Bride Required

“Single?”

“As in unmarried.”

“Of course,” Dee laughed. “…Why?”

Baxter hesitated, then finally decided to get round to the reason he’d approached her. He grimaced before relaying, “You can’t be married because that’s part of the job—getting married.”

Getting married? Dee repeated the words to herself, as if by doing so, they might take on a new meaning, but they didn’t. Then she took to staring at him as if he were completely and utterly mad.

He wanted her to marry him and she didn’t even know his name!

ALISON FRASER was born and brought up in the far north of Scotland. She studied English literature at university and taught maths for a while, then became a computer programmer. She took up writing as a hobby and it is still very much so, in that she doesn’t take it too seriously! Alison has two dogs, two children but only one husband. She currently lives in Birmingham, UK, and is in her early forties—she doesn’t know what she wants to be when she grows up!

Bride Required

Alison Fraser

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

BAXTER was just about to give up the search when he found the right girl.

She was sitting in a long corridor that connected underground platforms. He looked for the usual cardboard sign saying ‘hungry and homeless’. There wasn’t one. She sat, eyes on the ground, playing a flute, and left passers-by to choose whether to throw a coin in her instrument case or not.

But she was still one of them: the dispossessed, the destitute, the growing army of young people living on the streets. It might have shocked him, their number—it was such a contrast to the affluence of central London—but he’d been warned that the capital had changed in ten years. And, besides, he’d seen worse on the streets of Addis and Mogotu.

Later he was to question why he’d selected her. At the time it was first impressions. She was wearing an army-surplus jacket and torn jeans, but at least they looked reasonably clean. She was young, but not too young. The flute playing put her one up the scale from begging, but still suggested she might be desperate enough.

Or perhaps it was simply the dog.

He’d seen several homeless people with dogs. Mostly men or couples, New Age travellers—whatever they were—with some scrawny animal, perhaps in the hope of eliciting more sympathy than their merely human plight. But they’d been mongrels, dogs cast on the streets like their owners.

This girl’s dog was something else—a pure-bred retriever with a healthy coat and benign disposition; he barely opened a sleepy eye at the world passing by.

The girl didn’t look up either, even when he drew near and threw a pound coin in the case. She might have nodded in acknowledgement of the offering, but her eyes remained fixed on the ground while her fingers continued to scale the instrument.

Baxter walked along, stopping only when he’d turned a corner. He was in two minds. He hadn’t really caught a good look at her face, but what he’d seen of her—hair cropped short, and the three gold rings adorning one earlobe—wasn’t exactly to his taste. She wasn’t the sort of girl he would have dated, but that was scarcely relevant. At least she didn’t look as if she might do nightshift as a hooker, which was more than could be said for some of the girls he’d considered that day.

He rehearsed what he was going to say before retracing his steps and coming to a halt before her.

Dee had a good memory for shoes. After all what else did she stare at all day? You didn’t stare at the punters. They were nobody. Start looking at them and they might think they were somebody. Terry had told her that. He worked a pitch on the Northern Line, playing a guitar—badly.

So it was the shoes she recognised. Brown laced boots of the walking kind. They had passed five minutes earlier, dropping a pound in her flute case. Now they were back, and she didn’t think it was to admire her virtuoso performance.

She resisted taking a squint at their owner, and kept playing. It had happened before. Guys who fancied their chances. Guys who imagined she might like to make more money flat on her back. She kept playing, but this one stood where he was, waiting for her to acknowledge him.

When she finally looked up, she was surprised.

She’d expected some creepy-looking individual, and instead registered a tall man with brown hair streaked blond by an un-English sun, straight brows and an angular face that could have belonged to a male model.

The handsome face creased into an equally handsome smile that had Dee muttering ‘Phoney,’ to herself even before he spoke.

‘You’re very good.’ He nodded towards the flute.

‘I know,’ she responded, unimpressed.

He was disconcerted for a moment, then murmured dryly, ‘Not hampered by false modesty, either.’

She shrugged, dismissing his opinion, then, raising her flute back to her lips, waited for him to move on.

It was a heavy enough hint, but he chose to ignore it.

She decided an even heavier one was required. ‘Look, mate, I have a living to earn, so, unless you’re a talent scout for the London Philharmonic…’

‘Unfortunately, no.’ He briefly flashed straight white teeth at her in a smile that never reached his eyes. ‘I do have another proposition for you, however.’

‘I bet,’ Dee muttered darkly in return.

‘Not that kind.’ He was quick to correct any wrong impressions.

Dee continued to look at him sceptically, but then she looked at all men that way now.

‘Look—’ he took out his wallet and produced a twenty-pound note ‘—I’ll pay for your time.’

‘You do think I’m cheap, don’t you?’ Dee wasn’t sure what the going rate for an afternoon quickie was, but she felt it should be more than that.

His eyes narrowed, displaying the first trace of anger. ‘I just want to talk to you. Nothing sexual. Believe me.’

The reassurance rang true, as did his glance, which travelled over her asexual clothing, thin, pallid face and cropped hair. Whatever this man wanted, it wasn’t her body.

Dee should have been pleased. She dressed this way specifically not to attract the opposite sex. But to have someone look at her quite so dismissively was offensive.

‘We can go to the nearest café and I’ll buy you and Rover a tea.’ His glance was warmer when it was directed at the dog.

‘Henry.’

‘Pardon?’

‘That’s his name,’ Dee informed him, wondering why she had.

‘Henry,’ he repeated, and put out a hand as the dog slowly lifted himself to a sitting position so he could be petted.

Dee watched as the stranger stroked her dog on the head and scratched him in exactly the right position behind his ears.

‘Sucker,’ she muttered to herself as the dog responded by licking the man’s hand and spoiled any chance of her claiming him to be fierce. Right from a puppy, he had been a slave for affection.

‘Henry!’ She glared at the dog until he subsided on stiff back legs.

‘How old is he? Eleven? Twelve?’ The man judged the dog by his movement.

‘Thirteen.’ Her eyes shaded with sad thoughts; it was a brief lapse before she added, ‘His teeth are still sharp enough.’

‘I’m sure they are,’ he conceded, but there was a definite smile in his voice. He knew dogs and realised this one was as likely to bite him as he was to win a greyhound derby. ‘He looks very mean and hungry.’

Dee understood it as sarcasm but chose to take it literally. ‘He’s never hungry! He gets fed fine.’

She glared at him as if he were an RSPCA inspector.

‘I can see that.’ His eyes travelled over the dog’s rounded flank, then switched their scrutiny to her. ‘It’s you who looks like you could do with a meal or two.’

‘Thanks.’ Dee pulled a face, recognising an insult when she heard one.

Nonetheless he was right. She skipped meals—sometimes because she had no option—and it showed.

He upped the price. ‘Thirty pounds, and you and Henry, here, can dine like royalty tonight.’

Thirty pounds was hard to resist. But Dee wasn’t a fool.

‘You’re going to give me thirty quid just to sit in a café and talk…? Stroll on, mate.’ Her tone was hard with disbelief.

Baxter didn’t blame her. He was beginning to think it a crazy idea himself. But, now he’d come this far and actually approached a girl, he had nothing to lose.

‘As I said, I have a proposition…call it a job if you like,’ he went on. ‘Unusual rather than dangerous, and emphatically not of a sexual nature… I’m not interested in young girls,’ he added on an unequivocal note.

That figures, Dee thought, admitting to herself—now that it was safe—that she had found him passingly attractive.

‘I read you.’ She defrosted a little to a fellow underdog.

‘I doubt it,’ he replied dryly.

‘Makes no odds to me, mate,’ she assured him. ‘Live and let live is my motto.’

‘Look, that’s not…’ About to correct any wrong impressions, Baxter decided not to bother. Why not leave her thinking it, if it was to his advantage?

‘Right, I choose the café,’ she suddenly conceded as she began to collect up her earnings and box her flute.

‘Right,’ he echoed.

She stood before adding, ‘Money up front, of course.’

Baxter looked at her outstretched hand, his eyes narrowing in distrust. If he gave her the money now, what was to stop her making a run for it?

He hesitated too long.

‘Forget it, then.’ She made to walk away.

He caught her arm. Not roughly, just to stop her. ‘All right. Half now, and half when we’ve talked.’

‘Yeah, okay.’ Fifteen pounds was better than nothing if she decided to give him the slip, Dee considered.

Only he was thinking ahead of her. When he said half, he meant half. She watched him tear a twenty-and a ten-pound note down the middle and present her with the two halves.

Dee grimaced but took the money, and, shouldering her rucksack, picked up Henry’s lead.

Baxter noticed how laden she was. ‘I’ll take that.’ He relieved her of the flute case before she could protest. ‘And the rucksack if you like.’

‘Don’t bother.’ Dee could have read it as a gentlemanly gesture, but didn’t. ‘You have enough insurance with my flute.’

Insurance against her running away, she meant.

Baxter raised a brow. ‘Such scepticism in one so young… How young, by the way?’ For an awful moment he wondered if she might be too young. Who knew with these runaways? She talked as though she were thirty and her eyes were old with knowledge, but her skin was unlined.

‘How old do I have to be?’ she countered, suspicious again.

Baxter avoided a direct answer, and said, ‘Old enough to have a job.’

He could hardly say sixteen—the age of consent.

‘Yeah, well, I’m that all right.’ Only she couldn’t get one. The recession meant jobs were scarce for most young people—and non-existent for the homeless.

‘Good.’ Baxter nodded in relief and fell in step beside her as she took the steps down to the eastbound platform.

He considered making conversation with her, but her profile didn’t invite any. She was unusually self-contained for a young girl. Was that good or bad for his purpose? Good, maybe. Less likely to be indiscreet.

Dee, for her part, was quite aware of the stranger beside her. She could hardly not be. She had always been tall. It had caused her untold agonies as a child. At sixteen she’d been five feet eleven inches and had thought she might go on growing for ever, but then, thank God, she had suddenly stopped. Still, she towered over most people. But not this man.

She was glad when a blast of cold air heralded the arrival of the tube. They boarded together and went through five stops in silence until they reached Newhouse station.

It was only when they approached the ticket collector that she confessed, ‘By the way, I haven’t got a ticket.’

‘Great, a fare dodger,’ he said in exasperation. ‘I should have known.’

What should he have known? That girls like her had to be dishonest? Dee glared at him.

‘You know nothing,’ she responded. It was an accusation, and they exchanged hostile looks for a moment, before she thrust Henry’s lead at him. ‘Don’t worry about it. You take him. We’ll meet up outside.’

‘Hold on, wait a—’ He didn’t get the chance to finish.

He watched, with a mixture of horror and fascination, as she veered towards the closed booth next door and leapt over the metal barrier.

He thought she was home free, but the collector caught a glimpse of her flashing past and sent a shout up.

The dog shot forward, too. Baxter found himself making excuses as they queue-jumped, and emerged from the barriers in time to see two underground officials restraining the girl.

He could have walked away. He might have if he hadn’t still been attached to a dog who was suddenly barking with surprising ferocity at the guards holding his mistress’s arms. So much for discretion.

Quick at thinking on his feet, Baxter took the initiative. ‘I suppose you think that was funny?’ He addressed the scolding comment to the girl before speaking to the guards. ‘Kids these days, and their idea of fun! I’m awfully sorry about this—’

‘You know her?’ one of the men interrupted.

‘I wish I could deny it,’ Baxter ran on, ‘but, yes, believe it or not, this scruffy urchin is my niece, Morag.’

Both officials were silent for a moment, deciding whether they should believe it or not.

So was Dee. Morag? What kind of name was that?

‘She had a ticket but lost it.’ He seemed to lie with ease. ‘I was, of course, going to buy another at the exit, but the silly girl decided to leap the barriers instead. I believe it’s the latest craze among teenagers. Slightly safer, I suppose, than playing chicken on the motorway.’

‘But more expensive,’ the second guard stated, unmoved. ‘I’m afraid if you’re going to ask us to let her off, sir, you’re going to be disappointed. London Underground have initiated a drive to catch fare dodgers, with the intention of fining them.’

‘Well, I don’t blame you,’ Baxter returned, which made Dee wonder whose side he was on. ‘You’ve been a very silly girl. What’s your mother going to say?’

‘I don’t know,’ Dee mumbled, not sure of her words in this play, but realising she should at least act contrite.

He shook his head at her and asked of his fellow grownups, ‘What can you do with them? It’ll break her mother’s heart… What now…? An on-the-spot fine?’

The first guard weakened. ‘Well, I suppose if you were to pay the maximum fare possible for your route, then that might be acceptable.’

He looked to his colleague, who in turn stared at Dee as if he really would have preferred to hang, draw and quarter her, but then gave way with a shrug. Perhaps it was just too much bother at the end of a long day.

‘Thank you very much.’ Baxter shook both men’s hands in gratitude as they released Dee. ‘What do you say, Morag?’ he prompted her.

‘I…yes, thanks,’ she trotted out dutifully, feeling five years old.

‘Right. Take Henry.’ He handed her back the dog and asked of the guard, ‘How much do we owe you?’

‘I’ll find out.’

One guard went to the ticket office while the other remained with them.

Dee waited till he glanced away for a moment, and mouthed at her ‘uncle’, ‘We could run.’

It drew a black look and a terse but distinct, ‘Forget it,’ in return.

Dee still could have run but it didn’t seem a very honourable thing to abandon him after he’d rescued her. So she waited with him, and just stopped herself from making a rude comment when they were asked for some exorbitant sum—much more than five stops on the tube—to cover her misdemeanour.

The stranger took out his wallet once more and paid it without quibbling.

As they finally emerged into daylight Dee fought a battle with herself. She knew she should thank him for what he’d done, but she resented it as well. It put her in his debt, and she hated that.

‘Normally it’s no problem. They’ve barely enough staff to collect the tickets.’ She justified what now seemed a silly action on her part. ‘Anyway, you should have just left it.’

‘And let them cart you off to jail?’ He reminded her of the alternative.

‘It wouldn’t have come to that,’ she told him knowingly. ‘Even if they’d called the railway police, what were they going to do? Take my name and the address I haven’t got? Fine me money I don’t have? Big deal!’

He shook his head at her streetwise reasoning, then remarked dryly, ‘Such gratitude, quite overwhelming.’

At this, Dee had sufficient grace to concede, ‘Yeah, okay, I suppose I should thank you.’

‘Not if it’s going to kill you.’ He dismissed the subject, and added, ‘Which way to this café?’

Dee had almost forgotten where they were meant to be going. She considered giving him the slip, but now it seemed tantamount to stealing. He’d already half-paid her, and shelled out for her penalty fare. The least she could do was sit in a café and listen for five minutes.

‘This way.’ She let him fall in beside her. ‘It’s not far.’

She led the way off the main thoroughfare to a backstreet café. On occasion she washed dishes for the owner. In return, he gave her a couple of quid and let her sit with Henry and nurse a tea for an hour or so in cold weather.

Rick, the owner, eyed her companion for a moment when they entered, then asked, ‘Everything okay, Dee?’

‘Sure.’ She returned his smile with a brief one of her own. ‘Could we have a couple of teas?’

Rick nodded. ‘I’ll bring them over.’

‘Dee?’ he repeated as they sat in the corner. ‘That’s your name?’

She nodded. Dee was the shortened version. Deborah DeCourcy was just too distinctive to go broadcasting.

She realised Dee probably sounded common to him, and muttered back, ‘Better than Morag, at any rate. What made you pick that?’

‘I’ve found that if you have to tell lies, it’s best to keep them to the minimum,’ he returned. ‘I do have a niece. She is called Morag. And her mother would be horrified if she took to fare dodging… But presumably it’s your main means of transport,’ he concluded with dry disapproval.

‘Actually, no, I normally walk,’ she claimed, quite truthfully. ‘As you might appreciate, it’s hard to keep a low profile, leaping barriers with a large dog in tandem.’

Baxter raised a brow. Not at the sarcasm, but at her use of English. Mostly she talked with an East End accent, but once in a while it slipped. Then she sounded pure Home Counties, and educated at that.

‘You said you were homeless,’ he recalled, ‘so where do you and Henry sleep? A hostel?’

She shook her head. ‘They don’t allow dogs and, even if they did, there’s no privacy.’

Baxter mentally raised another eyebrow. ‘You’ve obviously not heard the expression, “beggars can’t be choosers”.’

He didn’t expect her reaction; she rounded on him furiously. ‘I am not a beggar! I’m a busker. There is a difference!’

‘Okay! Okay!’ he pacified in quick order. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it.’

Her eyes still flashed with anger. Expressive eyes, blue and wide, and revealing a passionate nature behind the cool exterior. He studied her face properly for the first time and was surprised to discover it was more than passingly pretty.

Dee didn’t like the way he was looking at her. In fact, she was contemplating telling him to stuff his money when Rick turned up with the teas.

‘You want work Saturday afternoon?’ he asked as he laid them down.

‘Yeah, okay,’ Dee shrugged, and Rick departed with a satisfied nod.

‘You work here?’

‘Sometimes, when Rick needs someone to wash dishes.’

‘So we’re on your home territory?’ he pursued.

‘Sort of…I live in a squat nearby.’ She didn’t go into specifics.

Baxter added, ‘On your own?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Is it relevant?’

They had returned to the suspicious phase of their relationship.

Baxter sighed. ‘To me personally, no, but for this…job I have in mind, it’s best that you’re unattached.’

‘Then I’m unattached,’ she revealed, then added on impulse, ‘What about you? Have you a significant other?’

The question took Baxter by surprise. He half smiled at the cheek of her, before saying, ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ She helped herself to four sugars before she noticed his appalled stare. ‘Got to get your calories any way you can.’

‘With most women it’s the other way round,’ he commented dryly.

She pulled a face, then quipped, ‘Maybe I should write a book, passing on tips. The no home, no hips diet. Live rough and watch the pounds fall off.’

Baxter laughed, although it wasn’t really funny. Perhaps he had compassion fatigue. He’d spent much of the last decade in the Third World, where hunger meant death.

Pity stirred in him as he watched her drink down her tea with great thirst. ‘What’s the food like in this place?’

She gave a short laugh. ‘Great, if you’re into greasy-spoon cuisine and want a cholesterol level in double figures.’

‘I see what you mean.’ Baxter scanned a menu that boasted endless variations of something and chips. ‘Still, I’ll risk it if you will…my treat.’

Dee’s pride told her to turn down charity, but her stomach was speaking a different language. ‘I suppose I could keep you company.’

‘Gracious of you,’ he drawled at her offhand acceptance, then signalled to the owner.

He came over and asked without much interest, ‘Problem, is there?’

‘No, we’d like to order some food,’ Baxter told him.

Rick looked put out, then said in a resigned tone, ‘Yeah, okay.’

‘Dee?’ Baxter invited her to order first.

She hesitated, then decided that if she was going to take charity she might as well go the whole distance. ‘Sausage, bacon, tomato, fried bread, egg and chips.’

Baxter just stopped himself raising a brow at this list and muttered, ‘Twice.’

‘Yeah, okay,’ Rick said once more, sighing at the effort it was going to cost him to cook it.

‘Cheery sort of fellow,’ Baxter remarked when he was out of earshot.

Dee wasn’t a great fan of Rick either, but she felt the need to defend him. ‘His wife left him recently. He’s still cut up about it. Cleaned out their bank account, too.’

‘That’s women for you,’ Baxter joked, forgetting she was one for a moment.

Dee realised it and flipped back, ‘Well, if it is, you don’t have to worry.’

‘Sorry?’

‘About women.’

‘Not being married, no,’ he agreed.

‘Nor likely to be either,’ she added a little tartly.

Baxter assumed he was being insulted, but chose to laugh instead. ‘You think I’m so ineligible?’

Dee frowned. ‘Well, naturally, I assumed…unless, of course, you’re bisexual.’

‘Bisexual?’ He looked at her as if she were mad.

‘Okay, okay, just a suggestion.’ She held her hands up, taking it back. ‘Is that some sort of insult if you’re gay?’

‘Gay?’ he echoed again.

‘Lord, is that the wrong term, too?’ Dee was beginning to wish she’d talked about the weather instead. ‘I thought homosexuals didn’t mind being called that.’