A Match Made in Heaven?

Chapter One

Sam Carroll skidded to a halt at the church entrance in a cloud of Valentino lace and satin. Too bad. The groom had showed up after all.

A bead of moisture slid between her breasts, and her heart hammered so fast, she bet it’d put a hole in her new Victoria’s Secret bra. A brave breath, and she adjusted the double veils that kept her face hidden, but also made everything a blur. She clutched her father’s elbow and squinted down the aisle. He was still there. Argh!

It made her insides shrivel at the thought of saying ‘I do’ to Michael Scott … instead of—instead of—but he’d skipped town. She whimpered and almost turned and fled. Her father patted her hand, and she nearly screamed.

That’d be a shocker to the stiffs at this upper crust event. A giggle won out at the thought, and she felt better. Another pat to her hand. The scream scratched her throat, but got outclassed by the wedding melody filling the church.

Samantha froze in step and prayed for dissolution of these nuptials. Her ingenious plan of hours ago zoomed through her mind at supersonic speed. Her stomach swayed. Suppose it backfired?

Her father smothered a cough with his fist.

She must’ve been in another dimension to have allowed mamma to railroad her with her dramatic groanings of a flailing business. Sheesh, she’d only had a latte or two with golden boy to appease her, and here she was the lead in the society wedding of the season.

Gulping a mouthful of air, she let it whiz out between her teeth. A delicate situation, but time to snuff it out … in style … er … not that exactly, but it should have the groom snapping up the right of first refusal. With that thought in the forefront of her mind, she tightened her fingers on her father’s arm and stomped forward in her galoshes.

The guests’ muffled murmurs followed her down the aisle, grating on her raw emotions and compounding her doubts. The chatter grew louder, and abruptly stopped when she stepped beside the groom. An odd sensation teased. She dismissed it, not daring to glance at him just yet.

“Oh, my,” someone said. “Mrs. Carroll’s about to pass out.”

Her father plunked down beside mamma and held her upright. “Not another word out of you, woman.” He chuckled, pleased.

“Are we-e-e rea-a-ady?” The wiry priest sneezed, pointing to the burning candles. “All-ll-ergies.”

Samantha nodded in empathy, and the groom curled his fingers around her hand. His heat zapped up her arm, through her bloodstream and straight into her heart. Her pulse zinged her ribs.

“Dearly beloved …” the priest began the sermon.

Oxygen spiraled in her throat. Pressure pounded her temples. Perspiration dampened her forehead and prickles chased up her spine. She crinkled her brow and twitched her nose at the hint of a familiar scent. Cool spice. She shook her head. Stress of the situation must be causing this crazy speeding of her vitals.

The priest droned on, “… why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

“I wish to spea-a-ak.” A man stumbled into the church, his hair standing on end, shirttail hanging out and torn tux sagging at the shoulder.

Dang the veils. She couldn’t see his face clearly, and in the commotion, couldn’t ID his voice. But she could smell the splatter on him … phew, heavy-duty stuff. She held her breath and grinned. Good timing.

“Tha-at” –he pointed to the groom— “is-is an impostor … a-aah!”

Samantha exhaled in a rush, and her veils fluttered.

A Doberman snarled at his heels. He shrieked and jumped onto a pew, setting off a myriad of sound effects from the guests.

A parade of yelping canines raced inside, and a pot-bellied man huffed and puffed after them. He stumbled to a halt, and dolled up babes of all shapes and sizes hyperventilated, groping for their hubbies in the pews.

“What’s the meaning of this?” the priest demanded. “We are in the house of God.”

“What’s going on?” Sam glimpsed her mother swoon a second time, her gargantuan hat tipping. Her father was too slow in catching her, and she slithered to the floor.

“Wasn’t ’bout to let prissy boy scoop you up, Sammy,” the groom whispered in her ear, his eye on the dog keeper.

“He got away in the pick-up with the dogs in back,” the dogcatcher muttered.

“Who?” Samantha yanked the veils over her head and blinked, her contacts nearly popping from her pupils. “You?!” She narrowed her eyes at the two-day stubble shadowing his jaw. “How?”

Johnny gaped, then tossed back his head and laughed. “What’ve you done to yourself?”

“You should talk … you … you no good, stubborn mule.” She couldn’t use the choice words itching to spill off her tongue. She was, after all, in church; she cringed at the blue streak whipping through her mind.

Air crackled.

She looked him over from head to toe. His work shirt slouched beneath his waist-length jacket and a chauffeur’s cap was tucked under his arm. Faded jeans hugged his legs, a tear exposed one of his knees and scuffed boots were visible beneath his tattered cuffs. His shoulder-length reddish hair was combed though.

“Didn’t have time to change.” He cupped her chin and gazed deep into her scarlet eyes, squinting to see through the blood-red lenses to her blue irises. “Sorry.”

He touched the dark paint beneath her eyes and smudged his fingers.

She slapped his hand away.

Not easily deterred, he pushed a gaudy green lock off her golden brow and goop smeared across her forehead. “You clash, sweetheart,” he teased.

She sniffed, nose in the air.

He dabbed at the smudge, but heat from his hand made it worse. “You know I love you as you are … er … were.” He tried to caress her cheek beneath the layers of ruddy foundation, but only scraped the crusty surface. “You didn’t have to morph just for me.” He winced at the gaping hole between her teeth. “I would’ve preferred you hadn’t.” His grin widened. “It’s washable?” His query was hopeful.

A soft growl in her throat, and she turned, sinking her small sharp teeth into his hand.

“Hey!” He yanked his hand back. “Glad to know you still have all your teeth, princess.”

“Don’t you sweet talk me, you … you …” She swung away and clipped his jaw with her bouquet of dandelions.

He staggered back, tumbled over a yelping Chihuahua, and sprawled on the floor. Appalled at her behavior, she dropped to her knees beside him, heedless of squashing her gown around her. “Johnny, are you all right?” She slapped his face, and his bristles scoured her fingers. “I didn’t mean it.”

He mocked a moan. “If you could just cradle my head in your lap, sweetheart, and kiss …”

“Ooo!” She caught the twinkle in his brown gaze. Struggling to her feet, she swished to the side and stomped her foot. The hem of her dress brushed his temple and his head plopped back to the floor.

“Rubber boots, Sam?” He winked. “Setting a new trend?”

She ignored the hit, and favored him with her stiff back.

“We’ll have none of this.” The priest ran a hand around his collar, patted his thinning hair and sneezed.

He squinted heavenward through his wire rim spectacles. Sam could swear … oops … perhaps not swear exactly, but could bet … not that either … see, yes, she could see the man was offering prayers for deliverance from the lot of them.

She took a step closer, about to whisper to him that a long vacation after this might help, but she staggered to a stop. Something Johnny said smacked her in the pit of her stomach.

“Good thing the floor’s carpeted.” Johnny rubbed the back of his head, his eyes fixed on her. He inhaled, and the air blasted from his mouth in frustration. Her heat hinting of roses had his temperature rising and his belly tensing. He was tempted to grab her by the boot and topple her onto his lap. His groin tightened, and his jaw did the same. He wanted to touch, taste … feel … If he had to marry her prematurely to nix that bozo’s attempt to get her in the sack, so be it.

He pushed himself up to a sitting position and stroked his chin with the back of his hand. Whether he could keep her without exposing his secret was another matter altogether.

“Red here picked me up in a limo …” The jilted groom loomed above him and shoving a finger in his face, distracted his thoughts. “… and dumped me off at the dog pound.”

Sam swiveled around, her brows shooting upward.

“A slight detour.” Johnny bounced back up and a burnished lock flopped over his brow.

“I could have you arrested.” Michael wiped dirt off his chin with his torn sleeve, and an Irish setter pawed his chest. “Down, boy, down,” he strained a croon.

A rotund man elbowed his way through the crowd and confronted Johnny. “You are finished at Global Bank, young man.” He puffed out his chest and grabbed his wife by the arm. “Gertrude, Michael, let’s go.”

“Yes, dad.” Michael tripped after him, trying to extricate himself from the beasts, and shot Johnny a lethal look. “Coming.”

Johnny glanced at Sam smoothing her gown; glad she missed Michael’s hostile darts. Her head snapped up, and she pinned him with her sharp gaze. His heart sank. She must’ve caught on, and the game was up.

“What did you say?” She took a step, then another.

Air whistled from his mouth, and he backtracked.

She advanced.

He leaned back against the church organ, and the keys sounded off cue but nobody noticed.

“When?” He bolted up and averting his eyes, straightened his shirt cuffs. “Did I say what?”

“A couple of minutes ago.”

“You mean when you landed a right hook on my mug?”

“Yeah.”

He feigned a cough; relieved she wasn’t referring to the exiting buffoon. A grin curved his mouth. “I would’ve preferred you hadn’t changed.”

“No.” She shook her head, veils flapping like wings on either side of her shoulders. “Before that.”

“I said that I … uh … love you.”

“You do?”

“The woman still questions my word.” He slapped a hand to his forehead and rolled his eyes heavenward. “If she but knew what I went through to get here—” He blinked, once, twice. Nah, he must be seeing things.

Angels didn’t flitter about the church ceiling chewing bubblegum and dressed in fatigues—hey, did she just wink at him? Must be the stress of the scene, but he could’ve sworn … Chuckling, he shook his head and dismissed the illusion. Just as quickly, a sobering thought flashed through his mind. There must’ve been one tapping on his shoulder earlier, when he made that pit stop at Lucky Lou’s on the Nevada state line.

“You do.” Samantha flung herself into his arms.

“Mmm.” He rained kisses all over her face, hoping he wouldn’t regret the tough decision he made to keep his finances under wraps, for the time being. “Yum, this goop’s candy flavored.”

“Belgian chocolate, lite … low carbs.”

“Could get used to the taste … you.”

“I love you, Johnny Belen.”

The priest coughed. “Is there a wedding to be had?”

“Just a minute.” Sam twisted aside and popped the red lenses from her eyes. After tossing them behind her, she turned to him and looked every inch the radiant bride. Johnny gulped, and hauled her back into his embrace.

“Did you really drop Michael off at the pound?” She muffled a giggle with her veils.

Michael was pressed flat against the back wall and inching his way to the door. A Doberman Pinscher pawed his chest and slurped his face.

“Willie’s Doggie Salon, sweetheart.” Johnny caught sight of his buddy scrambling to round up the animals, and his mouth twitched at the corners. “Start up in Goodsprings, Nevada.”

“Never heard of it—”

“Well, that’s because it’s—”

“Johnny, you trekked across the desert to find me,” she whispered, delighted.

“I did,” he murmured. “The Mojave Desert no less.”

She laughed, the sound ringing off stained glass windows like the bells of St. Mary’s. “Funny man.”

“Yeah.” He swallowed the lump in his throat before it exploded into a confession he might later regret.

“Do you want a wedding or not?” the priest asked in exasperation, but his mouth twitched a smile.

“I do,” she said.

“I do,” he said.

“I pronounce you man and wife.” The priest breathed a sigh of relief and blotted his moist brow with the back of his hand. “You may kiss the bride.”

A sliver of doubt pricked his heart, but when she threw her arms around his neck and smiled, it dissipated. Amidst shrieks and snarling dogs, the sweetest serenade he ever heard, Johnny kissed his Sam.

************

Two years later …

“Honey …” Samantha stood at the kitchen counter mixing pancake batter in a plastic bowl.

“Mmm.” Johnny wrapped his arms around her protruding belly and pushed aside the collar of her sweatshirt, nuzzling her neck.

“Someone’s at the door.” She leaned back against his chest, breath checking in her throat. “Uh … will you get it?”

“No.” He nibbled at her earlobe.

“Jo— ”

He nipped the tip of her ear. “If I must.”

Smiling, she watched him stride from the tiny kitchen. She pressed one hand to the small of her back and rubbed her swelling abdomen with the other. A sigh of contentment slipped from her mouth. The baby was due in three months.

Johnny walked back, pulling the letter from the envelope.

She plopped the spoon in the batter. “What is it?”

He remained silent, perusing the page.

“Johnny?”

“Special delivery.”

“What’s it say?”

He glanced up, not quite meeting her eyes, a wry twist on his mouth. “You don’t want to know.”