WHITELAW'S WEDDING

by Beverly Barton

  She would never forget Rodney. A part of her heart would always belong to him. Except for her teenage infatuation with Hunter, Rodney had been her first love. Until they met at the hospital where he'd been an intern when her father had been a chemotherapy patient, she had gone systematically through young men as if they were disposable tissues. From the age of sixteen until she met Rodney, she had dated dozens of guys, but not one of them had been special to her. By the time young Dr. Austin came along, she was accustomed to being the center of attention. And she had to admit that she had loved being pursued by countless lovesick boys. What a silly, foolish girl she'd been.

  Falling in love with Rodney had been a good thing for her. Everyone had said so. And her entire family had not only approved her choice, but had adored Rodney as much as his mother had adored her. It had been considered an ideal match. After dating exclusively for eight months, during her senior year of college, Rodney had proposed and their families had combined efforts to plan an elaborate autumn wedding. A wedding that was supposed to be the beginning of a perfect life together.

  Although they had come close to giving in to temptation, she and Rodney had stopped their lovemaking time and again before it progressed to the final act. They had agreed that since Manda was a virgin they would wait to consummate their love on their wedding night. An old-fashioned notion for people of their generation, but Rodney had been an old-fashioned kind of guy. She supposed that was one reason Grams had thought the world of him.

  Manda had once believed that the day Rodney died was the worst day of her life. She had never known such agony. And it had been a pain that stayed with her, that was even now a part of her. Losing her father six months later, when he finally succumbed to cancer, had only added to her misery. But she hadn't know what true suffering was until someone killed Mike Farrar, a dear, kind man who had been murdered because he dared to care about her enough to ask her to marry him. Realizing that she had quite possibly been the cause of two men's deaths had almost destroyed her. If it hadn't been for Perry and Grams and the support of the other grief counselors at the clinic where she worked, she might have done something stupid. For several weeks after Mike's murder, she had been so distraught that she'd actually contemplated suicide.

  What was it about her, she wondered, that brought death to those she loved? Except for Grams and Perry, she had lost everyone who had ever been important to her. Her mother had died in childbirth, something practically unheard of at the time. And then Hunter had rejected her foolish advances and walked out of her life. He'd been the only man who'd ever broken her heart. And then she had lost Rodney, followed by her father's death and then finally Mike's murder. She could not risk ever caring about another person. Others had to be aware of the horrible truth—loving Manda put your life in danger. She supposed on a subconscious level she had steered clear of even close friendships with other women, fearing that the Manda Munroe Curse would strike again.

  For the past five years she had kept all of her relationships, with men and women alike, on a strictly casual basis. By doing this, she had held the curse at bay. But now she was planning to tempt fate by announcing to the world that in two weeks she was going to marry Hunter Whitelaw.

  * * *

  Although Perry had insisted that he be their guest at the Munroe home on North Pine Street

  , Hunter had opted to stay at his grandmother's old house out on Mulberry Lane

  . He supposed he should have sold the place after Granny died, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to sell a property that had been in his family for several generations. His grandfather had been born in this old house, and so had his great-grandfather, in the first month of the first year of the twentieth century—January 1, 1900.

  When he'd been a young idiot, Hunter had thought that what he wanted more than anything was to get away from the farm, to figure out a way to become a part of the social set to which his good buddy Perry Munroe belonged. As a young man he had been overly impressed with the fine homes on North Pine Street

  , with the sleek sports cars the rich boys drove and with the snobbish little debutantes who wouldn't give him the time of day because he was poor. Of course, there was one girl who'd been different. But at the time, Manda had been years too young for him.

  Odd that what was so important to a guy when he was twenty wasn't what mattered to him when he was forty.

  In the best of all possible worlds, he would come back home, renovate the old house and either raise cattle or rebuild the once thriving fruit orchard. Maybe he'd do both. And in that fantasy life, there was always a woman and a couple of kids living here on the farm with him. But after his experience with Selina, he hadn't found a woman he wanted to be his wife. Of course, he hadn't been looking. Actually, he'd been doing the exact opposite. He steered clear of any woman who possessed the qualities he now wanted in a mate. Loyalty. Compassion. A desire to live a simple life, to build a home and have children.

  He'd told himself more than once this past year that when he retired from the Dundee agency, he'd return to Dearborn. Maybe while he was in town on this job for Perry, he could see about hiring a contractor and getting some work done on the old place. He had enough money to turn the family farmhouse into a showplace. Once he and Manda announced their engagement, him renovating the house would create speculation among her acquaintances as to whether he would dare to bring Manda out here to live.

  Hunter laughed. After they married, maybe he should bring her here to stay for a while. She'd be miserable. The place was terribly rundown and still decorated with his grandmother's old furniture that had already seen better days when he'd been a child. No, there wasn't any need to make things worse for Manda than they already were. If the nutcase who wanted to control her life came out in the open with threats and maybe an attempt on his or Manda's life, she would have enough to deal with. But a part of him couldn't help wondering how Miss Manda would cope with life on the farm.

  Hunter poured himself a cup of coffee from the old metal percolator his granny had used as far back as he could remember. Taking his coffee mug with him, he shoved open the kitchen door and walked out onto the back porch. The sun had just begun its ascent from the eastern horizon, but already at seven o'clock in the morning, the day was warm, predicting the accuracy of the weatherman's forecast that the temperature would climb into the high eighties by midafternoon. Barefoot and bare-chested, he strolled out into the yard. Weeds infested Granny's once picture-perfect flower beds that surrounded the ramshackle old house. His feet touched the dew-laden grass as he ventured past the wire clothesline and toward the small orchard of pear trees his great-grandfather had planted decades ago.

  There was a sense of homecoming in being here, in setting foot on land that had been possessed by his ancestors for close to a hundred and fifty years. Strange how when he'd been a teenager, he had longed to get away from this place, from the daily chores that went along with being a farm kid.

  Now, he wished that Granny and Pop were still alive so that he could tell them how wrong he'd been about wanting to escape the peace and solitude of the farm to live in a big city.

  Had that been how his mother had felt when she'd run away at seventeen? Had she wanted to escape? But what she'd done was get herself pregnant. Unmarried and abandoned by her boyfriend, Tina Whitelaw had been forced to come home to her parents. Hunter had never known his father, didn't even know who the man was. No name. No description. Nothing. His mother had returned to the farm, dumped him on her parents and before his first birthday, had left again. They hadn't heard from her in years when they received a phone call ten years later telling them that she'd died from a drug overdose. She'd been living with her fourth husband in Los Angeles.

  Hunter breathed deeply, savoring the smell of the earth and the abundance of verdant life surrounding him. Had his mother realized too late that what she had run away from was far better than anything she'd ever found?

  * * *

  Manda drank her morning t
ea on the patio of the house she had purchased eight years ago, shortly after acquiring her masters of education degree in community counseling. After Rodney's death and her father's six months later, Perry had sent her and Grams on a year-long trip through Europe. After the time she spent far away from Dearborn, her mind occupied with the wonders of the world, she had returned home to Georgia with a purpose. With love, comfort and support, she had survived the deaths of two people she dearly loved. She had wanted to spend her life helping others who were lost in the hopelessness of grief, as she had been. After acquiring her degree, she'd begun work as a counselor at the Hickory Hills Clinic. That's where she'd met Boyd, who was also a counselor.

  Oxford came bounding across the yard, wagging his tail and panting madly, after retrieving his favorite red ball Manda had tossed. The black-and-white springer spaniel had been a gift from Grady Alders last year on her birthday. Oxford, whom she'd named in honor of the saddle oxfords she's worn as child because the dog's oddly striped front feet bore a striking resemblance to the shoes, had become her beloved friend and confidant. She found herself often talking to him as if he were a person. Of course, he had no idea that he wasn't. He slept at the foot of her bed on his own oversize, cedar-chips-stuffed pillow and had free reign of the house and yard. He ate table scraps along with choice cuts of meat she prepared especially for him. And she kept a supply of every dog treat product on the market, as well as an endless variety of toys. Oxford was probably one of the most pampered pets in the world, but why shouldn't she lavish her love and attention bin the animal? Unless Perry's plan worked, she would never have the chance to become a mother and give all the love in her heart to a child of her own.

  When the telephone rang, she made a mad dash into the kitchen, Oxford at her heels. Who would be calling her at seven on a Saturday morning? She lifted the receiver off the wall base.

  "Hello?"

  "Manda, dear, it's Claire. I hope I didn't waken you."

  "I've been up for a good half hour," she said. "Oxford and I were outside soaking up some of this great springtime sunshine."

  "Well, I'm calling to see if you want to go shopping this morning."

  "I hadn't planned on it, but if you'd like to go, I'll be happy to go with you."

  "I thought perhaps you'd like to buy a new dress for tonight. After all, a date with an old boyfriend is a special occasion, and you want to look just right."

  Manda smiled. Claire Austin was a clotheshorse. The woman spent a fortune on her clothes and accessories. Her bedroom boasted a closet twice the size of most bathrooms. She had at least seventy pairs of shoes, over half with matching handbags. She wasn't surprised that Claire was concerned about what she would wear on a date. It was so like Claire to care about her and to show that affection by suggesting a shopping trip.

  "The way everyone is acting, you'd think I've never had a date," Manda said. "Besides, I have more than enough clothes. I'm sure I can find something suitable for tonight."

  "Nonsense. A woman never has enough clothes. Besides, dear girl, your clothes are all dark and drab and do nothing to accentuate that marvelous figure of yours. You need something smashing," Claire insisted. "Be ready by nine-thirty and we'll go straight to the mall. I'm thinking new dress, shoes and—"

  "I'll agree to a new dress, but that's it."

  "We'll see."

  Manda sighed. She knew that Claire longed for her to be happy and that Claire worried about her lack of a love life almost as much as Perry and Grams did. Several years after Rodney's death, when Chris had begun pursuing her relentlessly, she had worried that her repeated rejections of Chris's proposals might affect her close relationship with Claire. But when she'd brought up the subject, Claire had said, "Don't be silly. Chris is my child and I love him. But he's not nearly good enough for you, dear girl. You keep looking until you find someone as worthy of you as my Rodney was."

  "I'm off to take a shower," Manda told Oxford. "Do you want to take a nap or go back outside?"

  The spaniel scratched at the back door. Manda opened the door to let him out, then turned and headed toward the bathroom. She hoped that Claire wouldn't expect her to buy something sexy and alluring for her date with Hunter. She hadn't dressed to attract male attention in twelve years, and she had no intention of changing her modest style for Hunter Whitelaw's benefit.

  * * *

  In the end she and Claire had compromised. She'd bought a simple, slightly fitted dress, with a straight skirt and short sleeves. And to pacify Claire, she had chosen a bright spring color. A brilliant blue that Claire said matched her eyes to perfection. And despite her determination not to do so, she also purchased a pair of shoes and a purse that matched the dress. She had adorned the outfit with the pearls her grandmother had given her for her eighteenth birthday.

  Hunter inspected her thoroughly when he arrived on her doorstep promptly at seven, then grinned and let out a long, low whistle. She hated herself for reacting in a purely feminine way to that appreciative wolf whistle. Despite herself, she was immensely pleased that her appearance had more than met with his approval. It shouldn't matter what Hunter thought of her. But it did.

  He took her to Dean's for dinner. Right before they arrived at the reservations-only restaurant, he'd pulled a tie from his jacket pocket and hurriedly closed the top button of his shirt and slipped the tie into place. A suit and tie wasn't Hunter's style. He was a casual kind of guy, more comfortable in khakis or jeans and shirts that didn't require ties. After they ate dinner and indulged in idle chitchat, he drove them across the Poloma River to the hottest spot in town. The Blues Club. Over the years, she had driven by the notorious club, but she'd never been inside, had never considered it a suitable place for her to go alone.

  As they entered the dark, smoky interior, Hunter kept his hand at her back, a protective gesture that she found reassuring. Loud, brash jazz colored the atmosphere with a sultry, heated sound. Red and rich. Dripping with vibrant purple and gold. The mournful wail of a saxophone wrapped around them. Trickling piano keys blended with the seductive kiss of brushes against drums.

  They found a table and Hunter ordered drinks. As her vision adjusted to the dimness, she noticed the club was crowded, overflowing with couples clinging to each other on the dance floor and single men and women at the bar. Searching. Longing. Hoping. One tune ended and another began, a soft, sad rendition of a tune called "My Romance."

  The waitress brought their drinks, a peach daiquiri for her and a beer for him. She hated beer, but liked the taste of mixed drinks, especially anything sweet. He'd guessed right when he'd ordered a daiquiri for her.

  "I've never been here," she admitted.

  "Not exactly a classy place," he said as he glanced at their surroundings. "But I figured since it's such a popular watering hole for the elite and the peons alike, this was the place to go if we wanted to be seen together."

  Don't be offended by his remark, she warned herself. You didn't actually think he brought you here for any other reason. This entire date is a staged event. If necessary, remind yourself of the fact that every moment you spend with Hunter is part of an elaborate hoax, part of a dangerous scheme to coerce a madman out into the open.

  Just as the pianist set the beat for a bluesy rendition of the old standard "One For My Baby," Hunter downed the last drops of his beer, scooted back his chair and stood. "We're more likely to be noticed on the dance floor."

  He held out his hand. She eased back her chair and stood. Why was it that some ridiculously sentimental part of her heart wished that this was a real date, wished that Hunter truly wanted to hold her in his arms and whisper sweet nothings into her ear? She took his hand and went with him, as if she longed to press her body against his and feel the beating of his heart.

  He held her close. Too close. He's pretending, she reminded herself. Just play along. It's all part of the act you two will be performing for a couple of weeks. She felt small and vulnerable next to a man so large, and yet at the same time she co
uldn't deny the pleasure of being enveloped by such raw, masculine strength. By some cruel trick of fate, she was a woman who loved men, but possessed the kiss of death for any man who dared claim her as his own.

  They moved with the music's slow, languid tempo, their bodies touching, rubbing together. She could not resist the urge to cling to him. Her arms draped his neck. She rested her head on his broad chest. He cradled her buttocks with his big hands and laid his jaw against her temple. Such an intimate act. Arousal more profound than she'd known in years surged to life within her, tightening her nipples and moistening the folds of her femininity. And regardless of the motivation for this dance, Hunter was not any more immune to the seduction than she was. His sex grew hard and pressed against her belly. The moment she realized how aroused he was, her knees went weak and she clung to him all the more.

  "Suspect to our right," Hunter whispered in her ear.

  "What?"

  "Chris Austin is dancing with some woman, only a few couples over from us. On the right. Take a look and if he sees you, smile and nod."

  She obeyed his instructions. When her gaze met Chris's, he glared at her, despite the fact that some bosomy redhead was wrapped around him. Forcing herself, she smiled and nodded. Chris nodded, but he didn't return the smile.

  "Can we go now?" Manda asked. "I think I've had about as much pretending as I can stand for one night."

  "Not yet. Suspect Number Two just walked in."

  "Who?"

  "Boyd Gipson."

  "Does he have a date?"

  "Nope. Looks like he's headed for the bar. Who knows, he might get lucky."

  "Boyd isn't the type to—"

  "All men are the type," Hunter corrected.

  "Do you want me to smile and nod to Boyd on our way out?"

  "Why don't we just stop by the bar and say hello? Then, you should look at me as if you could eat me with a spoon and suggest we go home. If you put enough emotion into it, Gipson will believe that you can't wait to get me to your house so you can jump my bones."