Bait & Switch (4 page)

“One more chance. That’s all. The ball starts tonight at eight o’clock sharp. You better be at my door fifteen minutes before then.”

“The ball?” he repeated.

“The Charleston League of Historic Preservation ball. Don’t tell me you forgot.”

“Of course not,” he said. “I’ll be at your place in plenty of time.”

He moved marginally closer to her. Her lips were so darn delectable he wanted to kiss them even though he knew he shouldn’t. She was Cary’s girl, not his.

She gazed at him with huge eyes. “Do you promise?”

“I promise.” He told himself to move away. Instead, he edged closer. She smelled sweet, like honeysuckle. He wondered what honeysuckle would taste like.

“I shouldn’t believe you, but I do,” she said in a soft voice. Or, at least that’s what he thought she said over the honking.

His traitorous body was about to ignore the warning his mind was issuing when the doorbell rang, adding to the racket. Reluctantly he straightened, placing two fingers to her lips for a brief touch before he let go of her hand. Moments later, he opened the door.

A middle-aged woman with a broad-brimmed hat who couldn’t be anything other than a tourist stood on the stoop. She gestured at the one-lane street. The horses hadn’t budged, but behind them was a row of cars worthy of a rush-hour traffic jam.

“We got a situation here,” the tourist said.

“Jiminy,” Peyton exclaimed and sprinted for the road.

Mitch stepped onto the small porch and darned if he wasn’t admiring the sway of her hips as she ran.

A short time later, he stood in front of the refrigerator where Cary had posted his work schedule for his dual jobs.

The eleven-to-seven shift at the parks and recreation department wouldn’t prevent Mitch from keeping his promise to Peyton to escort her to the ball. However, he hadn’t counted on bartending duty beginning at nine-thirty.

He groaned.

He’d have to leave the ball early, if he managed to get there with Peyton in tow. Considering he didn’t know where she lived, that was questionable.

Mitch stared across the net at a sight bound to cause lasting nightmares.

A half dozen children in shorts, T-shirts and tennis shoes stared back. The eldest, who was no more than six years old, wore an image of a purple dinosaur on her shirt. The youngest, who’d held up four fingers when Mitch asked her age, carried a racket almost as tall as she was.

Mitch liked kids. A lot. Except when they were waiting for him to instruct them on the finer points of tennis, a game he’d played only once or twice in his life. A long, long time ago.

The ball-hopper at his feet was filled with dozens of fuzzy yellow tennis balls. Bending, he picked one up. As a cop, he’d faced gunfire from criminals. How hard could it be to feed balls to kids?

“Everybody in one line,” he ordered in his best authoritative, cop’s voice. The children shuffled obediently into place. “Okay. Get ready.”

He cocked his arm in a windup. One little boy disengaged from the group and puttered to the net. Mitch held onto the tennis ball. The boy’s eyes were as big as a doe’s. He scuffed a sneaker-clad foot.

“Mister,” he said, “you’re s’posed to use a racket.”

He was? Mitch had no doubt he could whack balls with the racket, but he couldn’t vouch for his aim. Considering he’d probably wind up beaning a kid, using a racket wasn’t a good idea.

“I’m trying a new way today, sport. How ‘bout getting back in line?”

“Dick,” the little boy said crossly, his mouth a straight line.

Mitch blanched. Had the kid actually sworn at him? “What did you say?”

“Dick,” the little boy repeated, louder this time. “You promised to ’member our names. My name’s Richard, but everyone calls me Dick.”

Sweat broke out on Mitch’s forehead. Cary had claimed a trained monkey could do his parks and rec job. If only one were handy.

“I’m sorry, Dick. I won’t forget again.”

The boy gave him an unhappy look and ambled back in line. Mitch chucked the first ball to Dick’s racket side. A swing and a miss. Strike one.

He checked his watch. Twenty-five minutes left in the half-hour lesson. This was going to be interminable. If the kids didn’t boo him off court before time was up.

THE TWO-STORY BRICK mansion where Peyton lived with her parents was located in Charleston’s prestigious historic area south of Broad Street. On the quiet side of Murray Boulevard, the grand house with its elaborate molding and double-tiered porch overlooked sailboat-dotted Charleston Harbor.

Mitch approached the house, which was probably a classic example of some sort or architecture or other, feeling good about the way things were going.

He’d spent the entire day living as Cary, and so far nobody was the wiser. Admittedly, he hadn’t covered himself in glory during the Tennis for Tots class. And, sure, he’d needed to tell Cary’s rec department co-workers he was suffering from the effects of a late night to explain his ineptitude.

But he’d figured out where Peyton lived with relative ease by tailing her home after work when he hadn’t been able to reach Cary to ask him her address. He’d also found an elegant tuxedo in his brother’s closet. A shock considering the state of Cary’s finances, but at least Mitch didn’t have to rent one.

Yeah, Mitch thought as he rang the doorbell, things were definitely looking up.

The salty breeze off the Charleston Harbor blew through his hair and the bouquet of lilies he’d brought for Peyton. As he waited, he admired his ritzy surroundings. It was a bit disconcerting that Peyton still lived in her childhood home, but who could blame her for continuing to enjoy the high life?
 

The door started to swing open. Mitch smiled, anticipating the sight of Peyton dressed for the ball.

A tall, broad man he assumed was her father filled the door frame, his posture so erect it put a ruler to shame. Mitch remembered Cary saying he was a solicitor, but he seemed more like a military man. Mitch resisted the urge to salute.
 

“What do you want?” the man asked gruffly.

“Hello, Mr. McDowell.” Mitch held out his hand. “I’m Cary Mitchell, but you can call me Mitch.”

The man’s gaze swept Mitch up and down. His brown eyes narrowed. He neither smiled nor took Mitch’s hand.

“So you’re the smooth operator who stood up my daughter last night?” His unfriendly Southern drawl had the ring of aristocracy, as did the white bowtie and white waistcoat he wore with an elegantly cut black dress coat. Mitch dropped his hand.

“If we were better acquainted, you’d know I’m about as smooth as a gravel road.” Mitch tried a smile Mr. McDowell didn’t return. Suspicion lurked in his flinty eyes. “Okay, maybe I am smoother than gravel. Would you believe asphalt?”

“Who is that at the door, dear?”

A petite woman with frosted blonde hair appeared at the man’s side. She was immaculately decked out in a shimmering gold gown that probably cost as much as Mitch made in a week. Peyton’s mother, Mitch presumed.
 

“Some joker comparing himself to highway surfaces,” Mr. McDowell said.

“How charming.” The woman beamed at Mitch, showing teeth so blindingly white Mitch almost shielded his eyes to protect his corneas. “Are those flowers for me? I absolutely adore lilies.”
“Then I guessed right, Mrs. McDowell.” Mitch held out the bouquet. “I’m Cary Mitchell. The flowers are an apology for last night. Something came up and I couldn’t get to a phone. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

She brought the flowers to her face, sniffed and sighed. “Of course I will, Cary dear.”

“Please call me Mitch.”

“Certainly,” she said, “and you can call me Amelia.”

“Call me sir,” Peyton’s father intoned.

Amelia McDowell smiled at her husband as though he’d told Mitch to call him lucky to make his acquaintance. She cocked her expertly coifed head and peered around Mitch’s shoulder at the red Miata parked at the curb. “Where’s Peyton?”

“Isn’t she inside the house?” Mitch asked.

Mr. McDowell frowned. “Why would she be?”

Mitch swallowed a groan. That could only mean Peyton didn’t live with her parents, after all.

He’d never been good at improvisation, but gave it a shot. “I thought she was meeting me here.”

“Asphalt, schmasphalt,” Mr. McDowell growled. “First you stand her up. Then you don’t pick her up. You’re no smoother than cobblestone.”

Mrs. McDowell — Amelia — laid a delicate hand on Mitch’s arm. “You were supposed to meet Peyton here last night, dear. Not tonight.”

“Then you can see why I got confused.” Mitch’s jaw was starting to hurt from keeping his smile in place. He didn’t get mixed up about dates and times. Ever. But then he typically knew where his dates lived.

“Perhaps you’d better go collect her,” Amelia said helpfully.

As far as advice went, it wasn’t bad. Mitch probably had time to drive to Peyton’s place and get her to the ball by eight. The snag was that he still didn’t know where Peyton lived.

“I’m afraid we might miss each other if I did that.” He tried to ignore the way Mr. McDowell continued to scowl at him. If Cary had never met the McDowells, why the chilly reception? “How ’bout I follow you to the ball and catch up with her there?”

Mr. McDowell turned to his wife, whispering something that sounded like, “Do we have to let him, Magnolia Blossom?”

Amelia acted as though she hadn’t heard her husband. She offered Mitch her arm. “That sounds like a grand plan, Mitch dear.’

They walked to the curb ahead of Peyton’s father with Mr. McDowell’s eyes searing holes in Mitch’s back.

PEYTON GATHERED UP the long skirt of her lacy evening gown, swung her smoothly shaven legs out of the car, stood on her fashionable Ferragamo shoes and slammed the door with all her might.

Anger pumped through her veins along with the Charleston blue blood her parents constantly reminded her that she had. She couldn’t decide who deserved her anger more. Herself or Cary. . . er, Mitch, as though that made any sense.

Probably herself, she thought as she stamped up the sidewalk to elegant Hibernian Hall. In the month she’d known him, he’d never been anything but completely irresponsible. He was one of those men who didn’t bother with the details of life, opting to get by on charm and good looks. Worse, she’d let him.

Instead of dumping him yesterday, she’d allowed her red-hot fury to burn down to cinders while he spun his ridiculous yarn about the bridge and Bobby McGee.

He’d looked so worried she wouldn’t believe him that she’d let him bamboozle her into giving him another chance. So thoroughly duped was she that she’d actually believed he’d turn up on time to escort her to the ball.

She needed one of those support groups for family and friends of flawed individuals. Like Al-Anon. Only he was a charmaholic instead of an alcoholic.

Enough was enough. The next time she saw him, she was telling him they were through.

The tops of her high heels bit into the soles of her feet, and she realized she was stamping. She moved through the iron gates that bracketed the hall, consciously slowing her steps. How many times had her parents drilled into her that appearances were everything? It wouldn’t do for her to barge into Charleston’s classiest ballroom red-faced with anger.

“Peyton McDowell, you have never looked lovelier.”
 
At the sound of the man’s voice behind her, Peyton whirled, then relaxed. G. Gaston Gibbs III strolled through the iron gates, wearing a charming smile and a designer tuxedo. Growing up, Peyton had distrusted Gaston’s smooth tongue, but her opinion of him had changed drastically when she became a volunteer at the Charleston League of Historic Preservation.

“Why, thank you for the compliment.” She affected a slight curtsy.

“You’re just the woman I was hoping to run into.”

Peyton didn’t miss a beat. “Please say that’s because you’re buying that historically significant property on Smith Street?”

Gaston chuckled and closed the distance between them. He was the picture of a Charleston aristocrat, with fair hair and a slim build that caused him to appear taller than he was. She supposed he was good-looking, although she secretly thought his sharp features made him look a little too much like a fox.

“If you mean that
dilapidated
property, yes, I’m buying it.”

 
Peyton let out an unladylike squeal and squeezed his arm. Gaston worked as a real estate agent at a downtown firm, but his parents, who’d moved to Hilton Head six months before, came from old money. Gaston had spent much of his inheritance buying and renovating historic properties slated for demolition.

“I was praying you’d come to the rescue,” she said. “It would have been criminal to tear down a house with such classic Italianate styling.”

“So you’ve said.” Gaston smiled and offered his arm. They walked onto the portico together. As always, the grandness of the hall, with its great white columns stretching toward the sky, took Peyton’s breath away. She and Gaston passed under the Irish harp imbedded in the paneling above the door and through the main entrance to the domed rotunda where the event was taking place.

“To clarify,” Gaston said, “the reason I hoped to run into you was so I could be your escort this evening. You
are
here unescorted, are you not?”

Peyton’s eyes swept over the milling crowd, and her head halted in mid-nod. No more than ten yards away, Cary/Mitch snatched a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray and handed it to her mother. Her father spotted her, his glower transforming into a smile. He immediately disengaged himself from the group.
 

“Why, Peyton, how good it is to see you.” Her father clapped Gaston on the back. “You too, old friend. You restore my faith in my daughter’s taste in men.”

“Darlings, you both look fabulous.” Her mother was right behind him, clasping Gaston’s hand before kissing the air on either side of Peyton’s face. “Peyton, it does my heart good to see you dressed in something other than that dreadful uniform those carriage people make you wear.”

Peyton’s spirits fell the way they always did whenever her mother disparaged the tour-guide business, but she knew better than to disagree. It never got her anywhere.