Gorgeous Grooms: Her Stand-In Groom / Her Wish-List Bridegroom / Ordinary Girl, Society Groom
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Early the next morning they picked a chapel within walking distance from their hotel, opting for what passed for understated in Las Vegas. Plastic blood-red roses dripped from a white trellis just outside the door, and inside the lobby guests could put a buck in a vending machine to buy a packet of birdseed to toss at the bride and groom.
Of course there were no guests: only Catherine, wearing a simple white A-line dress that flowed nearly to her ankles, and Stephen, dressed in a charcoal suit. She supposed it was silly to wear white for this farce of a wedding, but she believed in tradition.
A Vegas wedding, she soon realized, had traditions of its own, quirkiness being at the top of the list. They managed to bypass the Elvis impersonator, but to Catherine’s horrified amusement, the I Do Chapel’s minister bore a striking resemblance to Liberace.
“The standard wedding package includes your choice of song, a bouquet of white carnations for the bride and a snapshot to remember the happy occasion,” Liberace droned. “For just a little more you can upgrade to the deluxe package and get the pretty little lady a bouquet of roses, three snapshots and these matching T-shirts.”
He pointed to the wall where the shirts were displayed. Emblazoned on the front of each were the words “We did it in Vegas at the I Do Chapel.”
“Oh, my God,” Catherine gasped, swallowing a bubble of hysterical laughter.
To her surprise, Stephen said dryly, “The deluxe package, by all means. We wouldn’t want to miss out on those shirts.”
The entire affair seemed so out of character for both of them, she supposed they would need the T-shirts to convince themselves they’d actually gone through with it. Of course, the marriage certificate would be real enough. That thought was sobering.
After filling out the necessary paperwork, they followed Liberace into the main room of the chapel.
“Are you expecting any guests?”
“No,” Stephen said.
“Then I guess we’ll get down to it.”
Before Catherine could catch a breath, a woman shoved a bouquet of plastic white roses into her hands and snapped a hasty shot of her and Stephen as they stood before a makeshift altar. Liberace nodded to another woman, who cued up the music. “Green-sleeves” filled the room.
“Dearly beloved,” Liberace began, speaking to a room occupied by only five people, including the bride and groom. “We are gathered here today to unite this woman and this man in matrimony. Do you…?” He glanced at the paper before him and then back at Stephen. “I’m sorry. Could you pronounce your name for me, please?”
Stephen nodded, but his gaze never left Catherine’s face as he replied, “Stefano Anastasio Danbury.”
The name rolled from his tongue, a perfect complement to the dark hair and eyes—eyes that now stared in challenge, as if daring her to comment, and so she did.
“I wondered what the A stood for.”
Something like surprise flickered briefly in his expression. Clearly this was not the comment he was expecting.
“My grandparents—paternal grandparents—preferred it that way.”
Catherine had never met the elder Danburys, but she thought she understood what he was saying. Stefano would have been easy enough to Anglicize, but a name like Anastasio would have no English equivalent. She wasn’t one to pay attention to the gossip, but she now recalled that she’d heard her mother talking to a friend once about a scandal of some sort, involving Stephen’s father and the woman he’d married.
“Your mother was from Puerto Rico,” she said, pleased with herself for finally remembering. It made sense to her now that he would have learned her native tongue.
“My mother was a maid,” he said flatly. “No other comment?”
“Your initials spell SAD.”
His brows tugged together.
“May I continue?” the minister asked.
“That’s up to the lady,” Stephen replied.
Did he expect her to call it off just because his name confirmed the heritage his looks hinted at?
“Is there suddenly a reason I shouldn’t want to?” She lobbed the ball neatly back into his court. If he thought her a bigot, let him spell it out.
“You have every reason in the world not to want to.”
“Those reasons were the same back in Chicago. Exactly the same,” she enunciated. “I haven’t changed my mind. Have you?”
“I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve lost my mind, but, no, I haven’t changed it.” He nodded to Liberace. “Proceed.”
The ceremony was over in short order. A couple of “I dos,” the exchange of two hastily purchased gold bands from chapel’s display case—guaranteed not to tarnish for at least five years—and they were pronounced Mr. and Mrs. Stefano Danbury.
“You may kiss your bride.”
Catherine hadn’t allowed herself to think ahead to this part of the ceremony, or, for that matter, to the physical side of marriage. Of course their marriage would be in name only, a marriage of convenience. Wasn’t that, to all intents and purposes, what her parents had? A useful and mutually beneficial union. They seemed content enough after twenty-nine years. Yoked together. Like a pair of oxen.
Of course she and Stephen were hardly in this for the long haul. They’d settled on a year, which seemed a reasonable enough length of time to silence the gossips and satisfy any lawyers Derek hired to fight the codicil or question their nuptials. Something told Catherine that her marriage to Derek would have ended much sooner and far less amicably than she predicted this one would.
Her gaze connected with Stephen’s. For better or worse, literally, he was her husband now. She offered a smile, leaned forward for the kiss, expecting something brief and perfunctory. Then she caught the clean scent of aftershave on his warm skin, noted the sexy line of his mouth. Reaching up, she laid a palm against the hard plain of one of his cheeks, and, for no reason she could fathom, she sighed.
Stephen saw her eyelids flutter shut as his mouth touched hers, but he kept his own eyes open, watching this woman he barely knew, watching his wife. He deepened the kiss out of curiosity, sliding his tongue inside the pliant seam of her lips. She’d always seemed so cool, so in control. Once, a few months back, he’d walked into Derek’s office and caught the pair of them kissing. Even with his cousin’s hand on her nicely curved bottom and her arms twined around his neck she’d managed to look untouched. She didn’t look untouched this time, though he’d so far managed to keep his hands to himself. And neither, he admitted, was he. Kissing Catherine was like sailing La Libertad in rough waters. He needed to hold on. He brought his hands up to frame her face, his fingers stretching into the soft gold of her hair.
“That’s more like it,” Liberace cracked. “Now, if you kids could just take this back to your hotel room, I’ve got another wedding to perform. Don’t forget to pick up your T-shirts on the way out.”
They sprung apart as if they had just been doused with a bucketful of freezing water. Her eyes, as big and blue as the deepest waters of Lake Michigan, reflected his own surprise and confusion. An electrical current of need had coursed through that kiss. It had carried with it a blast of heat that he hadn’t felt in…ever. And it had come from the Ice Princess, Catherine Canton. The discovery, however, was not welcome. Business. That was what this was, Stephen reminded himself. Hormones didn’t, couldn’t factor into it. Even as he told himself this was so, he couldn’t quite squelch the male satisfaction he felt when he noted the way her hand shook when she ran it through her hair. She’d worn her hair loose and long this day, a cascade of sunshine that haloed her face and flowed over her shoulders. He liked it this way the best, especially since the slightly mussed tendrils around her temples had been his doing.
The photographer handed Stephen the three Polaroids, which he stuffed into his pocket without bothering to look at them. They were nearly to the door, his equilibrium almost restored, when Liberace ruined it all by calling out, “Enjoy your wedding night.”
Chapter Four
IN THE glaring sun, Las Vegas didn’t have quite the high-voltage impact it did at night. But, sheened in a gaudy kind of glamour, it still throbbed with excitement.
Catherine wanted nothing more than a few minutes to herself, to try to put that searing kiss into perspective. She tried to be analytical about it. Could her reaction merely have been the desperate need for sexual validation by woman recently rejected? Perhaps, but that did little to cool her blood. This was the desert, but where had all that heat come from? She hadn’t known a simple kiss could be like that, shooting a million flaming arrows of need through her system, each one of them unerringly finding its mark.
“What now?”
She hadn’t meant to ask the question aloud, as it was more rhetorical than anything else, but Stephen answered.
“We can play tourist for a few hours, if you’d like. Our flight doesn’t leave till this evening. Ever play poker?”
It seemed like such an outrageous thing to do just after getting married that she couldn’t help but smile. “Once, at a Vegas night a literacy program held to raise money for supplies. Five-card stud, or something like that.”
“Well, your money wouldn’t go for a good cause this time.”
“How do you know I’ll lose?” she asked, fascinated by the gold flecks the sun had teased out of his otherwise dark eyes.
“Odds favor the house.”
“I don’t like those odds.”
He shrugged. “Every now and then someone hits it big. That’s gambling’s allure, the potential for winning the jackpot. That’s why some people bet their life savings and then some.”
“It makes sense that we’re here, then.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You just bet on me, gambled with your legacy.”
“No, I’d already lost my legacy. I had nothing to lose. That’s the first rule of gambling, by the way: don’t bet more than you can afford to lose.”
“I guess Derek doesn’t know that rule.”
“No. But then Derek doesn’t care about his legacy either. He’s about to lose. Big time.”
Catherine couldn’t help but wonder if they had won or if they, too, would find themselves paying once everything was said and done.
Their flight home was the flight from hell. Delayed nearly two hours, and then rocked by turbulence, it seemed to last an eternity. A superstitious woman would have considered it a bad omen. White-knuckled and terrified, Catherine merely endured it as best she could. Beside her, Stephen slept like a baby.
To keep her mind off her nerves, she studied his features: the sensual line of his lips; the square jaw that was now shadowed and in need of a shave; the thick, dark hair that had fallen over his brow. In sleep he looked oddly vulnerable, and incredibly sexy. She recalled their kiss and felt her face grow warm. People called her an ice princess. She pressed her head back, stared at the “fasten seatbelt” sign and sucked in several calming breaths before closing her eyes. What would they say if they could read her mind just now?
“Penny for your thoughts?”
Her eyelids snapped open. Turning her head she found herself nearly nose to nose with Stephen.
They both straightened in their seats.
“I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wondered what you were thinking. You looked so…intense.”
She forced a laugh. “I don’t care to fly.”
“Do the deep-breathing exercises help?” he asked.
She met his dark gaze, felt her heart tremble, and said with conviction, “Not one bit.”
It was well past midnight when they finally touched down at O’Hare. Glitzy Vegas had cocooned them in illusion. Gritty Chicago doused them in reality. They were husband and wife on what could still be called their wedding night, and yet they were stuck in all of the awkwardness of a first date.
“I’ll take you home,” he said, as if they had just gone to dinner and caught a movie.
“I can grab a cab,” Catherine replied. “It’s out of your way.”
“I’ll take you home. You can get your things.”
“My things?”
“You’re my wife, Catherine. You will live with me.”
His tone offered no room for negotiation, let alone contradiction. Still, she heard herself say, “But I thought…” And then her voice trailed away.
Actually, she had not thought about their living arrangements at all. There simply hadn’t been time during their mad dash to the altar.
“You’ll have your own room, if that’s your concern. I don’t expect a physical relationship.”
“I’ll have my own room,” she repeated, still feeling dazed. But Stephen must have taken her words to mean she was questioning his sincerity.
“I don’t expect you to sleep with me, Catherine. We needn’t consummate our marriage to make it look real to others. Living together should accomplish that.”
Despite his assurances, her mind conjured up a vivid mental picture of them locked together in passion. She couldn’t imagine where this inappropriate visual had come from, but at the moment the only question on her mind was: what kind of lover would Stephen be? That kiss made her wonder. Still waters, she thought. He’d be one to pay attention to detail. To dot every i and cross every t. She licked her dry lips.
“There’s no reason to be nervous,” he said. “Despite my hot Latin blood, I can be a perfect gentleman when it is required.”
His words were mocking, but she thought he sounded insulted as well.
“I’m not nervous, Stephen. I trust you.”
He took the carry-on bag from her hand and started toward the exits. And she would have sworn she heard him reply, “Maybe you shouldn’t.”
The dog offered up a loud and enthusiastic greeting, his tail slicing through the air like a pirate’s sword, when Stephen pushed open the door that led from the garage into the house. Stephen had asked a neighbor to come by to see to the dog’s needs while he was away, but the Lab acted as if he’d been in solitary confinement for months.
“That’s enough, Degas.” He patted the dog’s wide head. “Let’s show some manners, shall we? There’s someone I want you to meet. Sit.”
The hound obediently plopped his hind end down on the floor, his tongue lolling out.
Turning to Catherine, Stephen said, “This is Degas. He’s harmless enough, but he sheds a lot, so you might want to keep your distance. Or not,” he added when Catherine, unmindful of her black linen pantsuit, bent down on one knee to give the dog an affectionate pat. Degas presented her with his paw, which she shook.
“We met the other day.” When his eager tongue washed her face, she added, “I think he likes me.”
She sounded as excited as a kid, and unbothered by the fact she’d just been slobbered on by a dog. What’s not to like? he thought, and felt the same unmistakable surge of attraction he’d felt when he’d kissed her. Had that really only been mere hours ago? It seemed as if a lifetime had passed.
Need made his voice gruff when he said, “Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”
She followed him through the darkened house, wondering why he suddenly seemed so remote. Even the dog was more subdued as he walked beside her, as if he too sensed his master’s sudden mood shift.
He flipped on a couple of lights as he walked, but their glow appeared to do nothing to brighten his mood. When he reached the staircase, he turned to take her carry-on case, even though he already had her suitcase. Then, without a word, he started up.
Their footsteps were muffled by a dark tapestry runner, and she wondered who had done his decorating. He’d hired it out, she was sure of it. It was certainly tasteful, with shades of navy and taupe carried throughout, but it seemed staid and lacking in warmth, just like the man himself at the moment.
Catherine missed the bright French country décor with which she’d decorated her apartment. When she and Derek had become engaged he’d persuaded her that they should live in his penthouse after their marriage and keep his modern furnishings, which complemented the high walls of windows and steeply angled ceilings. So she’d donated her sofa, chairs, coffee table, lamps, even her lovely Duncan Fife dining room set, to a charity auction. She’d come home on her non-wedding night to little more than a mattress on the floor, the sleigh bed having been disposed of as well.
“Is anything wrong?” Stephen asked.
“Nothing. It’s not important.”
He stopped at the top of the stairs. “Tell me.”
“I just realized that it’s a good thing I sold most of my furniture before my wed—in July. I don’t have much to move now.”
“Whatever you want to bring to my house I’ll make room for. I’ll hire movers first thing tomorrow.”
Brisk, efficient, impersonal. They were discussing their living arrangements, and yet they might as well have been discussing the weather.
He turned to the right. The upstairs, she realized, was broken into two wings, separated by a long hall that offered a view of the great room below.
“I think you’ll find this room acceptable. If you need more closet space, the room next to it also has a walk-in.”
He opened the door, and all Catherine saw was the queen-sized bed. Liberace’s words came back. This was their wedding night. Or it had been. Now, it was after midnight and they were back to being two strangers, albeit two strangers who shared a last name.
“Goodnight, Catherine.”
“It’s morning,” she pointed out, and then smiled as a thought occurred to her. “And it’s your birthday. Happy birthday, Stephen.”
She reached out and squeezed his hand, but when she would have let go he held on, using it to draw her closer.
“You looked beautiful today, by the way.”
Her heart fluttered ridiculously at the compliment.
“It wasn’t a designer original this time.”
“It didn’t need to be.”
He leaned down, hovered for a moment as if in indecision. Finally, he kissed her cheek.
“Should you need anything, my room is the first one to the left of the stairs.”
“See you in the morning,” she said.
She closed the door and then stood there with her hand on the knob, wondering about the man she had just married. Wondering if they would be friends when their year ended and they went their separate ways. Wondering how she was going to explain her hasty nuptials to her family, and what the press would have to say. Wondering if she’d just made the mistake of a lifetime.
And wondering why, despite all of her concerns, she felt an undeniable shimmer of excitement.
Stephen was not home when Catherine awoke the following morning. It was barely half past nine, and yet when she followed the scent of coffee to the kitchen she found only a note.
I’ll contact the movers today. Coffee might be a little strong for your taste. There’s cream in the fridge and sugar in the cupboard next to the stove. S.
Hardly a love letter, she thought, bemused.
After her first eye-opening sip of coffee, she decided to take him up on the offer of cream. Then, leaning back against the cupboard, she glanced around the kitchen. It was a generously proportioned room, with state-of-the-art stainless steel appliances, dark cherry cabinets, and a built-in nook with bench seating. A large window over the sink looked out into a beautifully landscaped yard. The room was functional and yet somehow looked cozy. She decided she liked it best of any room in the house.
“You must be Catherine.”
Startled, she turned and found a woman of about sixty standing in the doorway. She wore a dark uniform dress that zipped up the front, and she held a couple of grocery bags, which she now set on the butcher-block island. Catherine had detected a lyrical cadence to her voice when she spoke and, based on her dark coloring, she decided the woman’s native tongue was Spanish.
“Yes, hello. I didn’t realize anyone was here.”
“I’m Rosaria. I let myself in. Stephen called this morning and asked if I would pick up some groceries. I try to keep the kitchen stocked with good food.” She winked. “Stephen, he likes…” She seemed to search for a word, then broke into a broad grin. “Junk.”
“Junk?”
“You know.” She pointed to the refrigerator. “Meals that come from a freezer. He says he doesn’t have time to fuss with dinner.”
Something seemed obscene about having a kitchen a gourmet would be proud to own and heating up precooked dinners in the microwave.
“You’re pretty.” She made a little humming noise. “And so thin.”
“Thank you,” Catherine replied, not sure how else to respond to what might not have been a compliment.
“You’re not Stephen’s usual type.”
“Oh?”
She motioned toward Catherine’s hair. “Blonde. I don’t know that I ever remember seeing him with a blonde woman before.”
“I see.” Which, of course, she didn’t.
“Of course, I didn’t think Stephen would ever marry. He used to say as much whenever I’d tell him that a woman would make good use of this kitchen and all the fancy appliances he had put in here. ‘Men can cook, too,’ he’d say. But he never bothered to. And no wonder. It’s no fun cooking for one.”
She put away the groceries as she spoke.
“You look hungry.”
“I am, yes,” Catherine agreed. “I was just trying to figure out what to make for breakfast.”
“Dishes are in the those cabinets.” Rosaria pointed. “I brought eggs, and a nice fresh loaf of bread. I could make you an omelet, if you’d like. I’ve got a few minutes before I have to leave.”
“I can do it, but thanks.”
“Well, I’ll be going, then. Nice to have met you, Catherine.” The woman stopped in the doorway. “It’s not my place, I know, but Stephen is a good man. He deserves happiness, and there hasn’t been a lot of it in his life. I hope you will make him happy.”
It wasn’t a lie when Catherine replied, “I hope we’ll both be happy.”
She spent the Sunday doing something she rarely did: puttering. She figured she would play it safe and stay out of sight for the day. Then she put away the belongings she had brought with her and walked around her new home, trying to picture spending all her evenings and weekends there with Stephen. Degas followed her every step.
“What does he do to unwind?” she asked the dog. The words seemed to echo from the vaulted ceilings. “Is he a night owl, a morning person? Does he work late? What does he do most weekends?”
The dog nuzzled her hand, looking for an ear-rub.
“You’re about as talkative as your master.”
There was a lot she didn’t know about her husband, and his house, tastefully decorated as it was, revealed little. At the top of the stairs she turned left instead of right. One room remained to be explored. One room that might shed light on Stephen’s personality.
Catherine hesitated only for a moment before turning the knob. This wasn’t like her at all, invading someone’s privacy, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from stepping over the threshold and into what was aptly named the master bedroom.
The walls were painted a vibrant red, set off by thick white trim at the windows and tall white baseboards. Other bits of color were splashed around the room, and she couldn’t help but think he had saved all of it for this room, for so much of the rest of the house was done in less vivid hues.
She spied a photo on his nightstand and, though she had intended to venture no farther inside the room, she found herself crossing to it. It was his parents. She would stake her life on it. She sat on the edge of Stephen’s unmade bed and studied the people in the picture. His father had certainly been handsome, with hair just a couple of shades darker than Catherine’s and eyes as blue as a summer sky. But it was from his mother that Stephen had inherited his striking looks: the dark eyes, the fuller lips, the prominent cheekbones and slightly flared nose. His mother’s eyes held secrets as well, but her smile was warm and inviting.