Tainted

by Tess Thompson

  “You shouldn’t be so smug. It’s very bad manners.” She poked his shoulder and smiled. Why did her stomach have to flip over every time he looked into her eyes?

  The flight attendant took their dishes and returned with cookies. The plane shook. Behind them someone gasped.

  “There’s one thing I wanted to get straight,” Mary said. “When we divorce, we just agree to child support. I don’t want any of your money or your house. California is a fifty-fifty state. It won’t matter how long we’re married.” She had brought this point up to her father when he told her he was marrying Flora. That had not been their finest daughter-father moment.

  He nodded. “I’m not worried about any of that. All I care about right now is making sure you and the baby have the medical support you need. We’ll worry about the rest of it after the baby comes.”

  “All right, fine. You realize we’re starting this marriage out with you getting everything you want.” She smiled. “It can’t possibly continue.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. However, there is one more thing.”

  “Now what?”

  “If everyone’s going to believe this is a real marriage, you need a dress.”

  “A dress? You mean, a wedding dress? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I brought a suit.”

  She threw up her hands. “What’s the matter with you? How did you even think of that?”

  He flashed a boyish grin. “I’m a details guy, what can I say?”

  “Well, we don’t have time to find a proper dress. Not in Vegas anyway. We’ll just look for something white or whitish.”

  “I looked it up before we left. There’s a couture shop. I made an appointment for us. Tomorrow at ten. We’ll have a nice breakfast and then head over there.”

  “You can’t just walk in and buy a gown off the rack.”

  “The clerk I spoke to—very soothing voice by the way—assured me that given your body type and height, it’s likely they have some floor samples for sale you might like. Last season’s, but I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  She stared at him, flabbergasted. “I hardly need a couture dress for a fake wedding.”

  “Only the best for my fake wife.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  He smoothed a lock of her hair away from her cheek and looked into her eyes. “I get it that this situation isn’t ideal. But we’ve always had a great time together and enjoyed each other’s company. There’s no reason to stop now. We should try and have some fun. It’s good for the baby if his mother’s experiencing joy.”

  “You don’t know that.” Her heart fluttered, lost in his eyes. She could swim in them forever.

  “Do you have evidence to the contrary?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Good, then eat your cookie. Garbanzo needs the calories.”

  Lance Mullen was a Sir Lancelot if she’d ever met one.

  Sir Lancelot and Miss. Havisham. What a pair they were.

  Chapter Three

  Lance

  * * *

  EXHIBIT G WAS turning into much more than a two-sentence entry under the definition of the Lance Syndrome. He’d taken his insanity to a whole new level.

  He had a plan. Simple and straightforward. Marry Mary Hansen. Charm her into falling in love with me. Have a beautiful baby. Live happily ever after.

  At first, her news had stunned him into paralysis. To be clear, he would have insisted they marry regardless of his feelings. She needed his medical insurance. Marriage was a totally reasonable and practical solution. The part where it slipped into possible irrationality was his intention to wear down her defenses until she trusted him. Which, if that happened, he felt sure she would realize how perfect they were together. She would be trapped in his house, so to speak, and perhaps would see that her affection for him was bigger than just friendship.

  She’d said once that he was her best friend. That was the foundation of every good marriage. Not to mention how they’d burned a hole through the atmosphere the night they’d spent together.

  This pregnancy was a sign. Mary was the woman he wanted and needed. He needed only for her to see it too. And, most importantly, to prove to her that he was loyal. Cheating on her would be the last thing he would ever do. Since he met her, he’d barely looked at another woman. Last night he’d told Missy, the woman he’d dated a few times, he wasn’t interested in pursuing anything further. Sadly, he’d told her, he was stuck on someone else and it wasn’t fair to lead her on. She’d thanked him for his honesty, finished her wine, and quite civilly walked out of his house.

  That was before he knew Mary was pregnant—before he had any hope that fate might connect them in this phenomenal way. The game had changed. He had a chance now.

  A married man did not betray his wife. He cherished her and protected her. He shielded her from harm. Mullen men did not need to fuel their egos through conquests, especially when they were blessed with an exceptional woman by their side. The strength of a man was measured by faithfulness and the ability to remain a steady and loving companion through the ups and downs of marriage. He was that man.

  They checked into the hotel a little after eight that evening. He’d asked for a room with two beds, but all they had available was a honeymoon suite. The irony. Mary found the room equally amusing, but he could tell she was worried about the cost. The moment they walked into the suite, she wrapped her arms around her waist like she did when she was nervous. “How much is this a night?”

  He mumbled not to worry about it. His bookish girl had no idea how much he was worth. Of all the intimate details they’d shared about their lives, he’d kept that detail to himself. He wasn’t sure why, other than it felt tacky to mention it to a woman who so obviously cared nothing about money, other than it allowed her to buy books. Anyway, he didn’t like to talk about money. His mother had taught him it was gauche.

  “I want to pay half,” she said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “But Lance, this isn’t right.” She rummaged through her bag. “I’ll write you a check.”

  “No way. Not happening.”

  Uncharacteristically, she gave up, leaving the room to use the restroom with a worried furrow etched across her forehead. He would erase that furrow. Give him time. He would. Money was not something she would ever have to worry about if she were married to him.

  Although his brother had helped, he’d earned every penny of his fortune through blood, sweat, and tears.

  Lance had spent five years living in a studio apartment in Brooklyn, eating pasta for dinner and spending money only on clothes for work and an occasional trip home to see his family. Everything else he’d put in the bank until he felt the market was right to invest. He’d studied high risk companies for years. After he’d identified six high-tech stocks he’d felt were outliers, not fully understood or evaluated accurately by the market, which made the shares cheap, he’d made his move. At the same time, he’d asked Brody, Kyle, and Honor if they had any play money they wouldn’t mind losing. He’d told them it was risky—they were likely to end up with none of it back. Also, he’d added, it might take years, so only send what you can afford to lose. They knew his instincts were uncanny. Brody said Lance had a sixth sense about stocks, despite the conventional wisdom of the market, and wrote a fat check. Worth the risk, Kyle had said. Even though he’d had the money set aside for a boat. Who needs a boat, Lance had told him. Just get a friend with a boat.

  Brody wouldn’t have agreed unless Lance had agreed to take fifty percent of whatever he’d earned from his initial investment. “Your fee,” he’d said. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d never know about any of this.” He’d made Lance sign a legal document agreeing to the terms. Brody had also given him a separate amount for Honor. Brody and Lance didn’t tell her. If they made money, great, she’d be set for retirement. If not, she never had to know.

  It took four years, but Lance had been right. All but one skyrocketed, as he’d sus
pected they would. Like his brother knew where to throw the football, he had an instinct for the stock market. It was like an old man who could always tell you when it was going to rain. He’d sold them when his instincts had told him the stocks couldn’t grow higher and in fact might tumble. He’d made Kyle enough to buy a hundred boats and Honor’s sacrifice—her shoe budget for a year—could buy more pairs of shoes than she could ever wear. Brody’s investment had become many, many millions. The account Brody had set up for Honor for her retirement had made so much that Lance talked Brody into dividing the money. Half had been placed in a retirement fund; the other half he continued to manage for Honor without her knowledge. She had no idea either account existed. Brody had planned on telling her about the account next Christmas, but now that he’d been forced into retirement, his need for a manager would soon be over. A four-million-dollar severance package should suffice.

  After managing his own initial windfall, Lance had subsequently tweaked his portfolio until he was now worth millions. He was rich. Like the stocks he invested in, he was a sleeper. His wife would never have to worry.

  However, after her declaration about making sure he gave her no financial support other than for the baby, his gut told him to keep quiet. There was no time for a prenuptial agreement. Not that he needed one. Mary wasn’t the type to take advantage of him. Maybe it wouldn’t matter. Perhaps she would soon be in love with him and they could have a real marriage.

  She came out of the bathroom wearing the hotel robe. Her hair was wet, and her face scrubbed of makeup. “I needed a shower in the worst way. The hot water felt good.”

  “What would you like from room service?” It was after eight and he imagined she was hungry. They hadn’t eaten since lunch on the plane. Looking at her closely, she seemed a little pale.

  “Room service? It’s so expensive,” she said.

  “Not here.”

  “You’re a liar,” she said, laughing. “Maybe a salad?”

  He called down to room service, ordering a steak and a Cobb salad. When he finished, she was on the couch with her arm over her eyes. “You okay?”

  “I’m just so tired.” She said with her arm still over her eyes.

  “Stay awake for some food and then I’ll put you to bed.”

  “You’re going to be such a good father,” she said under her breath.

  He instructed her to rest while he did a few tasks on his computer. For one, he wanted to order a few e-books on pregnancy. He needed to know what to watch out for, especially given her health concerns. The moment they got home and announced their marriage, he would ask Jackson or his dad, “Doc,” to find them the best OB-GYN in San Francisco.

  Mary snoozed on the couch while he read the first chapter of the pregnancy book. He flipped through the pages, growing more and more amazed. A woman’s body could produce a miracle.

  When room service came, he had them set the food up on the table. After Lance took the cloches off the plates, the aroma of grilled steak filled the room. Mary sat up and sniffed. “That smells so good.” She ambled over to the table and stared down at the steak. “My mouth’s watering.”

  “You have it,” he said.

  “I’m craving red meat, I guess.”

  He grabbed the salad and dug in before she could change her mind.

  “Did you know you’re supposed to be taking prenatal vitamins?” he asked.

  “I got some at the drugstore.”

  “Good. I was worried when I read that in the book.”

  “You have a book?”

  “While you were sleeping, I ordered that what to expect book.”

  “That’s a good one.” She smiled but her eyes were gloomy. What troubled her? The baby? Him? The future?

  He returned her smile and set a piece of avocado on her plate. “Eat that. It’s the good kind of fat.”

  She did so, but not without an affectionate smirk. Whether she could ever love him or trust him was immaterial. His priority was taking care of Mary and their baby. For the first time in his life, he knew his exact purpose.

  Lance sat on a posh, firm loveseat in the lobby of the wedding dress shop. Upon their arrival, Mary had disappeared into a dressing room with Layla, the shop’s owner. Layla was bone thin with an asymmetrical blond bob cut so precisely he imagined she could cut glass with the ends. Dressed in a fitted black dress and stiletto heels, she was a mixture of a private school head mistress and an editor of a fashion magazine. All of which would have made her terrifying if not for the gleam of obvious adoration for her job, the dresses, and her client.

  Although alone, he felt the presence of the half dozen headless mannequins displayed in the windows, as if they might come alive and dance around the polished floor. What else could they do but dance, dressed as they were. The room smelled of dried roses. Not unpleasant exactly, other than it reminded him of his childhood spinster neighbor, Miss Spinella. She, along with her teeth-baring, sausage-shaped dog, had been distinctly unpleasant. He shivered, remembering the way she and Sausage Dog had stared at them from her upstairs windows whenever he and Brody had played in the backyard.

  Soft jazz played from hidden speakers. Along the walls were rows of dresses in white, blush, and cream, with varying degrees of sparkle, lace, and skirt circumference. He had no idea which Mary would choose and didn’t care. His bride would look stunning in any of them. He wanted Mary to have whichever one she loved the most. He’d told Layla over the phone not to tell Mary the price of any of the dresses. She’d murmured a note of approval.

  While he waited, he searched for wedding chapels via his phone. There were a lot. I mean, yes, it was Vegas, but how would he choose? And, why were they obsessed with Elvis here? A half dozen featured something Elvis, including an impersonator who performed the ceremony.

  He called a few that seemed nice, but they had no slots. One of them recommended he call the Golden Chapel off the main strip. He did so. They answered on the first ring. Yes, they had slots. “Just come on by when you are ready. First come, first served.”

  An hour later, Mary walked out of the back with a dress carrier in her hand, presumably with the perfect dress inside, if his bride’s beaming face was any indication. “I found one. It fit like I’d ordered it myself.”

  Layla went behind the counter and typed something into the computer. “The minute I saw Mary,” she said to Lance, “I knew I had the perfect dress for her. This dress came in last month for a young lady with an almost identical figure to Mary. Sadly, she cancelled her wedding and never picked up the dress. Well, as always when it comes to finding the ideal dress, it was meant to be.”

  Layla placed a piece of thick card stock paper on the counter. “Now there’s the small matter of your bill.”

  Lance snatched the receipt before Mary had a chance to see the amount. Fortunately, the row of tiaras in a display case had diverted her attention.

  He gulped at the price. Couture was no joke. Not that the price mattered. If Mary was happy, he was happy.

  “What about a veil?” he asked. “Every bride needs a veil.”

  “Mary said she didn’t want one,” Layla said. “But perhaps a tiara?”

  “Do you want a tiara?” Lance asked.

  “The dress is enough,” she said.

  “You’re getting a tiara. Pick out which one you want,” Lance said.

  “There’s no need,” Mary said.

  “We’ll take that one.” Lance pointed to the simple one in the corner, attracted to its delicate, intricate design and shiny diamond rhinestones. Something about it looked like Mary.

  “That’s my favorite too.” Mary flashed him a shy smile and blushed. “It’s not necessary, though.”

  “Excellent. Add that to the bill, please Layla.”

  Layla, still behind the computer, nodded. “Very good, sir.”

  “Can you recommend a place for Mary to have her hair and makeup done?” Lance asked Layla.

  “Lance, I don’t need that,” Mary said.


  “Every bride should have hair and makeup,” Layla said with a firm lift of her chin. “Allow me.” She picked up the receiver of the phone on the desk and dialed. “Yes, darling, it’s me. I have a teensy-weensy favor. I have a bride in need of your services. That’s right, for this afternoon. You’ll adore her face. Exquisite bone structure. Wonderful, thank you. I’ll send them over now.”

  Layla hung up the phone and smiled, clearly pleased with herself. “My friend Anthony had a cancellation. If you hurry, he’ll get you in immediately.” She smoothed her hands down the front of her dress. “I love when serendipity plays out before my eyes.”

  He glanced over at Mary. She threw up her hands and laughed. “You’re determined to give me a wedding and you’ve done it.”

  “Never underestimate my obsession with details.” He offered his arm. “Come along. Let’s take a cab over to Anthony.”

  “I wish you a magical wedding.” Layla handed him a card. “Do text a photo if you have a chance. Mary, you’ll be the most beautiful bride in all of Vegas.”

  Of that, he had no doubt.

  Anthony was not as he’d imagined. Lance had pictured him slight and perfectly coiffed. Instead, he was a large man dressed in an old-fashioned suit, with a sleek layer of sweat on his full cheeks. Without fuss, he swept Mary into a chair. For a moment, he simply stared at her reflection in the mirror, like an art connoisseur at a gallery opening. Finally, he placed both hands in her hair and fanned it out over his arms. “It has to be up. Yes?” Anthony’s voice was low and resonant, like an opera singer on his lunch break.

  “Sure.” Mary pulled the tiara out of her purse. “And there’s this.”

  Anthony nodded in obvious approval before turning to Lance. “You, young man, have to go now. We’ll send her back to the hotel when she’s finished.”

  “Yes sir.” Without thinking, he leaned down to give Mary a kiss on the forehead. At the same moment, she tilted her head upward. Lips landed on lips. Like magnets, they lingered for a second, then two. He must move away. Now. Yes, now. But her mouth was soft and pliant. She tasted slightly of strawberries.