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

CHAPTER FOUR

GRACIE GLANCED at Lincoln, then back to the closed dressing room door. “We’re waiting,” she called pleasantly, although she was tapping her foot.

“Maybe I should go in and give him a hand,” Lincoln offered with a grin.

Gracie gave him a withering look, then rapped on the door of the dressing room. “Come on out, Steve.”

There was no response for several seconds, then, “I’d rather not.”

Gracie rolled her eyes. “Steve, stop messing around—we’re running out of time here.”

Shuffling noises sounded, then the door swung open slowly. Gracie gasped.

“Oh…my…gawd,” Lincoln murmured.

Excerpt for the surly look on his face and the bagginess of the oversize bejeweled white jumpsuit, Gracie would swear she was looking at the King of rock ’n’ roll himself. From the lofty wig and long sideburns to the large gold-tone sunglasses with dark lenses, he looked every inch the beloved performer. Her heartbeat actually accelerated. “You look…wow.”

His mouth tightened. “I look like an idiot.”

“You look like a cash cow,” Lincoln declared, then clapped his hands. “Chop, chop—you’ve got twenty minutes to learn to moo.”

Gracie could feel Steve’s panic, and her heart went out to him. To keep him from losing his nerve completely, she put her hand on his arm. “Relax. It’s like being in a play.”

“More like a musical,” Lincoln said over his shoulder, walking ahead.

“It’ll be fun,” she said quickly. “Everyone will love you.” At his surprised glance, she swallowed hard. “The customers, I mean. The customers will love you.” She smiled. “And I appreciate you being such a good sport.”

She guided him toward the chapel, chattering to distract him. “You’ll greet the customers in the lobby, then we’ll reconvene in the chapel.”

They walked into the smaller chapel and with a practiced eye, she glanced around to make sure the chairs, flowers and equipment were in the proper place. Gracie pointed to the tripod in the back. “You’ll position the video camera and make sure it’s on. At the front, Lincoln will start the ceremony and when the wedding march begins, you’ll walk the bride down the aisle and give her away.”

“Um, this is all new to me,” Steve said.

“I know, but we’ll get through it.”

“No. I mean I’ve never seen a wedding before.”

Her eyebrows went up. “Never?”

“Just on TV, and I try to avoid that whenever possible.”

She pursed her lips—the guy was a bona fide wedding-phobe. Suddenly, the opening strains of the wedding march sounded over the speakers. Gracie jerked her head around to see Lincoln working the audio controls and wearing a mischievous grin.

“Show him,” he said, moving his arm in a rolling motion. “Walk down the aisle together.”

Gracie narrowed her eyes at him, but conceded the wisdom in a practice run. Suddenly nervous for no good reason, she smiled up at Steve. “Okay—pretend I’m the bride.”

One of his dark eyebrows shot up, inadvertently making him look even more like the King. She walked to the back of the chapel and stared down the white cloth runner spread over the red carpet leading to the white arch at the front. It really was rather ominous what a simple trip down the aisle represented in Western culture—a journey to a new place. With her heart thumping, she tucked her hand into the crook of Steve’s elbow.

“Walk slowly and let the bride set the pace,” she murmured, then began walking, pausing with the completion of each step. His stride was longer and he stumbled a bit to stay abreast. She, meanwhile, was ultraconscious of the muscles in his arm beneath her fingers, and the occasional brushing of their hips until they found a rhythm.

“You’ve done this before,” Steve said, breaking into her thoughts.

“Many times,” she admitted.

“For real?” he asked.

A couple of seconds passed before she realized what he was asking, and she was the one who stumbled this time. “Oh—no, never for real. I mean…I’ve never been married.”

He didn’t respond and by that time, thank heavens, they were at the end of the aisle.

Lincoln shot her a triumphant smile before cutting the music. “Then I’ll begin the ceremony, talk about the sanctity of marriage, blah, bah, blah. Then I’ll ask who gives this bride, and Steve, you’ll say in your best Elvis voice, “It’s now or never. I give this woman in marriage.” Lincoln spoke in his own impersonator voice, which was bad.

Next to her, Steve shifted from foot to foot and looked up at the ceiling.

“Well, let’s hear it,” Lincoln prompted.

Gracie glanced sideways, holding her breath.

Steve cleared his throat and thrust his head forward like a rooster, and cleared his throat again. “It’s now—” He stopped, then sighed and started again, ducking his head in an attempt to inject more bass into his voice. “It’s now…or never.”

Gracie winced inwardly. He was worse than Lincoln.

“You need to add a warble,” Lincoln said flatly, then demonstrated. “It’s n-o-o-w or n-e-e-ver. Try again.”

She could feel the resistance rolling off Steve in waves—this exercise went against his every instinct, which she thought was odd for a creative person like a photographer. Maybe Lincoln was right—maybe Steve Mulcahy was on the skids and desperate for a job.

“Just try to have fun,” she whispered.

“It’s n-now or n-never,” he murmured.

“That’s not warbling,” Lincoln said. “That’s stuttering.”

“It’s fine,” Gracie said quickly. “Just don’t forget to add ‘I give this bride in marriage.’At that point you can return to the camera.”

“Then I’ll finish the ceremony,” Lincoln continued. “Yada, yada, yada, then I pronounce the couple man and wife, and you sing them out.”

Gracie led him to the back of the chapel and pointed to a small television screen. “The words will scroll across. Lincoln, will you cue up the song?”

Steve wanted to fall through the floor. For the first time in his law enforcement career, he was tempted to blow his own cover—there were some things that a man simply should not have to endure. As “I’m All Shook Up” began to play, perspiration broke on his brow beneath the ridiculous wig. It was bad enough that he looked like a fool, but that he looked like a fool in front of Gracie Sergeant….

It shouldn’t matter, he told himself. This was just a job, and singing karaoke was no different than assuming an accent to hide his identity, as he had many times. He would never see these people again—why should he care what they thought?

But inexplicably, he did. At least he cared what Gracie thought of him. Within a few hours of meeting her, she had gotten under his thick skin.

It was that darned kiss, he thought. And the transparent dress. And the tattoo. And the mole. The woman was a tight little package of sex appeal.

And he was dressed like Elvis.

He took the microphone she handed to him and held it to his dry mouth—he was all shook up, all right. He was shaking.

“Just follow the words on the screen,” Gracie urged.

He did. Somehow. With his face flaming, he talked and hummed his way through the song, thinking the one saving grace was that his partner Karen wasn’t there to watch the humiliating spectacle. Halfway through, howling reverberated through the room. H.D. sat in the doorway, his nose in the air, his eyes closed as he wailed at the offense to his ears.

Steve was in a sweat of degradation. “Forget it,” he snapped, and extended the microphone back to Gracie. A man had his limits.

“Try again, Mr. Mulcahy.”

He looked up and saw Cordelia Conroy crouching in the doorway with her hand clamped around H.D.’s muzzle. Her smile was part mocking, part challenging. “I suspect even Elvis didn’t get it right in the first take.” She walked away and the insolent hound, thank goodness, waddled after her.

Steve felt helpless—the woman had been clear that she expected him to hold up his end of the agreement.

To do whatever Gracie Sergeant told him to do.

He swung his gaze to the platinum-blond pixie and he nearly groaned in frustration—she must think he was a complete loser.

“Shall we try again?” she murmured.

He sighed and nodded, and Lincoln recued the song. Steve wiped the sweat from his forehead and, realizing that he had no pride left to salvage, sang the song again.

When it was over, there was dead silence in the chapel. Lincoln looked as if he’d just witnessed a human sacrifice. Gracie’s eyes were rounded and she looked as if she were trying to think of something to say.

Finally, her mouth curved into a wide, forced smile. “All righty then.” She turned to the front. “Lincoln, cue up the full track—we’ll say he has laryngitis and let him lip-synch. Would you show Steve the break room in case he wants a drink of water before we get started?”

She flashed him another smile, but Steve could see the alarm in her eyes as she turned to leave. She was thinking that right now, a dwarf Korean Elvis was looking pretty darn good.

Lincoln walked up, his mouth pulled back in a wry frown. “Man, you’re really bad.”

Steve glared. “I don’t sing. I’ve been trying to tell everyone.”

Lincoln clapped him on the back. “Well, now we believe you.”

Steve followed him into the hall. “Lincoln Nebraska can’t be your real name.”

Lincoln gave a dramatic sigh. “It is. My parents have a cruel streak.”

Gracie’s light floral scent lingered on the air. Involuntarily, Steve glanced toward the front of the building and caught sight of her silhouetted by the afternoon sun just before she disappeared around the corner.

“She’s something, isn’t she?” Lincoln asked.

Steve jerked his head back so quickly, he dislodged his wig. “Who?”

Lincoln laughed. “Yeah. Listen, man, you have six weddings to get through tonight. You can’t afford to be distracted.”

Steve frowned. Then someone should tell Gracie Sergeant to wear civilized underwear. He turned away, marveling over how he’d gotten himself into this bizarre situation. He, of all people, who was allergic to weddings. This had been the longest day of his life, and it wasn’t even close to being over.

Lincoln led him into a room with a table, chairs and a small kitchen connected to the office he’d seen earlier. “Thirsty?”

Steve shrugged, past caring. “Sure.”

Lincoln opened a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses.

Steve straightened. “Should we be doing this?”

“Absolutely,” Lincoln said, pouring the shots, then handing one to Steve. “This should loosen you up a little. Unless you want to perform six weddings stone cold sober.”

Steve hesitated a split second, then downed the fiery liquid. Surely the King would forgive him.

“So, Steve—what brings you to TCB?” Lincoln asked casually.

A warning flag went up in Steve’s brain. He set down the glass and gave a little laugh. “I was under the obviously false impression that I was hired to take photographs. I wasn’t aware of the full job description.”

“So quit,” the man said mildly.

FBI agents were taught to exhibit honor and dignity in their personal lives, but when put on the spot undercover, they were expected to be pathological liars. Steve decided the best way to get the man off his back was to enlist him as an ally. “I need this job, man. That’s why I’m trying so hard.” He scoffed and gestured to his costume. “Look at me—why would I do this unless I had to?”

Lincoln pursed his mouth, then made a rueful noise. “Good point.” Then his eyes narrowed. “But if you’re in some kind of trouble, don’t drag Gracie into it. That girl is looking for happily ever after. Capiche?”

Steve nodded. “Don’t worry—I’m not a happily ever after kind of guy.”

“Good,” Lincoln said. “Then we understand each other.”

Steve bristled, but before he could respond, a chime sounded overhead.

Lincoln smiled. “That must be the happy couple. Let’s go have a wedding.”

Steve touched his hand to his roiling stomach. Just the words made him feel queasy…or was it the news that sexy Gracie Sergeant was off-limits?

CHAPTER FIVE

GRACIE RESISTED the urge to park her green Volkswagen Rabbit next to Steve Mulcahy’s dark SUV and instead wheeled into a space a few feet away in the pay parking lot across from TCB and cut the engine. She hated being late, but that’s what she got for staying up until 2:00 a.m. listening to “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” on continuous play on her phonograph and trying to pinpoint what exactly about Steve Mulcahy made her want to marinate in the music of old 45s?

It wasn’t his impersonation skills, although she had to admit that he’d performed much better than she’d expected. What he lacked in lip-synching skills, he made up for in easygoing charm—the customers loved him, and he appeared eager to interact with them, asking questions and feigning interest, all in a southern bass that he seemed to have pulled out of thin air. Without prompting, he’d stayed “in character” until the clients left and he’d changed back into his regular clothes. Then it was as if a mask had been lowered back into place. He’d been cordial, had even walked Gracie to her car, but she could sense his distance—had he been afraid she was going to kiss him again?

The bad thing was that his fears would have been well founded—their too-short kiss had dominated her thoughts for most of the day, reinforced each time the couples had kissed when pronounced husband and wife. There had been a few seconds last night standing next to her car when she’d thought he was remembering the kiss, too. But his cell phone had rung and he had said an abrupt good-night.

“Karen” had impeccable timing.

Gracie swung out of her car and jogged across the street. A rental car sat in the chapel drive-through, which meant Cordelia was busy at this early hour. A pang of guilt struck Gracie—Cordelia worked such long hours. It wasn’t fair for her to arrive late, no matter what the excuse. Worse, she’d asked Steve to come in early today so she could pin the costumes for alterations—except she hadn’t expected him to arrive this early.

Chastising herself, she opened the front door, enjoying the few minutes of humming quiet before the stereo and door chimes were activated. The scent of coffee called to her. Looking forward to a jolt of caffeine, she walked down the hall toward the kitchen, fighting a yawn. But at the sound of the photocopier running, she frowned. If Cordelia was working the drive-through, who was in the office?

When the office window came into view, she saw Steve standing with his back to the door, watching as the light of the photocopier flashed. He wore jeans and a baggy shirt, like yesterday. He craned his neck to look out the window where she knew he could see the drive-through. Frowning at his suspicious body language, she remained out of sight and watched incredulously as he removed her appointment book, turned the page and returned it facedown on the copier. Smothering a gasp, she flattened against the wall, her heart pounding. Why would he be interested in her appointment book? Was he some kind of saboteur from a competitor?

She stood, frozen. One part of her wanted to charge into the office and demand to know what he was doing, but another part of her railed against the idea that Steve could be involved in something illicit. True, she’d only just met him, but she’d gotten the feeling that he was an honest man.

She bit down on the inside of her cheek—she knew too many women who turned a blind eye to the obvious because they projected their own wants and desires onto a situation, and she wasn’t going to be one of them. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door to the office, making as much noise as possible. “Good morning.”

Steve jerked around, his eyes wide. “Good morning.”

“What are you doing?” she asked cheerfully, nodding toward the edge of her appointment book that stuck out from under the lid of the photocopier.

A flash of guilt darkened his eyes, but he recovered quickly. “I thought I might be better able to prepare if I knew in advance what packages are booked…at least until I get the hang of things.”

His story seemed plausible enough—maybe she had imagined his guilty reaction.

He gave her a little smile. “Cordelia said it would be okay to photocopy your appointment book—I hope you don’t mind.”

God, the man was so handsome—which only confused her further. Earlier she didn’t want to think badly of him, but was she now looking for a reason to distrust him? If Cordelia had given him permission, then who was she to argue? “Sure, that’s fine.” But she studied him intently, and Lincoln’s words from the previous day about why someone like Steve would be working at TCB came back to her.

He shifted uncomfortably. “I made some coffee,” he said, jerking his head toward the kitchen.

“Thanks,” she said, shaking her critical thoughts. Steve Mulcahy didn’t deserve to be interrogated by her, not when her own life wasn’t exactly on the fast track to success.

She went into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee, spooked by her strong reactions to the man. Sure he was gorgeous, but there was something else…something about him made her feel as if her life were very small. Maybe because, for him, TCB was probably only a pit stop yet she had spent most of her adulthood within these walls. She frowned as she filled H.D.’s food bowl with kibble.

“Here you go,” Steve said from the doorway, extending her appointment book.

Gracie straightened and took the book. Their hands brushed, and she had a fleeting thought that he held on longer than necessary. Her next thought was that she was reading too much into every little movement and she needed to keep the focus on business. “Thank you, Steve. Are you ready for the costume fitting?”

That uncomfortable look came over his face again. “I suppose.”

She sipped from her cup, then winced when the liquid hit the back of her throat. “Oh, my.”

“Did I make it too strong? Sorry.”

“No, it’s…fine,” she squeaked. “Just what I need, actually.”

“Late night?”

“You could say that,” she mumbled as she began walking. Fantasizing about you.

He grinned. “Which casino?”

She frowned. “None. I don’t gamble.”

“No?”

She shook her head. “I don’t have anything against gambling—I’m just not a very lucky person.”

“I find that hard to believe. Especially since you have a four-leaf clover tattooed on your shoulder.”

He’d noticed. She glanced down at the tiny image revealed by the thin strap of her yellow tank top. “That’s precisely why I got the tattoo—I hoped it would change my luck.”

“Did it?”

She shook her head wistfully. “Not yet.”

He laughed. “But you’re optimistic.”

“Of course.” She met his gaze and something electric passed between them. Her smile melted as the light in his eyes changed…to desire? A shiver skated over her shoulders as her body reacted to the thought. Her breasts hardened, her nipples beaded and the restlessness that had been plaguing her body seemed to coalesce in her midsection. Afraid that her lust was evident, she cast about for a safe topic. Recalling Lincoln’s speculation that Steve was a gambler down on his luck, she asked, “What about you? Do you play the tables?”

“A little blackjack, a little craps.”

The casual reply of a person with a problem? She couldn’t tell. “Have you always been a photographer?”

“Um, no.”

When he didn’t expand, she pressed. “What then?”

Another laugh and shrug. “A little of everything, really. I guess you could say I’m a drifter.”

Mostly physical work, she surmised from his athletic build, although his fingernails were clean and well kept. He had nice hands with long, tanned fingers.

She swallowed hard. “Where did you drift from?”

“Oh, all over,” he said vaguely. “I was an army brat.”

“Where is your family now?”

“Here and there. Yours?”

“Um, same,” she lied, realizing he had turned the tables. Neither one of them wanted to divulge details of their lives. Fair enough. Keep it light and breezy, she told herself as she walked into the closet, trying not to remember it was there she had kissed him. She moved back to the clothing rack and removed the costumes, then handed them to him. “Why don’t you take these into the dressing room and come out when you’re ready?”

Steve drank in Gracie’s luminous face and fought the overwhelming urge to take her into the dressing room. He had hoped that when he saw her this morning that his attraction to her would have diminished, but it hadn’t. If anything, he was even hotter for her today in her little yellow tank top and swingy black skirt and black-and-white polka dot shoes. A black headband in her short spiky hair made her look even more kittenish and the violet dangling glass earrings perfectly mirrored her incredible eyes. He had a vision of those eyes slitted in passion, her creamy-skinned body beneath his.

“Steve?”

He blinked. “Hmm? Oh…right.” He took the armful of colorful clothes and walked into the dressing room, telling himself he had to get a grip. This assignment was the result of Mitch Lundy eluding the FBI for years—he couldn’t allow himself to be distracted by an inconvenient hard-on for this woman.