The Substitute Bride (The Great Wedding Giveaway Series Book 7) (10 page)

“I don’t know this designer well,” Lisa Renee said, her fingertips skimming the crystals on the bodice, making them throw rainbows.  “So I ought to do a little research before I suggest what we should ask for it.” 

She picked up a pale pink card and held it out.  “Maybe, while I’m on the computer, you’d like to look over our consignment terms?”

Marly took the card, though she didn’t give a darn about the terms.  If she’d had a healthier bank balance, she would have told Lisa Renee to keep the dress, forget consignment percentages.  Or, better still, she might have dumped the darn thing into the nearest trash bin.

In fact, from the start, she’d been gladly willing to let Gloria wear it—why not, once Cake Girl had appropriated everything else?  But one look at Gloria’s picture had shown how impossible that idea was.  Evan’s rediscovered true love was about five-four, probably a size six, like Marly.  But Gloria’s bust would have spilled out of Marly’s satin by about eight inches.

As Marly pretended to study the card, Lisa Renee disappeared through a small door that had been almost invisible in a panel of flocked wallpaper.

“I’m awful sorry about your wedding.”

Marly looked over her shoulder, startled.  Robin Armstrong stood behind her, staring down at the wedding dress box with moist eyes.  Her aura was so somber she might have been hovering over a casket, viewing the embalmed body of a loved one.

“Thanks.”  Marly shrugged, keeping her voice light.  “But it could be worse.  I could have actually married the skunk.”

Robin’s glance darted sharply to Marly’s face.  And then, as Marly smiled, so did the redhead. 

“I guess that’s a good way to look at it,” Robin said slowly, as if trying on a new idea.  “Yes, I guess that’s the God’s honest truth.  I’d rather be married to a man who really loves me than one who doesn’t, no matter how—”

Coloring, she broke off with a laugh.  “But we’re not talking about me.  And I’m probably sticking my nose where it’s not welcome.  I’m awful that way.”  Her grimace momentarily made her look about twelve.  “Anyhow, I wanted to say I hope I’ll see you at the barn dance tonight.  I heard you’re covering the Wedding Giveaway, so I guess you’ll be there?”

“I will.”

“Great!  If you see me, come say hi.  I’d like to introduce you to my fiancé.  Ibby is an amazing guy.”  Her eyes sparkled.  “We’re entered in the Giveaway, so I’m expecting tonight to be really exciting!”

“You think you’ll be a semi-finalist?”

“I
know
I will!”

Marly tilted her head.  “How do you know?”

“Well, I guess I don’t, exactly.  I just believe I will.  I figure if I want it enough, I can make it happen.  Just like my bridesmaids’ dresses, right, Lisa Renee?”

Marly hadn’t even realized that the saleswoman had returned.

“I’m still searching, Robin,” Lisa Renee said mildly.  “But please don’t set your heart on getting lemon-lime green in that
particular
dress, because it’s not looking good.”

Robin frowned for a second, and then the merriment bobbed back to the surface.  “But I
do
have my heart set on lemon-lime, Lisa Renee!  My bridesmaids are going to wear that
particular
dress, in lemon-lime green, and that’s all there is to it.”

If the woman found Robin’s mulishness frustrating, her face didn’t reveal it.  “I’ll keep searching,” she repeated, and in those three short words Marly finally could hear the woman’s patience wearing thin. 

“Yes!  You’re the best!”  Robin leaned over and kissed Lisa Renee’s cheek.  Then she sailed toward the door, as if riding a wave of her own enthusiasm. 

At the last minute, she turned and grinned.  “And don’t you worry about the skunk, Marly.  He was absolutely your Mr. Wrong.  Keep waiting for your Mr. Right, because I know you’re going to find him.  Hey—maybe he’ll be at the barn dance tonight!  So wear something super sexy!”

Embarrassed, Marly caught Lisa Renee’s eye.  The dignified woman’s deadpan look was both desperate and somehow hilarious.  They both blinked.  And then, without warning, they began to chuckle helplessly. 

“What?”  Robin was endearingly indignant, her hands on her hips.  “You two don’t believe in Mr. Right?  Well, I do!  I’m certain he’s out there, somewhere, just waiting for Marly to find him.”

“Yes.  Yes, of course he is,” Lisa Renee’s voice was muffled as she struggled to smother her laughter.  She glanced at Marly, a twinkle in her intelligent eyes.  “And when you find him, I just hope to heaven he’s wearing one of those lemon-lime dresses.”

––––––––

D
rake paused, standing in the wide-open double doorway of Emerson’s barn, scanning the scene before him.  He saw several friends inside, but his gaze skimmed over all of them.  He was looking for Marly.

Talk about trying to find a needle in a haystack.  Tonight the place was pure chaos.  Fairy lights had been strung across the glossy wooden roof beams like diamonds on a debutante’s neck.  Candles flickered at twenty or more round tables.  No fewer than four buffet tables strained under their weight of meats and salads and desserts. 

Up front, on a special stage, a live band belted out “Ain’t Going Down Till The Sun Comes Up.” In front of the musicians, the dance floor writhed, denim skirts swirling, cowboy hats dipping and spinning and sometimes falling off altogether.  On the periphery, at least a hundred people milled around.  Laughing, eating, drinking, schmoozing and, probably, making deals.

But only one of those people interested him tonight.  And just seconds later, as if he’d willed it, a cluster of people right in front of him parted, and there she was.

He’d expected her to look slightly out of place, stiff in her usual, tailored, young professional uniform.  But, to his delighted surprise, she looked casual and free—like the Montana native she really was.

She wore a simple white dress that kicked up slightly at the skirt, somehow managing to look flirty without any of those stupid ruffles or flounces or other junk he hated.  Over that, she’d added a soft brown-and-green-plaid flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows.  A wide brown belt cinched the shirt at her tiny waist, fastening with a big jade and silver belt buckle that sparkled when she moved.

Smooth, shapely legs, and then a pair of jade-green boots that cupped the muscle at the back of her calf...right where he knew his hand would fit perfectly.

He didn’t waste time admiring her from a distance.  He entered the barn, closing the few feet between them quickly.  He ignored anyone who called his name as he passed.

“Wow,” he said.  His gaze was probably radiating heat as he looked her over, from her shining hair to the tips of her boots, then back up again.  “Seriously. 
Wow
.  Where did a San Francisco gal like you get hold of an outfit like this?”

She eyed him coolly for a second, as if she wasn’t sure the question was worth answering.  Then she shrugged.  “In the closet of my old room.  My mother hadn’t thrown all my old clothes out, so I scavenged till I found something appropriate.”

He cocked his head and gave the boots another look.  Sure enough, they weren’t new.  A small scuffmark nicked the leather at one toe.  And both heels were worn just a fraction of an inch more on the outside than on the inside—she’d always done that to her shoes, though it shocked him to realize he’d noticed it.

And not only
noticed
it—he’d also filed that piece of trivia somewhere in his brain and stored it there for nine long years.

He raised an eyebrow.  “There are at least a dozen women here who’d be jealous as hell to hear that.  Women who spent way too much at Marietta Western Wear this week, and still don’t look as good as you.”

She gazed at him, again oddly cool and unresponsive.  A flicker of surprise moved through him.  Why so cold?  They’d been something close to friends, the last time they met.  And that was only yesterday.

But then he remembered...she’d always given him that disdainful look when she witnessed him doing a snow job on someone.  Obviously she assumed his comments were just more meaningless flurries.  She wasn’t buying any of it.

Well, great
.  When a woman decides in advance that every word of praise is fake, and every compliment is empty ear-tickling, what exactly does that leave a guy with?

“Have I missed anything? Have they announced the lucky couples yet?”

She shook her head.  “I think Jane will start that in a few minutes.  There’s already been some fussing with microphones and lighting, so I’m optimistic.”

He suddenly realized he should have arrived sooner.  If he was going to claim his dance, he shouldn’t dawdle about it.  She’d made it clear she was here only as the representative of the Courier, to cover the announcement of the Giveaway semi-finalists.  Once the names were revealed, she’d probably disappear.

Cutting a glance toward the stage, he willed the band to switch to a slow song.  He had extracted a promise of only the one dance, and he’d be darned if he would waste it on boot scooting and electric sliding.  Come on, he ordered them mentally. 
Slow
.

The odds were against him, of course.  This early in the evening, nobody wanted to bring down the energy.  Those cozy numbers, during which women draped their arms around your neck and buried their faces in your chest, usually came at the tired end of the night.

But then, as if Fate decided to toss him a bone, he heard the opening notes of an old, slow, classically romantic Tracy Byrd song—“Keeper of the Stars.”  He knew the song better than he should, if only because so many of his friends had chosen it for their weddings. 

The larger light fixtures dimmed suddenly, and in the duskiness the fairy lights on the ceiling seemed far away and magical, like hundreds of twinkling stars. 

Very effective. He understood, with a flash of insight, that this song was the intro to the announcement of the semi-finalists.

It was, as he’d suspected, his last chance.

He held out his hand.  “I think this one has our name on it,” he said simply.

For a minute, he thought she was going to renege.  She stared at him, her shoulders tight and her eyes slightly narrowed, as if she were searching her mind for an excuse.

He didn’t push, or wheedle, or point out that she’d given her word.  She knew she had.  So he just stood quietly, his hand extended, palm up, and waited for her conscience to do the rest. 

It didn’t hurt that several people had noticed and were staring, obviously curious to see whether she was going to reject him.

He knew she was too fundamentally kind to make a fool of him publicly, and sure enough, after a couple of seconds she closed her lips tightly, then took his hand and let him lead her toward the dance floor.

Almost instantly, they found themselves absorbed into a congested sea of couples swaying on the lilting currents of the song.  They had almost no room to move, which meant she didn’t have the luxury of standing back and stiff-arming him, which, for some inexplicable reason, she seemed to want to do.

She held her neck rigid.  She insisted on lightly clasping his shoulder with one hand, and his fingers with the other, high and several inches from his body.  It was the prissy way she would have been taught to dance in etiquette class, at fourteen.

He chuckled softly, then did some insisting of his own.  When their hands locked, he slowly lowered his to her waist.  She either had to follow, or let go. 

She followed.  When he slid his palm around to the small hollow at the base of her spine, that meant she was dancing with one hand awkwardly behind her own back.

He nudged her in closer, an inch at a time, until his chin grazed her hair.  He inhaled, letting the scent of vanilla and oranges fill his nostrils, his lungs, and finally his veins, with that familiar, elusive sweetness.

He’d never touched her before, except in that teasing, post-adolescent way, when he’d thumped his sneaker against her boot to get her attention, or wrestled a pencil out of her hand to annoy her while she was editing.  And so, in spite of the years they’d known each other, holding her like this was one revelation after another.

She was more fragile than he’d ever guessed, her bones fine, like fretted ivory under her clothes.  So strange...he’d thought she’d feel bigger.  More solid, formidable, tough.  Perhaps her personality, her chin-up determination to hold her own, had misled him.  Emotionally, she was, and had always been, fire and absolute will.  But physically she was delicate as a bird.

And, though she’d never seemed like the girly type, never flirted or teased or pouted in order to elicit playful kisses, she was, he discovered, female in a profound and primitive way—as if she’d been custom-designed for physical pleasure.  The curve of her hipbone, the graceful slope of her buttocks, and the firm thrust of her breasts against the wall of his chest...

His hands, his mouth—and all the rest of him, too—would fit so perfectly in all those places.  All those dips and swells, all those peaks and hollows.  They weren’t random.  They were made for loving.

“I guess this means the announcement is next,” she said in a flat voice.  “Obviously this song is designed to set the mood.”

He pulled his head back, surprised to see that, while he had imagined he was discovering her hidden secrets, she had been gazing around the room dispassionately, sizing up the event.

He took a deep breath, pulling himself together.  But her attitude bewildered him.  He was ordinarily quite good at reading women’s signals.  Since puberty, he’d known instinctively which girls desired him, and which girls were already attached elsewhere, or simply not his type.

The other night, at Longs, as they’d stood together watching the sunset on the river...and later, at the park...and again yesterday, at lunch...  All those times, every single time they’d met, this woman had been interested. 

She’d been wary, yes.  Maybe even frightened, which only made sense, given her situation and their history.  But definitely, powerfully interested.  He’d read it as clearly as if it had been tattooed on her forehead.