I Do, I Do...For Now (Harlequin Love and Laugher)

by JoAnn Ross

  If there was one thing Mitch didn’t want to do it was spend an entire evening being cross-examined by his mother. As much as he dearly loved her, Margaret Katherine Cudahy could be like a pit bull terrier with a bone. She’d want to know everything about Sasha and his courtship. And since he wasn’t prepared to tell her the unvarnished truth, Mitch decided avoiding the issue was the prudent thing to do.

  “Sorry, but I’m due back at work tomorrow. Which means I’ll be on duty until midnight Friday night.”

  “You’re returning to work so soon?” Margaret arched a chestnut brow. “I suppose I can understand your elopement,” she said in a tone that suggested just the opposite, “but surely you’re planning to take some sort of honeymoon? Something longer than a single night in Laughlin.”

  “Of course,” Mitch said quickly.

  Too quickly, he realized an instant later as his mother gave him one of those pointed looks he remembered too well from childhood: an omniscient mother stare that made a guy realize he’d never get away with a thing—no matter how old he might be.

  “But everything was so unexpected, there wasn’t time to rearrange the schedule.”

  “I suppose that makes sense.”

  “It’s true,” Mitch and Sasha said at the same time. They exchanged faint, conspiratory smiles, acknowledging that once again they were on the same wavelength. A smile that did not go unnoticed by the third member of the family.

  “Well, all the more reason for Sasha to come to dinner,” Margaret decided briskly. “You can’t leave your bride all alone so soon after the wedding, Mitchel. In fact, a wonderful idea just occurred to me.”

  Mitch realized that he was not the only liar in the Cudahy family. His mother was one of those people who never began a day without a detailed list. Although she could shift gears with the best of them in her beloved ER, it was not like her to make a suggestion off the top of her head.

  “What idea is that, Mom?”

  “Katie and I can throw Sasha a bridal shower Friday night.”

  “A shower?” Mitch and Sasha asked at the same time. Her expression displayed a lack of understanding; his revealed something close to horror.

  “It’s a party most girls get before their wedding,” Margaret explained to Sasha. “But by rushing you off to Laughlin, Mitch cheated you out of a traditional American experience. So, what time do you get off work?”

  Sasha ignored the vibrations radiating from Mitch, who she realized wanted her to reject the idea. But his mother was so nice, and it had been so long since she’d been to any kind of party, she said, “I always work until closing on Friday. Which is usually a little after ten o’clock.”

  “Fine. Fortunately, Katie’s baby is still at the age she’s able to sleep anytime, anywhere.” She walked toward the door, then turned and looked thoughtfully at Sasha. “It will be late in the evening when you finish work and I live quite a distance from the diner. Perhaps it would be more convenient for you if we have the shower here?” She looked questioningly at Mitch and Sasha, but did not wait for an answer.

  “It’s settled, then.” She rubbed her hands with satisfaction. “We’ll take care of all the preparations, dear, so all you have to do is show up. And have a good time.”

  9

  THE PHONE RANG just as his mother left the apartment. It seemed one of the crew had called in sick, Mitch told Sasha. He was needed as a replacement.

  Although she smiled and pretended to understand, she could not miss his relief at having an excuse to escape. A little afraid that he’d lied to spare her feelings, that he was really intending to visit his lover, Sasha sighed and reminded herself that she’d gone into this relationship with her eyes wide open.

  Trying to make herself useful, she decided to do the wash. Mitch had told her that he sent his laundry out, something she considered a terrible waste. “Besides,” she told herself as she gathered up the soiled clothes from the bathroom hamper and put them in the laundry bag, “if I save him money and show him how useful I can be, perhaps he will not regret his decision so much.”

  Sasha found the apartment complex laundry room without any trouble. She poured in the detergent and, following instructions, started the washing machine.

  Afraid to leave the clothes unguarded, she sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair, pleased to discover someone had left behind a glossy woman’s magazine. She picked it up and immediately became immersed in the joys of cooking for the man you love.

  It wasn’t until she realized that her feet were wet that Sasha looked up from the pages of the magazine.

  “Oh, no!”

  She jumped up, staring at the machine that was belching soapsuds. It looked like an erupting volcano spewing foamy white lava. When she opened the lid to peer inside, more suds drooled thickly over the porcelain rim, down the sides and over the floor. Slamming it shut, Sasha felt a surge of panic.

  She yanked the plug, stopping the machine in mid cycle. Then, slowly, tentatively, peeked beneath the lid again.

  “Hello?” a woman’s voice called from the door of the laundry room. “Is anyone in there?” Sasha heard the sound of high heels tapping on the vinyl floor, then a surprised gasp.

  “Good heavens,” Meredith Roberts exclaimed. “What on earth happened?”

  “I was doing a wash,” Sasha inwardly groaned at the idea of Mitch’s lover—former lover, she hoped—catching her in such an undignified situation. “I don’t understand what went wrong . . .”

  “Well, here’s your problem.” Meredith picked up the box of detergent. “It’s super-concentrated. You used too much.”

  “Oh.” Sasha’s spirits sagged. “I didn’t know.”

  Meredith shrugged shoulders clad in an expensive and very stylish fuchsia and turquoise silk jacket. “I imagine things are a bit different in Russia.”

  “How do you know I’m Russian?”

  “Well, even if Mitch hadn’t told me all about you, your accent is a sure giveaway. You sound just like Natasha.”

  It was the same thing Ben Houston had told her. “That’s a cartoon, right?”

  “A very good one,” Meredith agreed. “Although I’m not certain you’d find it all that flattering. I’m Meredith Roberts, by the way.”

  “I know. I’ve seen you on television. And in the diner.”

  “After the fire,” Meredith agreed. “I remember wanting to interview you, but the owner didn’t want the negative publicity.”

  “She was trying to protect me. Since I’m the one who started the fire.”

  “I got the impression that’s what she was doing.” Meredith surprised Sasha by taking off her pumps and stockings and wading barefoot through the suds. “Let’s get your wash into another machine to finish it,” she suggested. “Then I’d like to talk with you for a while.”

  Worried that Meredith was going to demand her right to Mitch’s attention, Sasha didn’t answer, but watched unhappily as the chic woman opened the washer.

  “Uh-oh”

  “What now?”

  “I don’t recall Mitch owning pink underwear.”

  Sasba viewed the bright pink cotton briefs Meredith was holding up—briefs that had been white when she’d put them into the washer—then groaned as she sank down onto the chair again.

  “I must have accidently mixed my red blouse in with the whites. Mitch will be furious.”

  “It’s no big deal.” Meredith sat down beside her. “Just buy him some more. He’ll never know.”

  “I do not want to lie to my husband. A marriage should be based on honesty.”

  Meredith gave her a puzzled look. “Mitch told me this marriage was a green card scam.”

  “Mitch has talked with you? About our marriage?”

  “Of course. He came by my place to explain the situation the day you two got back from your little trip to Laughlin.” When she realized that her words seemed to cause Sasha even more misery, she sighed. “Oh, hell.” She gave Sasha a long look. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?
”

  Sasha opened her mouth to lie, but she couldn’t. Not about this. “Yes,” she admitted.

  “Well.” Meredith reached into her purse, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and, ignoring the No Smoking sign on the wall, lit up. “Imagine that.”

  Since she had no answer to that enigmatic statement, Sasha said nothing.

  “You know, that explains a lot,” Meredith said finally.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He seemed edgy after your elopement.”

  “I imagine it was difficult for him. Explaining why he hadn’t told you his plans ahead of time.”

  “Mitch and I never had any claims on one another,” Meredith assured her. “I was surprised, but not particularly upset. Although he seemed to be.”

  Sasha had to ask. “Perhaps he loves you?”

  Meredith laughed at that. “Honey, what Mitch and I shared had absolutely nothing to do with love.” Realizing what she’d said, and to whom, her grin was replaced by a frown. “I’m sorry. I was out of line.”

  “No.” It was Sasha’s turn to smile. “To be truthful, I’m relieved to hear that the relationship between you and Mitch wasn’t serious.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean his relationship with me is.”

  Meredith exhaled a long stream of blue smoke. “I wouldn’t bet on that.”

  “I am not the kind of wife a man like Mitch needs.”

  The newswoman lifted a brow. “And what kind is that?”

  “A woman who knows how to cook his meals. A woman who would not turn his underwear pink.”

  This time Meredith’s laugh was loud and long. “Sweetheart,” she said, tossing the word off with the same casualness Mitch was accustomed to using, “the domestic goddess route of catching a husband went out of style the day men discovered sex.”

  She stubbed out the cigarette in a foam cup left behind by an earlier visitor to the laundry room, crossed her legs, and said, “Let’s talk about your search for your father. There’s no telling how much help some free publicity might be. Then we can discuss ways to save your marriage.”

  If anyone had told her she’d been seeking romance advice from her husband’s lover, Sasha would have said they were crazy. Yet somehow it seemed strangely right.

  Reminding herself that her marriage had been unconventional from the start, she sat back in the chair, ignored the melting soapsuds and began to talk.

  “YOU KNOW, HONEY, you didn’t have to come into work today,” Glory said when Sasha arrived at the diner that afternoon.

  “I’m grateful to have something to occupy my mind.”

  “Having second thoughts, are you?”

  Sasha thought about her father; about how far she’d already come; about how she refused to return to Russia without at least having met this man who’d contributed half of everything she was. And so much of what her children someday would be.

  “Mitch was right. Marriage was the only practical solution to my problem.”

  “It’s not going to be easy,” the older woman warned.

  “Convincing Mr. Donald O. Potter that our marriage is real?”

  “No.” Glory’s eyes warmed with sympathy. “Convincing yourself that it isn’t.”

  As usual, Glory was right.

  Trusting her friend’s judgment, Sasha showed the cook a recipe from the laundry room magazine and explained her plan to win him over with gourmet fare.

  “I don’t know,” Glory muttered as she studied the instructions for flambéing chicken breasts with warmed apricot brandy. “Mitch has always been pretty much a steak-and-potatoes man from what I can tell.”

  “But this dinner looked very good in the pictures.”

  “I’m sure it did. But in case you’ve forgotten, honey, you weren’t exactly born with a white thumb. Last time you tried frying a few pieces of bacon, you managed to set my kitchen on fire.”

  “There isn’t any bacon in this recipe.”

  “Well, that may be, but believe me, Sasha, a woman with all you’ve got going for you doesn’t have to worry about slaving away in the kitchen. Not when your husband would rather have you in the bedroom.”

  Sasha blushed as her friend and employer unknowingly echoed Meredith Roberts’s words. “That is too easy, for Mitch. He doesn’t have any trouble getting women into his bed. I want to show him I have more to offer.”

  “I’m still not sure it’s a good plan,” Glory said worriedly. “How about I help out and cook it for you?”

  “That would be cheating. I want to do it myself.”

  Glory shook her head. “Since it doesn’t look as if I can change your mind, why don’t you go on home right now? Then you can surprise Mitch with your fancy dinner at the station.”

  “But you need me for the dinner shift.”

  “No problem. You know my niece Amber?”

  “The one who was in here last week to talk with you? The pretty one who just graduated from high school?”

  “That’s her. She’s putting herself through college and can always use a few extra bucks. I’ll call and have her come down to fill in for you.” The older woman gave Sasha a hug. “Now, scoot.”

  Sasha returned to the apartment loaded down with plastic grocery bags. Although her shallots and mushrooms did not end up possessing the same geometric perfection as the magazine photographs, Sasha was relieved when she managed to get them cut into pieces without slicing off a finger.

  She browned them in the extra-virgin olive oil, as instructed, keeping the heat turned low.

  So far, so good.

  She was transferring the mushrooms and shallots from the frying pan to a plate for safekeeping, when the mixture, helped along by its oil coating, slid off the plate onto the floor.

  “Damn.” Sasha cursed first in Russian, then English.

  Glancing around, as if looking for spies, she picked up the spilled pieces and put them back on the plate. After all, the floor was clean. And she didn’t want to return to the store where she would be faced with another dizzying array of American consumer goods.

  Although her boned chicken breasts did not look anything like the perfect, almost heart-shaped ones depicted in the magazine, she managed to cook them to a lovely golden brown shade without any further problems. Meanwhile, she had the brandy warming in a saucepan on a nearby burner, just as instructed.

  After returning the mushrooms and shallots to the copper-bottomed frying pan, she poured the heated apricot brandy over the mixture, struck a match and lit it.

  There was a roar, sounding like a rushing wind, and an explosion. Sasha cried out as blue flames shot up to the ceiling, engulfing the frying pan and its carefully prepared contents.

  MITCH WAS IN the station exercise room, punching the lights out of the canvas weight bag he imagined as Donald O. Potter’s face when the shrill sound of the alarm shattered the lazy afternoon silence.

  As the familiar adrenaline shot through him, he yanked off the padded leather gloves and raced toward the truck, pulling on his protective gear as he ran.

  Emergency lights flashing, the truck tore through the streets, dodging traffic, slowing at intersections, picking up speed to career around corners. Despite the seriousness of his work, riding on the back of the truck, leaning into the curves, the siren blaring in his ears, was a high that always left Mitch grinning.

  By the time the red truck pulled up in front of his apartment building, Mitch was no longer smiling. When be realized that the smoke was pouring out the window of his apartment, his blood chilled.

  “Dammit!” he shouted to Jake as he jumped down from the truck. “Sasha could be in there!”

  Before anyone could remind him that he was going against procedure, he ran up the outside stairs, his heart pounding in his throat, terrified at what horror might await him.

  Whatever he’d been expecting, it was definitely not what he found.

  Sasha was standing in the middle of the small kitchen. Everything around her—the cupboards, the countertops, the fl
oor, as well as herself—was covered with foam. The ceiling was charred, though most of the smoke had dissipated. She was frozen, like a marble statue, the large red fire extinguisher still held out in front of her like a shield.

  “Sasha?” Lingering fear made his voice little more than a croak. “What the hell happened here?”

  “Mitch?” She turned toward him, her face as white as the foam, her wide brown eyes dominating her pale face. “Oh, Mitch!”

  Relieved to see him, looking wonderfully like that glorious hero she’d first fallen in love with, Sasha dropped the extinguisher and burled herself into his arms.

  “I was s-so frightened! It happened so fast. One minute everything was fine, then the next minute, wh-whoosh! And then the room filled up with smoke and the smoke d-detector started blaring and I didn’t know what to do, so I called 911, because I was afraid I was going to b-burn down the building.

  “But then I remembered the fire extinguisher beneath the sink and I tried to spray it on the pan, but it was very hard to hold steady with all that foam spraying out of it, and now I’ve made the most horrible mess of your lovely clean kitchen!” She finished on a wail.

  If she hadn’t been so damn upset, Mitch would have laughed. He rubbed away some dissolving foam so he could press his lips against her temple. “You know, sweetheart, we really have to stop meeting like this.”

  In answer, she wrapped her arms around him tighter and buried her face in his heavy coat. From the way her shoulders were shaking, and the strangled sounds she was making, Mitch realized that his words, which had been meant as a joke, had instead made her cry.

  “Honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” He ran his hand, which suddenly felt too large and clumsy, down her foam-slick hair in an ineffectual attempt to soothe.

  “Please don’t cry,” he begged as he felt her hitch in another of those deep, shuddering breaths. “It’s going to be all right. I promise.”

  “Oh, Mitch.” She lifted her face, which was streaked with soot and tears. “I truly am sorry.” Her words dissolved on a breathless little giggle that amazed him. “I was trying to cook a dinner to bring to you. But instead my dinner brought you to me!”