is not at issue,” he said.

  She looked at him with an unreadable expression.

  “I know.”

  “It’s mine that’s the problem.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “If you ever wanted to back out, I’d understand”

  “I’m your friend, remember?”

  “So we’ll go out in the afternoon together. Would that still be okay?”

  “Sure,” she said, sliding into the driver’s seat. “You make the appointment with Gascon.”

  “Uh, Patricia,” he said, hanging on to the door.

  “Thank you. Again. Thank you.”

  She nodded. He closed the door. Without another glance at him, she drove away.

  Sam stared after her car for a long time after it disappeared down 24th Street.

  “Get your car, sir?” A valet approached.

  “No, no, that’s all right,” he said. “I’ll find it myself.”

  What did she want from him? On the way to his home on the outskirts of the city, he kept asking the question. He concentrated so hard, he forgot his exit on the highway and had to double back.

  He had always thought of Patricia as a relative innocent, maybe a little spinsterish—although he’d never admit to such a politically incorrect term—and a tad prim for his tastes. Over the past six months he’d certainly developed a certain protectiveness towards her. As if she were the younger sister he never had.

  Yes, he thought of her as a sister—affection and lighthearted fun suffusing their relationship.

  He had certainly never regarded her as complicated or mysterious.

  But now he wondered if under those stiffly starched blouses and dress-for-success suits there lurked a woman of experience, culture and sophistication he could hardly imagine.

  And his hard scrabble life had made him leery of asking for favors. What did she want from him? What did she want in return for participating in this crazy charade? Money, a promotion, a job transfer?

  Whatever it was, Sam vowed he’d give it to her.

  Chapter Six

  Patricia opened the copy of Vogue and turned to the page she had marked with a folded corner.

  “That’s what I want. Not the body piercing, but everything else.”

  Sitting across from her at his gilt consulting table, Gascon sniffed and then shook his head.

  “She has no eyebrows,” he said. “That might look good on the runway, but not in real life. I’ve heard she had them removed permanently.”

  “Yuck! All right, there’s another one,” Patricia said, flipping to another page. She had picked up the Vogue at the convenience store after dinner with Sam and given herself a crash course in chic. “I want to look like her. But not with the black lipstick.”

  Gascon turned the magazine around and studied the model. His pencil-thin lips twitched disapprovingly.

  “Too severe,” he said. “Fine if you want to run a maximum-security prison, but not suitable for...Sam’s woman.”

  “Then, well, what would you suggest?” Patricia asked, sure that her face had turned the same shade of pink as the wallpaper in the salon.

  “Do you trust me?”

  Patricia studied Gascon. The whippet-thin owner had enthusiastically greeted her in the lobby, escorting her to his office for what he called “face time.” From the way other women stared as they walked through the salon, face time was a rare and precious commodity.

  “You’re Sam’s friend,” Patricia pleaded. “What does he want a woman to look like?”

  “Yes. I am Sam’s friend. We grew up very poor, so poor that a man as successful as Sam could be forgiven for forgetting me. But he’s not like that—he loaned me the money to open this shop. I will always be grateful.”

  “Would you make me beautiful...for him?”

  Gascon smiled.

  “I cannot make you beautiful, Patricia. God has already done his job. I do my job—I give you a little ooomph!”

  Ooomph! sounded like something Sam liked in a woman.

  Three hours later, Gascon unlocked the door of the salon to let Sam in. Sam had just come from the office and wore khakis, a navy blue polo shirt, and his blazer was slung over his shoulder.

  “Hey, man, how’s it going?” Sam asked, and the two men embraced. “Sorry I’m late. Is Maria going to be upset?”

  “Perhaps. It’s mah-jongg night and I’m supposed to take care of the kids.”

  “Give her my apologies. I’ll just take Patricia,” Sam said. He did a double take at the long cool drink of blonde who approached from the end of the salon. He pulled off his aviator frames and blinked against the shimmering apparition. “Who’s the dame?”

  The blonde’s do was an elaborate upsweep with tendrils softening her high cheekbones. She wore a desert rose silk dress with a thigh-high slit that revealed and concealed at every step. Sam’s mouth fell open. Could this head-turning, earth-quaking, double-wolf-whistle-worth, traffic-stopping woman possibly be...

  “Patricia?”

  “You don’t have to act as if it’s such a shock,” Gascon advised quietly.

  But it was. He had never seen her looking this way. And yet, the first thought that came to him was that this P
atricia could have any man she wanted—certainly didn’t have to spend her Friday night helping him on his quest to assuage Rex’s worries about his personal life.

  “Sam? Are you all right?” Patricia asked.

  “I’m just blown away.”

  She smiled, the kind of smile he liked in her, the kind that made her freckles go pop! with color.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.”

  “By me?”

  “Oh, yes by you.”

  “By me,” she repeated in wonder.

  “Enough,” Gascon said, breaking up the ensuing silence. “Out of here, you two. My wife will kill me if I make her late for mah-jongg.”

  “Thank you, Gascon,” Patricia said.

  “My pleasure,” Gascon replied, kissing her hand. “Oh, nice diamond. Glad to see it on your hand instead of on Melissa’s. Now remember, no more of that nail biting. You’ll ruin my manicurist’s hard work and she’ll be heartbroken.”

  “I promise.”

  “And here,” Gascon said, holding up a plastic bag with a faintly disapproving sniff. “Your suit.”

  Sam grabbed the bag, reaching a hand in to touch the familiar and reassuring gray gabardine and white oxford blouse. He looked out onto the sidewalk, where Patricia walked out to gather more than her fair share of wolf whistles, head-turns and honking car horns. He looked in the bag. Patricia Peel was a dependable, responsible, no-nonsense co-worker who didn’t draw much attention to herself even as she got her work done. She was a living embodiment of gray gabardine suits, sensible shoes and high-collared blouses.

  At least she was when she was in the office.

  And then there was the Patricia Peel who was bringing traffic to a stop on Alejandro Street. The Patricia Peel who was provoking him to stare, openmouthed and slack-jawed. The Patricia Peel who was making him hard—as a dozen images of her in his bed...

  Whoa! Wait one minute there, buster, he thought He had never in his career had an errant thought about a colleague. He kept his personal life strictly personal. And his work life strictly...work. In fact, the friendship with Patricia was in itself an oddity, but only one that developed because he had been so darned sure that it wouldn’t grow into anything more.