The Fifty-Cent Groom Read online

  Sara swung her attention to Gypsy. “Not Sonny Jackson.”

  “Well, it’s probably not the plague, but it’s something contagious and—”

  “He cannot do this to me. Not at five o’clock before a seven-thirty reception. Not this reception.”

  “Don’t take it so personally. I’m sure he isn’t any happier about it than you are. It’s no fun to be contagious, you know.”

  “He isn’t sick, Gypsy. He’s a man who has no better ambition than to amuse himself and who will never be anything other than a mediocre, middle-class bartender. He’s easily distracted and totally undisciplined. And this is the last time I’ll hire him for any kind of job.”

  Gypsy pulled the Popsicle out of her mouth with a soft, slurpy pop. “He sounded sick.”

  “I don’t doubt it, but I don’t buy it, either. I’ll call someone else.”

  “Who are you going to get this late?”

  “I don’t know. Someone. The worst-case scenario is that I’ll have to tend bar myself.” She was already reviewing a mental list of possible replacements, already moving toward the door and the employee files in the next room. “And I’m quite capable of doing that, if I have to.”

  “You’re capable of single-handedly catering the whole affair while whistling ‘Yankee Doodle’ through your nose, but that doesn’t mean—”

  Sara barely listened as she passed Gypsy in the doorway and was only vaguely aware of the cumbersome satin brushing against the gingham checks. Panic made a roller-coaster loop through her stomach, but she shut it down with steady resolve. She would get out of this dress. Somebody on her list would be available to tend the bar. Somehow the evening would turn out exactly as she had planned.

  A siren wailed in the distance as she entered the bedroom she used as an office. She moved to the desk, sharing her concentration between her two immediate problems. Lifting the phone receiver with one hand, she opened a notebook with the other and glanced at Gypsy, who had followed her as far as the doorway. “Could you try to unbutton the back of this dress while I make these calls?”

  Gypsy pulled the remaining Popsicle from the stick with her teeth, then held up her berry-red fingertips. “I’ll have to wash my hands,” she said around a mouthful of red ice. “Be right back.”

  Sara nodded and resisted the urge to say, “Hurry.” As she punched numbers on the dial pad, Gypsy waddled off down the hall, and a moment later the sound of running water came from the kitchen. On the other end of the phone line, there was the telltale click of an answering machine. Sara hung up and dialed the next number. Two busy signals and another answering machine later, the panic made a queasy return trip through her stomach. She punched in another set of numbers and waited. There had to be someone out there who needed a job, someone who would come through for her…

  The sirens were louder suddenly, and the blare of a horn indicated an emergency vehicle approaching an intersection. Holding the phone to her ear, Sara bent down and looked out the window. The residential street looked as serene as a postcard, but the siren came closer and a fire truck rumbled into view and sped around the corner. A moment later, the siren stopped…just in time for Sara to hear Gypsy’s voice rise with panic.

  “The chicken’s on fire! The chicken’s on fire!” The frantic announcement was followed almost instantaneously by the frantic slam of the kitchen door. Sara dropped the phone receiver and ran to the bathroom. She looked out the window and across the backyard just as a fireman carried a flaming pan outside and extinguished the blaze. Gypsy approached the fireman in an awkward, rolling walk, her arms waving with explanation, her head bobbing up to look at the fireman then down to look at the charred chicken.

  Gypsy had burned Kevin’s dinner…again. Sara moved away from the window and, in the stillness, heard a faint buzz. Realizing the phone was off the hook, she hurried to the office and picked up the dangling receiver. Whoever she’d called had hung up. With a muttered, “Damn,” she punched redial and waited as the phone rang and rang. Just as she was about to try the next name on the list, a muted voice answered her call.

  “Oh, uh…Clint,” she said, finding the corresponding name and number in the notebook. “Sara Gunnerson from At Your Service. I have a job for you. Tonight. No, but it pays…I understand. Yes. Certainly. No problem. Next time, then.” Slamming down the receiver provided not an ounce of satisfaction, and Sara twisted her arm behind her in another frustrating attempt to reach the annoyingly tiny buttons on the back bodice of the wedding dress. Glancing absently at the clock on her desk, she scanned the employee list again, hoping to see an overlooked name and num—

  Five fifty-five.

  With a belated surge of panic, her gaze swept to the clock. It couldn’t be that late. Gypsy had said it was only five o’clock. But the second hand ticked steadily around the face, pushing the time closer and closer to six. Sara gave up all hope of finding a replacement for Sonny Jackson. There was no time for anything except getting out of this dress and into the other one.

  She ran to her bedroom and jerked open drawers, looking for any sharp-edged instrument that might slit through the fabric loops and free her. She’d have to pay for the dress, of course, but how expensive could it be? And right now, she’d sell her birthright—if she had one—just to get out of the bridal gown and regain control of her life.

  Plans skimmed through her mind like rocks skipping across a pond, each one quickly sinking to the bottom. She could call Gypsy and beg her to come back, but she hadn’t been much help even before the chicken caught fire. She knew Jason wouldn’t return her page, even if he had remembered to take the pager with him when he stormed out.

  Her hand closed on a pair of scissors, and she withdrew them triumphantly from the drawer. And from the corner of her eye, she caught a glint in the mirror, a sparkle, a familiar twinkle.

  She almost—almost—turned to look at her reflection, but she fought the impulse, refused to give in to it. That imaginary twinkle is what had gotten her into trouble in the first place and, even if it had been her imagination, she wasn’t taking any more chances. She had assured West she’d be there. Tonight held the promise of all her tomorrows…and whimsy had no place in them.

  However, it couldn’t hurt to stay away from the mirror.

  Turning her back on temptation, she grappled with the scissors, realizing abruptly that they were as dull as a butter knife and that even if they weren’t, she couldn’t see to cut the buttons off without looking in the mirror.

  “All right,” she muttered as she dropped the scissors into the drawer. She was going to West’s party, and she was leaving now. She’d drive around the block to Gypsy’s house and get her to unbutton the dress. With any luck, the fire department would still be there dousing the final embers of flaming chicken, and if worse came to worst, maybe they could use that jaws-of-death thing to get her out of the dress.

  It wasn’t a great plan, but it was the only one she could think of.

  Slipping into her patent leather heels, she scooped up the black dress with one hand and her briefcase with the other and ran, as fast as the heavy satin skirt would allow, down the hall to the living room. Gathering up the skirt to keep it from dragging, she reached for the knob, jerked open the door and ran straight into a stranger’s arms.

  Chapter Two

  Ben Northcross compared the numbers painted on the curb to the address written on the back of the Starz Laundry receipt. He’d expected an office building of one kind or another, and this dignified residential neighborhood was a surprise. The scatterbrained clerk at the dry cleaners had probably given him the wrong address. Considering that same clerk had erroneously handed over a million-dollar wedding dress to some pickup and delivery service, Ben figured the odds were better than even that whoever lived in this well-tended, modest home had never heard of the Starz Laundry and Dry Cleaners, much less of a company called At Your Service.

  He positioned the kickstand, swung off the Harley with a single, practiced move and eyed
the black Labrador retriever who sat, queenlike, in the sidecar. “Somewhere in this neighborhood is a kid who needs a dog, Cleo. I can just feel it. This is your chance to find a new home.”

  She looked at him, as she always did, with complete disdain and stayed where she was. He palmed his key ring, tossed it lightly in the air before catching it and slipping it into his pocket. “Suit yourself. You’re going to have to share the sidecar with a wedding dress for the rest of the trip, but if it makes no difference to you, it certainly won’t bother me.”

  Rising gracefully, the Lab hopped out of the sidecar and shook herself from nose to tail, conveying with unspoken eloquence that she would do exactly as she pleased. They had been together now for a little more than a year and she had yet to do anything he asked…like run away from home or pretend she liked him when he had company. Whoever had declared dogs to be man’s best friend hadn’t met Cleo. Her tolerance for him was only slightly less than his for her, but they were stuck with each other, and both of them knew it.

  Placing his helmet on the seat, Ben looked at the house again, almost certain this would prove to be a wasted trip. He should have let the dry cleaners retrieve the dress and deliver it to him while he relaxed at some posh hotel. But the clerk had been so flustered, he had thought it would be quicker and easier just to get it himself. He walked around the motorcycle, stepped over the curb and onto the sidewalk.

  Cleo trailed him indifferently as he approached the wide front porch, but he ignored her and wished with every step that he had never agreed to Pop’s request to detour through Kansas City and fetch the wedding gown. Heaven knew, his sister Gentry had begged him not to. But Ben had learned by experience to avoid the middle of any battleground occupied by his tempestuous sister and their muleheaded father. He’d deliver the dress and let the two of them slug it out from there. At least, he would if he was at the right address. On second thought, maybe he ought to hope this was the wrong address.

  He mounted the front steps and admired the wide and welcoming veranda. The porch swing beckoned, and he tried to imagine himself sitting there with a cold drink in his hand and a domestic goddess by his side as they watched their children play in the yard while dusk settled over the complacent and quiet neighborhood. If Cleo would lie at his feet, the whole scene could be captured in a Norman Rockwellesque painting. Which would probably be titled, Someone’s Wrong in This Picture.

  He raised his hand to knock, but before his knuckles made contact, the door burst inward and a bundle of redhead slammed into his arms. On most days, he would have caught her automatically and without having to give it a conscious thought. But he’d just ridden six straight hours on a motorcycle that had more promise than suspension. He’d spent four of the last five days jumping out of airplanes and parachuting into trees and rocky ravines. He was a mass of muscle aches, wired on too little sleep and too much overbrewed coffee, and the only automatic function he managed was to manipulate the fall to minimize injury. Consequently, he and the redhead hit the floor together and rolled, while her belongings scattered down the steps in a noisy clatter.

  When he raised his head, he was on top of her, enjoying a moment or two of pleasant discovery before he acknowledged that she was in no mood to be appreciated. “Make my day,” he said. “Tell me this is At Your Service.”

  Resignation echoed in her sigh. “I suppose you’re from Starz Laundry and Dry Cleaners.”

  He grinned. “At your service and just in time to save you from breaking your neck.”

  “You got in my way.”

  “And stopped you from falling down the stairs.”

  “Should I be grateful that I’m being smothered by a delivery man instead?”

  “Yes…and you’re welcome.”

  Her russet eyes flashed with eloquent frustration. “You can jump to your feet any time, now.”

  “We fell pretty hard. It may take me a minute to recover.” He liked the immediate and skeptical lift of her auburn brows. “Do you feel all right?”

  Agitation simmered in her eyes. “Yes, and so do you. Now get off of me and don’t give me any more nonsense about recovery time.”

  So she wasn’t as naive as she looked…which was a pity. It seemed a shame to move, but Ben braced his weight on his hands, pushed up and levered to his feet. He stood for a second looking at the satin-bound bundle and admiring the auburn hair and fair-as-morning skin contrasted against the warm gray background of the porch. Leaning down, he offered his hand, but she got to her feet without any assistance and began slapping at the satin skirt like a cowgirl dusting off her chaps. A string of healthy, heartfelt epithets wisped past her lips, and Ben bit back a grin at the picture of aggravated motion before him. “Need some help?”

  She didn’t even look up. “I need a bartender and someone to get me out of this ridiculous dress.”

  The grin slipped past his control. “That sure beats the hell out of ‘yes, please.’ It just so happens that I possess the remarkable talent of opening beer bottles with my bare hands. And also, quite by chance, I have some small amount of experience in getting women out of ridiculous dresses.”

  She did look up then, her expressive eyes skimming across the scuffed toes of his boots, past his faded camouflage green dungarees, black T-shirt and tattered camouflage vest, and lingering on the dark, two-day stubble covering his chin. She said more in a glance than most women could say in five minutes, and it was quite clear that he wasn’t going to get anywhere near her buttons.

  “I have a sister,” he offered as a reference. “She thinks I’m a reasonably nice guy.”

  Her gaze flicked to his. “I have a brother. He thinks I’m unreasonable and difficult.”

  “Are you?”

  “Of course not. Look, I’m in something of a hurry right now. You’ll have to excuse me.” She turned and closed the door of the house, then hiked her skirt and flowed down the steps in a wash of ivory satin, pausing only long enough to gather her scattered belongings on the way. Ben watched with frank admiration of her graceful movements and with pleasurable appreciation for the pretty contrast of her dark red hair against the cream-colored lace. As she reached the bottom step, he registered belatedly that he was there to get a wedding gown and that she was wearing one. “Wait a minute. Is that your dress?” he asked.

  She leaned down to scoop up a pool of black silk from the bottom step. “Only if you’re of the opinion that possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

  He frowned. “So it’s not your dress?”

  “No. It’s the dress you were sent to pick up.”

  “No one mentioned that it came prepackaged and complete with the bride.”

  “It doesn’t and I’m not.” She pursed her eloquent lips in an impatient frown. “Look, I can’t take the time to explain it right now. I have a very important date.”

  “Shotgun wedding?” he suggested.

  “Not even close. I’m sorry, but I’m very late and this reception is very important. You can wait if you want or come back later.” The satin skirt swished in tempo with her rush down the remaining steps. At the bottom, she bent down and reached for the briefcase, which had opened in the tumble down the stairs and now formed an inverted vee of expensive leather.

  “You’re not going to give me the dress?” he asked, just to be sure he understood.

  She pitched things into the briefcase with a controlled intensity. “Nothing would provide me more pleasure than to hand it over right now. However, that isn’t possible, so if you’ll leave your name and address, I’ll be happy to rush over with the gown first thing in the morning.”

  “What if I can’t wait that long?”

  “Starz has already closed for the evening,” she said knowledgeably. “What are you going to do with the dress tonight, anyway?”

  “I believe the question is, what are you going to do with it?”

  Picking up the briefcase, she took a step down the front walk. “I am going to get out of it, one way or another. Then I’m going to
hang it in the back of the van and cover it with a blanket or something dark so I can’t see it. Now, you can follow along if you want to keep an eye on this bewitching outfit, but believe me, I have no designs on this dress except to see it safely in your hands.”

  “So why are you wearing it?”

  “It’s a long story and I don’t have time to go into it.”

  “You may have more time than you think. I don’t believe you’re going anywhere right away.”

  She looked at him, the expression in her eyes blending surprise and temper. “If you’re attempting to threaten me, I think you should know that I’ve been taking care of myself longer than you’ve owned that guerrilla warfare vest, and I’m not frightened by punks like you.”

  “Punk?”

  “All right, so you’re a little long in the tooth to be a punk. But if the attitude fits…”

  “It isn’t my attitude you should worry about. It’s hers.” He leveled a finger and Cleo barked in response.

  The woman jerked back, clearly startled. “Where did that come from?”

  “She rode in on the Harley. I wouldn’t mess with her if I were you.”

  “Does she belong to you?”

  “We just travel together.”

  “She’s guarding my car keys.”

  “I know.”

  Impatience flashed in her russet eyes. “Well, tell her to get away from them.”

  “Stay, Cleo,” he said sternly. “Don’t move.”

  With an independent wag of her tail, Cleo stayed, front paws planted strategically on either side of the key chain that had tumbled from the briefcase into the grass.

  Ben shrugged at the redhead’s furious stare. “If I’d told her to move, a bulldozer couldn’t have rooted her out. The best thing you can do is ignore her.”

  “What do you mean, ignore her? I have to have those keys. I’m already late.” She stepped forward purposefully.

  “Don’t…” His protest dissolved into a low groan as Cleo grabbed the keys in her mouth and ran a fast figure eight across the lawn. “Now see what you’ve done.”