Love So Tender: Taking Care of Business / Play It Again, Elvis / Good Luck Charm

H.D.’s forceful bark broke their kiss like a sledgehammer against glass. She started and swung her gaze down, then realized that H.D. wasn’t barking at them, but rather at the black-robed woman who stood in the doorway looking, well…shocked.

Under her boss’s gaze, mortification bled through Gracie. Stepping back, she murmured, “Cordelia…hi. This is, um…um—”

“Steve Mulcahy, the new photographer,” he supplied.

Beneath the pouf of fire engine-red hair, Cordelia’s expression changed, and she studied Steve intently. Gracie was surprised to see something akin to disapproval in the woman’s kohl-lined eyes before Cordelia schooled her well-preserved features into a smile. “Ah, yes. Welcome to TCB, Steve.”

He nodded politely, but looked uncomfortable. If he knew that pink lipstick smeared his mouth, he would probably feel even worse, Gracie decided. He gestured to the air between them. “Gracie was just…showing me the ropes.”

Cordelia lifted one drawn-on eyebrow. “Gracie keeps this place running—I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to her.”

Gracie blinked. She’d never felt unappreciated, but Cordelia had never gushed about her to a relative stranger. Then in a flash of comprehension, she realized that her protective boss might have thought Steve was taking liberties with her—little did Cordelia know that Gracie was the one guilty of setting a record for sexually harassing a new hire.

“I can see that,” Steve said smoothly.

Cordelia nodded toward the white jumpsuit and pushed her cheek out with her tongue. “I see she wasted no time in showing you the wardrobe.”

His mouth twitched downward. “Yes, I’m surprised you didn’t mention that aspect of the job when we…talked.”

Cordelia’s expression turned innocent. “I didn’t?”

“Er, no.”

“Oh, well, you two seem to have worked out the details.”

“We have,” Gracie said quickly, her mouth still warm from the imprint of his. “And the costumes will have to do for now, but I’ll make the necessary alterations.” She was babbling, like a teenager caught necking in the living room.

Cordelia hesitated, then nodded. “Is Lincoln performing the ceremonies this evening?”

“Yes. He should be here soon.”

Cordelia glanced at Steve, and Gracie once again detected a wariness in her boss. “I’m going to take a smoke break. Gracie, will you let me know if you hear the drive-through bell?”

Despite her own recent transgression, Gracie straightened. “I thought you quit smoking.”

“I did,” her boss said. “And now I’m starting again.” Cordelia leveled her no-nonsense gaze on Steve. “When you’re finished here, Mr. Mulcahy, please see me so that we can discuss…your duties.”

“I will.”

But Cordelia was already gone, her black robe billowing behind her as she strode down the hall. H.D. trotted after her, loping as fast as his low-hanging belly would allow.

Gracie turned to Steve slowly, her skin zinging with embarrassment. “I’m…sorry about…the kiss. I don’t know what came over me.”

Before the words left her mouth, she realized how lame they sounded. To save him from having to respond, she hung the white jumpsuit on a rack and removed a tissue from a nearby container. She stepped forward and reached up to wipe his mouth. He stood still, but his eyes narrowed cautiously as she dabbed at the shimmering pink gloss.

Gracie focused on removing traces of their kiss, still reeling over her behavior. “But don’t worry—this kind of thing doesn’t bother Cordelia.”

He looked amused. “So you do this kind of thing often?”

Her face flamed. “No. What I meant is that Cordelia wasn’t upset about…what we were doing.” She cleared her throat. “About what I did. Which, by the way, won’t happen again. It was just…curiosity.” She was babbling again.

One dark eyebrow rose. “I wasn’t complaining.”

Ignoring the barb of pleasure in her chest, she pushed ahead. “Cordelia hasn’t been herself for the past several days.” And whatever her boss had, apparently it was catching, Gracie decided, since she herself had just kissed a virtual stranger. “She’s usually very easygoing. I don’t know what…has her on edge.”

His eyes darkened. “It’s probably nothing serious.”

Gracie nodded thoughtfully and averted her gaze, tearing her mind away from their off-the-cuff kiss and toward more important matters. She knew that business had fallen sharply over the past few months and suspected that Cordelia—and the chapel—were in serious financial trouble. Panic gripped Gracie’s chest—Cordelia, Lincoln, Roach and H.D. were all the family she had. Yet lately, in the wee hours of the morning, lying on the sleeper-sofa in her cramped apartment, she had felt unsettled. For the past ten years, the wedding chapel had been a refuge from the unbearable family situation she had left behind in Oklahoma, and Cordelia had been the mother she’d never had.

But suddenly everything seemed to be in flux.

“Hey,” Steve said gently, breaking into her thoughts. “Don’t look so worried—whatever is bothering your boss will probably work itself out soon.”

She looked up and was struck anew by his dark, sexy looks. That restless place in her seemed to call out to him, and it made her uneasy. It was a good thing that Steve Mulcahy had already expressed his vehement opposition to marriage, else she might be tempted to see just where a full-body kiss would lead them. But another glance at his high cheekbones, flaring nose, square jaw and overall rugged good looks made her sigh inwardly. Someone as delectably masculine as Steve Mulcahy would definitely already be involved with a woman…or two.

His cell phone beeped. He glanced at the display, then back up, slightly flushed. “Um, where can I take this in private?”

Gracie gave him a tight smile—just as she suspected. It was the reminder she needed. “Take it here. I have work to do.” She tossed the tissue into a trash can, then vamoosed. As she walked out, she heard him say, “Hi, Karen. What’s up?”

Gracie puffed out her cheeks as she walked down the hallway, then slid into her spot behind the counter. Waves of shame washed over her—what must he think of her, kissing him like that? She closed her eyes and groaned, burying her face in her hands. Why didn’t life come with a rewind button?

She lifted her head and gave herself a mental shake. One thing was certain: Although her mind said, “Hold out for a stable guy and a long-term commitment,” her body obviously wasn’t on the same page. Still…Steve had to accept some of the blame. How could a man go around looking that good and not expect to be kissed on impulse?

Gracie practiced a few deep breathing exercises—she had to get past her gaffe if they were going to work together. But she was antsy…as if a switch inside her had been flipped to “on.”

She straightened the postcards and other souvenirs in the spinner racks, then dusted the counter and the shelves, trying to tamp down the sudden surge of adrenaline. Steve Mulcahy had affected her like no man had in…ever. Working at close quarters was going to be difficult in her sex-deprived state, but would be a good test of her endurance because this was exactly the kind of situation she was trying to avoid: a dead-end relationship. At least he was more forthcoming than most men—he had let her know right away that marriage wasn’t in his cards.

So who was Karen?

She tried to push the man and his love life from her mind as she looked for the file for the upcoming ceremony. But she was suddenly distracted by the hundreds of photos collaged onto the bulletin boards all around the counter. Hugging the file to her chest, she surveyed the couples’ beaming faces as they clutched each other, poised to begin their lives together. All shapes and sizes, beautiful and not, all races, all ages—proof that over and over again in the big, wide world, people managed to find each other and fall in love.

Gracie angled her head, studying their eyes, their body language. How did love work, and if it worked for so many people so often, why didn’t it work for her? She sank her teeth into her lower lip, then shook off her self-indulgent mood—she had a wedding to prepare for and she owed it to the couple to make sure it was as perfect as could be.

But when she walked back to the counter where she stood most of the day, Gracie suddenly noticed the black, worn spot in the red carpet. She stopped abruptly in her rhinestone flip-flops and her stomach hitched. She remembered vividly that new carpet had been installed the first week she had started working at TCB. And since that time, she had literally stood in one spot until the rug beneath her feet was threadbare.

The analogy wasn’t lost on her, and the timing was perfect. If she was going to get on with her life—do something with the degree in public relations she’d managed to finish, meet a nice, stable guy and settle down—she was going to have to…move her feet.

The phone rang and Gracie snapped back into business mode.

“Taking Care of Business Wedding Chapel, where Elvis lives in your heart. How can I help you?” She answered the man’s nervous questions by rote as she referred to the appointment book. “Yes, we have some openings this evening. When would you like to schedule a ceremony?”

“The earlier the better,” the man said, his baritone voice bursting with love and enthusiasm.

Gracie’s heart swelled and with great restraint she fought a crazy impulse to ask questions of her own, such as how he’d met the woman he’d fallen in love with, how long it had taken before he’d known she was the one and what had been the turning point? What exactly had made him sure she was the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with?

How ironic that she’d witnessed thousands of weddings, yet still was clueless about lasting love.

“How about seven-thirty, sir?”

“Great. But this has to be really special. My fiancée is a huge Elvis fan. Does your Elvis look like the real thing?”

Steve’s chiseled features and blue, blue eyes came to mind with startling clarity. “As a matter of fact, he does. Does your fiancée have a favorite Elvis song?”

“‘Love Me Tender’ gets her every time.”

“Then we’ll include it in the package.”

“Does your Elvis sing, or lip-synch?”

Neither, she thought, but didn’t say so. “Our Elvis is having a bout with laryngitis at the moment, sir. But if he’s not feeling well enough to sing, we’ll play a beautiful digitally mastered recording in stereo. You’ll feel like you’re at an Elvis concert.” She winced at her own words, but they needed the business.

The man made a doubtful noise. “I don’t know…the Elvis over at the Fools Rush In chapel sings.”

At a noise, she glanced up to see Lincoln Nebraska, their florist and spare minister, walk through the door carrying two bouquets of mixed white flowers. She smiled a greeting, then resumed her sales pitch to the customer on the phone. “I promise you, sir, that you won’t find another wedding Elvis in Vegas as good as ours. I’ll even throw in a complimentary bouquet for your bride and a boutonniere for you.”

Lincoln frowned, but she ignored him.

“Okay,” the man finally said.

“Great.” She took down his name and contact information. “We’ll see you and your lovely bride at seven-thirty.” She hung up the phone and grinned at Lincoln, who was bald and tanned and wearing funky horn-rimmed glasses. “Hi, there.”

“Who is he?” Lincoln said without preamble.

“Who?” Gracie asked as nonchalantly as possible.

“You know who—the hunk of burning love who was talking on the cell phone when I walked past the closet.”

“Oh. Him.”

Lincoln smirked. “Yes—him. Tell me he’s our new Elvis.”

She hesitated. “Yes. But he thinks he’s the photographer.”

Lincoln scoffed. “H.D. could run the camera equipment if someone lifted him high enough.”

“I know,” she said. “But Cordelia hired the guy and didn’t tell him the full story.”

“Ah, the old bait and switch. Well, she probably took one look at him and knew he’d be perfect.” He sighed. “At least what I could see of him from the back looked perfect.”

She laughed. “He’s also perfectly taken. Or at least, I assume so, since he needed privacy for the call.”

“Man or woman?”

“Woman,” she said emphatically. “Sorry.”

He looked distressed for all of two seconds, then wagged his thick eyebrows. “If he won’t take me away from all this, maybe he’ll rescue you.”

Since Cordelia had caught them kissing, the news was bound to get out. “We, um, did have a…moment…earlier.” She held up her forefinger and thumb pinched together. “Just a little…kiss.”

He gasped. “I was only gone for a few minutes—how…?”

“It was nothing big, and it won’t happen again.” She made a note on the calendar for the seven-thirty wedding. When she looked up, Lincoln was gaping at her.

“Are you kidding me? You kissed the man already? Was ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ playing?”

She nodded, feeling like a fool.

He sighed. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, sweetheart. No one can fight those lyrics. Besides, the man screams ‘affair.’”

She held up both hands. “No way. I’ve sworn off affairs, remember?”

“Oh, right. Well, maybe he’s the settling down type.”

Grace shook her head. “He went to great lengths to explain that he was not interested in marriage—now or in the future.”

He frowned. “Kind of presumptuous of him, wasn’t it?”

“It was in the context of business, but I got the point.” At least her brain had understood.

Lincoln scrutinized a rose in one of the bouquets he held. “What’s his name?”

“Steve Mulcahy.”

“Nice name.” He frowned. “What’s his story?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, why would someone who looks like him be working in a place like this?”

Gracie frowned. “Thanks a lot.”

“You know what I mean. I love TCB, but wedding chapels aren’t exactly a magnet for straight, great-looking guys. What kind of photographer aspires to this job?”

Admittedly, the same thoughts had crossed her mind. She shrugged. “Maybe he’s between jobs, or is down on his luck.”

“Right. Maybe he’s a gambler,” Lincoln said. “Maybe he lost his real job, and he’s desperate.”

Gracie somehow couldn’t reconcile the description of a quasi-loser to Steve, even if she had only just met the man. Something about him radiated power and authority, but Lincoln had a point. For some reason, though, she wanted to think the best of Steve Mulcahy, and that alone troubled her.

Gracie made a rueful noise. “Desperate is what I’m banking on. No offense to Roach, but without a good Elvis, our bookings are way down. Somehow I’ve got to talk the man into singing and swiveling his hips.”

Lincoln grinned.

“Don’t say it,” Gracie said, giving him a stern look.

“Okay,” Lincoln said in an innocent voice. “I won’t say it. But I can think it.”

Gracie sighed. So could she.

CHAPTER THREE

STEVE’S PULSE ratcheted higher as he listened to his partner on the phone.

“So,” Karen said, “our informant thinks that Lundy could show up sooner than we’d planned—maybe the day after tomorrow. The good news is she was able to give me a few more details about the wedding that Lundy’s bride booked.”

Steve removed a small notebook from his pocket. “Go ahead.”

Karen cleared her throat. “Apparently, they booked the Aloha—” She stopped and giggled, then recovered. “The Aloha Teddy Bear package.” Then she laughed out loud.

Steve pursed his mouth, waiting for her to continue.

Her laughter petered to a cough. “Sorry, Steve, but you have to admit that this Elvis stuff is hysterical. I’ll bet the impersonator there is a real hoot, isn’t he?”

Steve closed his eyes and decided to withhold the full extent of his undercover duties for now. “See if our informant can find out any other details about the Lundy wedding—what kind of car they’ll be arriving in, how big the wedding party will be, that kind of thing. And of course, a name would be great.”

“Will do. So, have you met all the players over there? We need a description of all the employees so we’ll know who’s who when the arrest goes down.”

“You have the owner’s picture on file, right?”

“Right.”

Steve hesitated as Gracie’s pixie face rose in his mind’s eye…along with the sensory details of her shocking kiss. Just the memory of her pink mouth on his elicited a response from his body. He set his jaw, then said, “The only other person I’ve met is the wedding director. Gracie Sergeant, female, thirtyish, short platinum-blond hair, violet-colored eyes.” He bit the end of his tongue as soon as the words left his mouth.

“Violet-colored, huh?” Karen made a thoughtful noise. “With little golden flecks?”

He frowned, disgusted with himself. “I’ll call you later.” He cut off her laughter by disconnecting the call.

Steve pulled his hand down his face and forced himself to concentrate. Karen’s information meant that he might have even less time to prepare for Lundy’s arrest than he’d thought. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by Gracie Sergeant’s eyes. Or legs. Or mouth.

Or tattoo.

Turning in the direction Cordelia Conroy had gone, Steve walked down the hall past an office and what appeared to be the drive-through window, to a set of double doors that opened onto a covered concrete patio at the rear of the chapel. Cordelia Conroy stood next to a birdbath that had been filled with sand to serve as an ashtray. The behemoth basset hound sat near her feet. In a corner of the lot, the rear fins of a pink Cadillac peeked out from under a cloth cover.

When Cordelia saw him coming, she took a last drag on a short butt, then snubbed it out. After a few seconds’ hesitation, she withdrew another cigarette from a pack and offered him one. His throat itched, but he shook his head. He’d quit smoking six times and this time he meant it.

While he watched, Cordelia lit her second—or third?—cigarette and took a deep drag. Well into her sixties, she was still an attractive woman, albeit a little rough around the edges. Street smart, he realized. And wary.

He stopped a few feet away and leaned against a column that held up the metal roof over the sparse patio. The hound dog moseyed over and sniffed at his boots.

“Is Mulcahy your real name?” she asked finally, on an exhale.

“As far as you’re concerned,” he said.

“You’re not what I expected.”

He kept his expression noncommittal. “What did you expect?”

She leveled her gaze on him. “Not some good-looking buck who hits on my wedding director.”

He blinked. “She kissed me.”

The woman flicked ash. “I didn’t see you putting up a fight.”

Steve squirmed, feeling like a naughty teenager instead of an undercover agent. “I was simply going along.”

Cordelia looked all around, as if she were afraid they would be overheard. “This situation is dangerous enough without you getting involved with my employees.”

“I understand. But I have to interact with them for things to appear normal.”

She took another drag, then nodded. “I know, but don’t overstep your bounds. Especially where Gracie is concerned. She’s…susceptible.”

He pressed his lips together and nodded curtly, hoping to end the awkward conversation. Wasn’t it enough punishment that he couldn’t get his mind off the abbreviated kiss? “I just received more details from our informant, who says that the wedding might take place sooner than we expected, and that the bride booked a—” he pulled out his notebook “—an Aloha Teddy Bear package?”

Cordelia frowned. “We have an Aloha Las Vegas package and a Teddy Bear package, but not an Aloha Teddy Bear package.”

He scratched his temple. “So it could be either one. Do you keep a record of what the customers request?”

“Of course—that’s Gracie’s job.”

“I’ll need to see the reservations for the upcoming week.”

Cordelia nodded. “I’ll get Gracie’s book.”

“I’d like photocopies.”

“We have a copier in the office.” She exhaled and ground out the half-smoked cigarette. “Mitch Lundy’s been operating on the wrong side for years—why the sudden resolve to bring him in?”

“In the nineties the Bureau cut him some slack for testifying against an associate and putting him away—as long as Lundy stayed legit. But a few years ago, he slipped back into his old businesses—prostitution, drugs, money laundering. He’s ordered at least eight hits. He’s more arrogant and dangerous than ever.” Steve frowned. “To Lundy, eluding the FBI is just a game, and I want to put an end to it.”

Cordelia pressed her lips together. “So what exactly is going to happen?”

Steve was momentarily distracted when H.D. sat down solidly on his boot. He tried to maneuver his foot out, but the dog was a block of panting dead weight.

“Best-case scenario,” he said, “we’ll be able to figure out which reservation is Lundy’s and alert our agents to stand by. He’ll be apprehended after he leaves your property.”

“And the worst-case scenario?” Cordelia asked.

“Worst case is that he sneaks in and I don’t have enough time to call for backup.”

Her eyes narrowed. “But you’ll still wait to arrest him until after he’s off my property.”

“That’s the plan,” he said. “But I have to be honest with you, Ms. Conroy—Mitchell Lundy is a dangerous criminal who’s played cat and mouse with the Bureau for years. If something goes wrong, we’ll still seize the opportunity to arrest him.”

“Even if it puts my employees in danger?”

“Civilian safety is always our first concern,” he said, and stubbornly, a civilian with white-blond hair came to mind.

“Are you sure you’ll recognize this Lundy fellow?”

“If I see his eyes—he sustained a wound to one eye that left a permanent and recognizable scar.”

“What if he recognizes you?”

“We’re operating under the assumption that he or his people have a file on all the agents in the state.” He frowned. “That’s why I agreed to wear the costume—I doubt if Lundy will suspect Elvis. I understand there’s a wig and sunglasses?”

“That’s right.” The shadow of a smile played on her lips, then disappeared. “Are you carrying a gun?”

“Bureau policy, ma’am.”

She nodded, then straightened. “Well, Mr. Mulcahy, you have a job to do, but so do we. If you want to fit in here at TCB, I suggest that you do whatever Gracie tells you to do.” She frowned. “In regards to work, that is. Until you make the arrest, we need for you to be a convincing performer for our customers.”

He nodded, but his stomach felt tangled. And he wasn’t sure what bothered him most—the thought of impersonating the King, or working closely with Gracie Sergeant.

“Come along, H.D.,” Cordelia said, and the hound lifted his fat rump from Steve’s instep. Steve shifted his weight to send blood back to his foot, then glanced at the pink Caddy. “Ms. Conroy?”

She turned back. “Yes?”

“Does the Caddy run?”

“Not for a year now.”

“Care if I take a look under the hood?”

“Be my guest,” she said, then withdrew a thick ring of keys from her robe pocket. She removed two keys on a separate ring, tossed them to him, then reentered the chapel.

Steve strode toward the old car, burning with curiosity. As he rolled back the cloth tarp, his pulse spiked in appreciation of the four-door Cadillac, rust spots and all. The paint was faded, revealing lots of body filler along the side panels, but the chrome was intact and the white hardtop and interior were in amazingly good condition. All four tires were flat and probably ruined, but it should have whitewalls anyway. He lifted the hood and stared down at the corroded engine, registering in one glance that two hoses were disconnected and the carburetor lid was missing.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

Steve looked up to see Gracie walking toward him, his pulse spiking again but for a different reason. Did she know that in the sunlight her white eyelet dress was transparent? She wore a lacy strapless bra and high-cut bikini panties. The silhouette of her opposing curves—breasts, waist and hips—stamped into his brain in the same place, he suspected, that songs embedded themselves to emerge as torture at the most inconvenient times.