The Wedding Date Page 3

  She took a deep breath, drawing his gaze to her breasts. Small, they jutted very nicely into the low-cut swimsuit. He noticed that her faint tan didn’t extend all the way to the edges of the green fabric. Obviously, Emma usually wore a much more modest garment. He flicked his gaze to her pale, flat stomach. Yep, usually a one-piece.

  She inhaled again. “I’ve run away.”

  Something about the tight expression on her face made him think of a character on the soap opera he watched during lunch. His imagination leaped to the story line and his gaze jumped to her left hand, where he saw a faint white line around the ring finger.

  He groaned inwardly and his fists clenched. “What do you mean?” Please, not an abusive husband. Not that for this little fairy.

  “I was…involved, and—” A flush crawled up her neck. “You seem like a nice guy,” she added lamely. “You’re easy to talk to.”

  “Uh—thanks.” Dammit, Trick, be careful what you wish for. He’d wanted to know why Emma needed the perfect man, and now he’d found out. She probably wants the perfect hit man. “Emma, did he…did he hurt you?” The words tasted awful.

  “Yes, he did!” She sounded indignant.

  He checked her out from head to toes. If the jerk had left bruises, they’d faded. “You told someone, right?” If she had, why wasn’t the bastard in jail? Why’d she have to run away?

  “I didn’t have to. Everyone already knew.” Indignation again.

  “So—they caught him?” Then probably released him on bail.

  I caught him.”

  This little bit of a thing? Oh, God, had she killed her husband, then run off? Trick felt caught in a nightmare. Would the perfect man convince her to turn herself in or would he drive her to Mexico?

  “Oh, such an innocent face he had.” Her words came faster. “To know him, you’d never think—” She pounded the quilt with both fists. “It hurt, and I felt like such a fool.”

  “Um, so, um, what’d you do?” If she confessed, did that make him an accessory?

  “He thought I’d leave. They all thought I’d leave.”

  Trick gulped. God, he’d recently watched a movie-ofthe-week about a woman who offed her husbands, plural, for the insurance money. “All?” He choked out the word.

  “All our friends, all the people we work with.”

  Slightly relieved, Trick ran a hand through his hair. “Didn’t you think leaving was the best idea?” Made sense to him.

  “No, I did not!” She slid her sunglasses down her nose and glared at him. “I have as much right to stay there as he does. So what if he’s angry?”

  At least he’s still alive, Trick thought. “But don’t you think he may hurt you again?”

  She waved away his response. “He’s done his worst. Now it’s time for me to mend.” She took her sunglasses off altogether. “That’s where you come in.”

  Trick resisted the urge to run. “Me?”

  “Yes. Will you be my escort to the wedding?”

  The roller coaster on the boardwalk didn’t pack half the thrills as did the five-feet-and-a-little-spit of woman beside him. “Emma.” He rubbed his temples. “What are you talking about?”

  Her brows snapped together. He could tell she was disappointed in him, and he bit his tongue to stop an apology from escaping. He was a man who’d built and run a successful company, he reminded himself. He knew when things didn’t add up. And right now, between him and Emma, two and two equaled five and a quarter.

  She sighed. “I thought I’d made it clear. You seemed to understand.”

  He smiled encouragingly. “Tell me again.”

  “My fiancé, I mean my ex-fiancé, cheated on me, then dumped me for someone else. The boss’s daughter. The beautiful, the incomparable, the perfect Pauline.”

  “Your boss’s daughter?”

  “Our boss’s daughter.” She wrinkled her nose. “We work at the same company. Michael thought I’d quit, but forget it! I love my job and the opportunities there….” Her hair bounced vigorously as she shook her head. “I’m staying.”

  “What’s your boss think?”

  “He thinks I show great maturity. And I do. But everyone at the office just keeps watching me, you know?” With her forefinger, she traced a pink star on the quilt. “I thought I’d come down here for a week, just avoid the wedding, but my pride is telling me to go.” She lifted her head and met his gaze. “Go and show everyone, Michael most of all, that I’m doing just fine.”

  Trick smiled at the fierceness in her voice and on her face. Suddenly he was twenty-two again, lying in a hospital bed and watching Carina walk out the door. The blow to his heart had hurt more than the damage to his leg. “You’ll survive, Emma.” He’d healed, too, though he’d never again let himself be vulnerable to a woman.

  “I’m planning on it.” She slipped her sunglasses back on, and Trick read it as a defensive gesture. “But I need a guy, Trick. I, uh, sort of spouted off to our gossipy receptionist that I have someone new. Someone tall, blond and handsome.”

  She went back to tracing stars. “I’m looking for an escort for a prenuptial dinner and for the wedding itself.”

  “The perfect man?” He couldn’t resist asking.

  Her chin jerked up. “Yes, and I’m willing to pay for his time.” Her head ducked down. Her forefinger followed the outline of a third star. “And he’d have to act kind of…loverlike.” The finger stopped. “So—will you do it?”

  3

  Emma studied Trick, his face somewhere between bemused and bewildered. A spurt of breeze kicked up the ends of his hair, brushing them against his powerful shoulders. She imagined those shoulders in a suit, his tan accentuated by a crisp, white shirt, his blond hair smoothed back—he’s perfect, she thought. He must say yes.

  He said nothing.

  She started talking to his silence. “Scared you off, didn’t I?” Thank goodness her sunglasses hid her eyes and the desperate glitter she knew was there. “What worries you the most? How much time you’d have to spend with me? Just a couple events. A company dinner next Wednesday night and the wedding on Saturday. We can figure out fair payment for your time.”

  A quick inhale, then she kept going. “Or is it the loverlike part that worries you? Sorry, but I can’t negotiate there. A plain old date for these things won’t convince anyone I’m heart-whole.” She tilted her head. “I’m willing to bet you could pull off some smooth moves. You know, a couple of sizzling looks, one or two lingering caresses—”

  “Emma.” He held up a hand.

  She gulped a small breath, and sat up. “Don’t say it.” If she let him get a word in edgewise, he might say the no his face wore. “Don’t worry. I haven’t mistaken you for a real man.”

  He winced. “Emma—”

  Hearing her own words, she hastily corrected herself. “I mean, don’t worry, I’m not really looking for a man.” The breeze blew a curl into her mouth and she impatiently fingered it away. “I’ll swear it on a stack of—” out of her basket she drew a handful of paperbacks and glanced at the titles “—of light summer reading, but could as well be Bibles, that this is not some scam to meet my dream guy. You couldn’t be him.”

  He winced again.

  She sighed noisily. “I mean, there isn’t such a guy.” She exhaled a longer sigh. “At least not for a woman like me. Michael proved that.”

  “Emma—”

  She halted him with an upraised hand. “Don’t try to change my mind. I’m convinced my perfect mate doesn’t exist.” She put all her hopes in her voice. “I just want a reasonable facsimile for about a week. So, do you think you could fake it?”

  The words had barely left her lips, but Trick jumped into the conversation as if he thought he’d never get another chance. “First, I won’t try to change your mind about the perfect mate. ‘Perfect’ isn’t out there, Emma. Not even ‘mate,’ if you ask me. About being your escort…”

  Emma watched him take a deep breath, his pecs expanding in a quite satisfact
ory fashion. The beach sounds, slurp slosh of the surf, distant music, flap of a nearby umbrella, receded. Her gaze focused on his lips. Say yes.

  “I have to say no.”

  The disappointed screech of a sea gull echoed her own internal scream. She took a breath. “But—”

  He interrupted, thank goodness, because she’d no idea, for once, what to say next. “It’s nothing personal—”

  Emma nodded. “Michael said that, too.”

  Trick blinked. “Your fiance said that?”

  “Ex-fiancé. When he broke our engagement.”

  “He told you it was nothing personal?” His upper body went rigid.

  Emma nodded again. “He likes me well enough—his words again—but he says I expect too much.”

  “Like what?”

  “Intimacy.”

  Trick grinned and the stiff set of his shoulders eased. “If he didn’t want to give you that, sweetheart, you’re lucky to be rid of him.”

  She corrected Trick’s impression, uttering the words she knew to be the kiss of death. “Emotional intimacy.”

  His backward movement left eight inches of tracks in the sand.

  “See,” she said, pointing to the evidence. “Frightens you just to hear the words.”

  He didn’t deny it, and she scored him another point for honesty.

  “But your—Michael?—is getting married. Can’t get more intimate than that.”

  Emma shook her head. “Intimacy isn’t a requirement of someone like Pauline. She reminds me of my sister. All long limbs, long hair and long silences.”

  A short laugh erupted from Trick. “Apt description of someone I knew long ago.”

  “And you thought she was perfect, right?”

  He inspected the surf. “Until I found out what was under all that quiet.”

  Emma couldn’t stop her smile. “Well, that may be where Michael makes out all right. I suspect that underneath all Pauline’s quiet is…” How catty would she sound?

  “Is…?” he prompted.

  Heck, she’d never see Trick again. “Is nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  She placed her left hand palm down against the quilt and traced the faint line around her ring finger. Another day or so on the beach and it should be gone. With a small smile, she looked at Trick, who watched her intently. “But who am I to talk? I’m left with nothing myself.”

  In a blink of an eye, Trick advanced the eight inches he’d retreated, then advanced some more. The bottoms of his Velcro-strapped rubber sandals touched her quilt. “I have to go out of town, Emma. That’s why I said no. Otherwise, I’d help you.”

  She shrugged. At least he’d made the effort to sound sincere. “Thanks, anyway.”

  “I’m not kidding, I—” He snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it! I’m going to a party tonight. Come with me. We’ll find someone for you there.”

  “I don’t know….” Trick was perfect for the job, but someone else?

  “Dum, dum, da-dum, dum, dum, da-dum,” Trick chanted in a reasonable imitation of the wedding march. “I’d hate to think of you missing that, Emma.”

  She frowned, unable to make a decision.

  “Come on. Show Michael and everybody else you have something. Someone. The perfect man.”

  “I want to,” Emma said. I want you, she thought.

  “Say yes.”

  Strange. Minutes ago those words had been her plea. “Yes.”

  At the bathroom mirror, Trick slapped on some after-shave and ran a comb through his hair. A sense of well-being prompted him to whistle a little tune as he straightened up the bathroom.

  “Stop that racket!” Captain hated any kind of music, but the music he hated most was Trick’s humming, singing or whistling.

  Trick sauntered into the living room. “You say something to me, Captain?”

  Using his beak as an auxiliary leg, the parrot stalked from one side of the cage to the other and shot Trick a sidelong glance. “Stop that racket!”

  Then Captain’s head turned toward Trick and tilted. Trick could almost see him sniff the air. “What’s the skinny?”

  “Big date, big guy.” Though not a big date in the usual sense, he reminded himself, it was important he come through for Emma. Her predicament touched something deeply buried within him. Something that made him uncomfortable.

  Emotional intimacy. The words whispered like an accusation in his head. He shuddered, and to avoid the thought and bug the hell out of Captain, he began a baritone, booming rendition of “Feelings.”

  “Stop that racket!” The bird hopped to the floor of his cage and stomped around, scattering seed debris to the carpet below.

  Trick stopped singing and took Captain’s complaint as a much needed warning. This empathetic connection he felt with Emma needed tamping down. Tonight’s good turn should do it. She’d walk out of his life, escorted by the perfect man he found for her.

  “What’s the skinny?” Captain squawked.

  The well-behaved perfect man. A heart-on-her-sleeve woman like Emma was too easily hurt. He’d have to choose her escort very carefully. Trick made a mental list of candidates.

  “What’s the skinny?”

  “We need the perfect man, Captain.”

  “Polly wants a cracker,” the parrot said briskly.

  “What do you think? Tony?” At a stretch, Tony’s light brown hair could be blond. But that long, beaded earring…

  “Shrimp brain!” Captain pronounced.

  Trick nodded slowly. “I’d have to agree.” He sighed. “Billy? Ever since that huge wipeout, he’s been sort of a-”

  “Chowderhead!”

  Trick had to agree again. Emma deserved better. He absently fisted some sunflower seeds from the abalone shell on the coffee table and flicked one to Captain. The bird caught it deftly in his beak and set to work cracking it.

  “Mac’s a blond. And with that Australian accent—”

  Captain dropped the split shell. “What a hunk!”

  Trick developed a sudden distaste for Mac. “No. He’s no good.”

  “What a hunk. Polly wants a cracker.” The matter seemed settled to Captain.

  “He’ll tromp all over her heart,” Trick protested.

  “What a hunk. Polly wants a cracker.”

  Trick gave up convincing his pet. He’d survey the possibilities and make his decision once he reached the party. On the way there, he’d caution Miss Emma Here’s-My-Heart on being careful about the kind of intimacy she asked for. And who from.

  He left the house fifteen minutes later, strangely heartened by Captain’s parting compliment, “What a hunk,” though he suspected it was merely false flattery.

  He spent another fifteen minutes trying to find Emma’s place. He mentally replayed her verbal directions. “Left on Ocean and right on Seaview. There’s a SpeedyStop there and usually a cop at the doughnut shop. Don’t roll the stop sign, or the one at Sea Terrace. He can see them both and will ticket you if you do. After Sea Terrace, make your first left and then a right. Oh, yes, and bear right at the two Y intersections.”

  At least that’s what he remembered her saying. Her instructions could have taken some other twists and turns he didn’t catch. He blamed himself for not insisting on the address, instead letting her identify the home by gray trim, white garage door and blue beach-cruiser bike chained up outside.

  In another five minutes he blamed himself again, for his own arrogance. She’d also written the directions down, on a piece of that flashy pink stationery. He hadn’t bothered bringing them, even after she’d muttered, “I don’t know why. But my friends always make me write them down, too.”

  Back at his house, he let himself in and calmly accepted Captain’s immediate, “What’s the skinny? Shrimp brain! Chowderhead!”

  Trick found the sheet of stationery, dialed the phone number she’d written there and explained he’d be late. “Yep. I forgot the written directions. Don’t be sorry. Just like those other friends of yours, I’ve learned my le
sson. See you soon.”

  Actually, he had little faith as he set out once again, clattering along in his classic VW Bug. To his surprise, the written instructions were completely clear and precise. Within five minutes, he knocked on her door.

  It opened, framing Emma, and she again reminded him of a fairy, or maybe a butterfly, in a lace sleeveless blouse and a long, gauzy skirt.

  “Okay, I’m ready.” She stepped out, locking the door behind her. “You know my few requirements? Remember, I told the receptionist my new boyfriend is tall, blond and handsome.”

  Her perfume, light but spicy, wafted toward him. Wavy tendrils of hair touched her cheeks, inches away from her full, fascinating mouth.

  He cleared his throat. “Yeah, I know your requirements.” He added three more to his list. His perfect man for her wouldn’t possess eyes, hands or hormones.

  Emma lengthened her stride to Trick’s as they made their way from his car to the brightly lit house half a block away. They’d driven a few minutes south, to a section of coastline where small houses crowded each other and butted the sand. Emma slanted Trick a glance and stifled a sigh. Too bad she was searching for another escort, because he looked mouth-watering in khaki shorts, a white knit shirt and loafer-style boat shoes.

  Trick held open a peeling picket gate to let Emma proceed him into a small yard filled with surfboards, a boat on a trailer and a spillover of people from the house.

  “Trick!” Several people hailed him, and one man detached himself from a group and hurried over.

  Through introductions, Emma learned the dark-haired, slightly paunchy guy with the infectious grin was their host, Gary.

  “She here?” Trick asked him. He looked at Emma. “Gary’s new woman.”

  “Not yet.” Gary sighed. “I haven’t seen her in five days. But she’ll be here later.”

  “Everything still on for Monday?” Trick turned again to Emma. “Gary’s going for the big C.”

  “The big C?” Emma frowned. “Is that surfer talk?”

  Trick and Gary laughed, along with a couple of other guys who had wandered over. “No. Commitment,” Trick corrected.