Stop the Wedding! (11 page)

“I’m trying, Dad,” she whispered, then thanked the man and paid for the re-sizing. With heavy feet, she walked in the direction of the exit, distracted by the unfamiliar weight of the ring on her left hand, saddened now that she’d had it cut down to fit her finger when it truly belonged on her mother’s. Now what? Her mother was marrying Melvin Castleberry in five days, and it seemed as if there was little she could do about it. Oh, well, if the caterer ran true to form, maybe he’d already aggravated Belle enough to reconsider the entire production. Regardless, she needed to get back to her mother as soon as possible to ensure she didn’t go overboard.

Weddings—bah!

The driving summer shower that had blown in only added insult to injury. Without an umbrella, she held her purse over her head and jogged to her mother’s blue Buick. After dropping the keys twice, she fumbled her way into the car. Her hair dripping wet, she sat behind the gigantic steering wheel and shivered for a few seconds, then turned over the engine. The best thing about Belle’s car was that it was so huge, other drivers got out of the way—a phenomenon in Atlanta.

But she’d traveled no farther than the other side of the shopping center when the engine light flashed on, and the car died. She turned the key and the engine whined, but wouldn’t turn over, not even on the second or the third try. Annabelle thumped the steering wheel, then gave in to the ridiculous tears she’d been fighting for what seemed like days. Belle’s dogged determination to marry had her on edge, and the sleepless nights she’d spent dissecting her puzzling encounters with Clay hadn’t helped matters. And now this.

She lay her head down on the steering wheel and bawled.

*****

Clay was on his way back from checking the painting progress on his condo when his phone rang. He picked it up and saw Henry’s name on the caller ID screen. Tensing for more bad news, he pushed a button. “Yeah, Henry, what’s up?”

“It’s the girl,” the private investigator said. “She’s having car trouble and it’s raining like hell. Call me old-fashioned, but I feel like I should help her or something.”

Remembering the look of her big hazel eyes when she thought she might be arrested in the department store, Clay could sympathize with Henry’s instincts, but he didn’t want the man to blow his cover. “Where is she?”

“Sherell Shopping Center on Buice Road.”

Clay looked around to get his bearings. “I’m not far from there—in fact, I’m driving into rain now. I’ll say I just happened by.”

“She’s in a blue Buick in front of the jeweler’s.”

“Jeweler’s?”

“Yeah, she had an engagement ring sized for herself—”

Clay scowled. Was Annabelle engaged to that Mike fellow he overheard her mother talking about? “Are you certain?”

“Yeah, I heard everything. And she had the ring your dad gave to her mother—she wanted the jeweler to tell her how much it was worth.”

Clay’s heart fell to his stomach—he’d seen the bill for the ring, and the bauble was worth a hefty sum. “Really.”

“I didn’t catch what she said, but she looked disappointed with whatever the fellow told her.”

Clay’s heart fell to his knees. A hefty sum, but not as much as she’d anticipated, obviously. “Thanks, Henry. By the way, Dad and I are having dinner with them this evening, so skip the surveillance and try to get me some details of the daughter’s personal life in Michigan—relationships with men, that kind of thing.” He needed the information to help protect his father.

Not
to satisfy his own curiosity.

“Sure thing, Clay.”

He disconnected the call, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Annabelle couldn’t have taken the ring without her mother’s knowledge, so Belle was in on it, too. Were they planning to hock the ring? Or were they simply using it as a barometer to estimate his father’s wealth? He remembered her frightened expression in the department store and scoffed. A mother and daughter team, playing up to father and son. No wonder he was starting to feel soft toward Annabelle—she’d probably planned it that way, the schemer. The more he thought about the way she’d wormed her way into his subconscious, the more irritated he became, taking solace only in the fact that
if
he had yielded to her wiles, it was because she was such a pro.

Within a couple of minutes, he had the shopping center in sight, and the stalled car wasn’t hard to find considering the line of traffic detouring around the sides. Impatient drivers delivered punctuated honks at the woman sitting inside behind the wheel, apparently waiting out the worst of the summer storm. Despite his hardened resolve, Clay experienced a pang of compassion, thinking he certainly wouldn’t want his sister—if he had one—to be in the same predicament.

While he waited to turn in, she suddenly sprang from the car and ran through the rain in the direction of a nearby bank, ducking beneath the drive-through canopy to shake herself like a dark, wet collie. He hated the protective feelings that welled in his chest at the bedraggled sight of her. Clay pulled into the drive-through corridor, then buzzed down his window, forcing surprise into his voice. “Annabelle?”

*****

Annabelle winced when she recognized Clay’s voice, then slowly turned. It was him, all right, tucked inside his splendid luxury sedan, gorgeous, grinning…and dry.

“Hello,” she said with as much nonchalance as she could muster while shoving long wet bangs out of her eyes. Her cotton shorts and thin T-shirt clung to her.

“Having car trouble?”

“Yes.”

He looked at her for a few seconds, then beckoned her with a jerk of his head. “Well, get in.”

Torn between exasperation and gratitude, she ran around the front of his car and slid into the passenger seat. The door closed with a vacuum seal. Her wet skin squeaked against the gray leather seat, and her chest rose and fell quickly as she recovered from the brief exertion. She felt like a drowned cat. Clay, on the other hand, was unruffled and impossibly handsome in jeans and a navy polo shirt. Seeing him again both soothed and rankled her in a way she couldn’t explain, so she reasoned she wasn’t glad to see him, but simply glad she wouldn’t have to wait on a wrecker for a ride.

“Thanks,” she murmured, smoothing a hand over her hair. “Out running errands?”

“I, um, had to make a deposit,” he said, gesturing to the bank.

“Nineteen thousand nine hundred dollars?” she asked sweetly.

Clay frowned. “You’re soaked.”

Realizing her dripping self wasn’t exactly good for the interior, she said, “Sorry about your upholstery.”

He shook his head to dismiss her worry, then leaned toward her. For a split second, Annabelle’s breath caught in her throat—he was going to kiss her again. Her mouth twitched in anticipation.

“I usually keep a golf towel in here,” he said, unlatching the glove compartment. “Ah.” He withdrew a small white cloth and offered it to her.

Her embarrassment slowed her reflexes.

He shook the towel. “It’s clean.”

She accepted it with a tight smile and sopped up the wetness on her arms.

“What happened to your mother’s car?”

“The engine light has been coming on lately. This time it came on and the engine died.”

“That doesn’t sound safe.”

“No, but Mom’s getting a new car soon.” She was taking Belle to the car lot tomorrow to get that used sedan, whether she liked it or not.

He pulled out into the rain and maneuvered his car nose to nose with the Buick. “In case your battery just needs to be jumped,” he answered her puzzled look.

“I don’t think it’s the battery,” she said. “The engine won’t turn over.”

“Could you be out of gas?” His tone held a note of amused chauvinism that needled her.

“No, I’m not out of gas,” she assured him in an appropriately sing-songy feminine voice.

“I’ll take a quick look under the hood unless you’d rather I take you home first.”

She lifted one eyebrow. “Wow, a venture capitalist
and
a mechanic.”

He belted out a hearty laugh that surprised her, throaty and lingering. A rush of pleasure pulsed through her to be able to evoke that laugh from such a guarded man. Immediately, she wanted to hear it again.

Clay held out his hand, giving her a good look at a perplexing row of calluses. He hadn’t gotten them from carrying around his briefcase. “Your keys?”

She dug in her canvas purse, finally fishing the keys from the farthest corner. “Actually, Mother is waiting for me at the caterer’s. I was going back to pick her up as soon as I, um, ran a couple of errands.” She gave in to a clammy shiver, embarrassed anew at the picture she must present—the man probably thought she was the most accident-prone person walking.

“Here,” he said, reaching into the back seat where a stack of clothes lay in plastic dry cleaner’s bags. He removed a black cotton sweater from a hanger and handed it to her. “A little big for you, but it’ll keep you warm.”

“Th-thank you,” she stammered. The sweater was soft and welcoming, but she bit her lower lip, hesitant to put on an article of the man’s clothing, especially after she glanced at the label.
I-yie-yie.

He turned a knob that warmed the blast of air coming from the vents. “Stay put and I’ll see what I can do.”

When the door closed behind him, she draped the sweater around her shoulders as she watched him in the side mirror. If possible, the rain was coming down even harder. He circled around to the back of his car and withdrew a ball cap from the trunk, which he jammed on his head. Then he strode to the driver’s side of her mother’s car where he unlocked the door, and lowered himself inside. A minute later, he exited and raised the hood of the Buick. His back muscles moved under the damp shirt, making her very aware of the contained power of his body.

Protected…she felt protected.

Shaken by the realization that such a simple act of assistance could affect her, Annabelle busied her hands drying herself with the towel he’d given her. She even managed to squeeze some moisture from the ends of her hair, then unfolded the towel and stared at the pale green logo.
Kenton Keys Country Club, Atlanta.
She shook her head at the reminder of a lifestyle to which he was so accustomed, wondering how much he spent on greens fees in a year’s time. Different worlds, she reminded herself. A relationship between them would never wor—

The driver’s door opened, startling her, and Clay swung inside, shrugging off moisture, then tossed his cap onto the back floorboard. His face looked grim, and water dripped from the end of his nose. “The engine won’t turn over.”

Annabelle laughed and passed him the towel. “Told you so.”

“Might be the alternator,” he said, wiping his neck. He held up his phone. “I can call a repair shop I’ve used.”

“If they work on Mercedes, they might not take Mom’s car.”

He shook his head as he put his car into gear. “It’s not a dealership—they fixed a fuel line on my pickup.”

She blinked. “Pickup? You own a pickup truck?”

“You sound surprised.”

“No,” she said quickly. “Well, yes. You just don’t strike me as someone who would need a pickup.”

He gave her a pointed look. “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.” He punched in a phone number, then proceeded to arrange for the car to be towed and repaired as soon as was humanly possible.

His words vibrated in her head as she watched him talk and move, noting the way his wet dark hair curled over his forehead and around his ears.
Maybe I don’t know you…and maybe I’d like to.
The revelation stunned her, and her defenses immediately sprang up. The most stupid, destructive thing she could do to herself would be to fall for Clay Castleberry.

“Someone will be here in a couple of minutes,” he said, putting away his phone. “Then we’ll pick up your mother, unless you need to run more errands.”

Annabelle’s gaze involuntarily flew to her mother’s ring twinkling on her left hand. “No, I was finished.”

“Hey,” Clay said mildly, following her glance. “That’s new.”

“Um, not really.” She was hesitant to tell him she’d accepted her mother’s old ring since he might see it as a sign of relenting to the idea of a union between their families.

“Oh?” he asked, then reached forward to grasp the knuckle of her ring finger. His touch sent a bolt of awareness through her hand as he eyed the modest but brilliant stone. “I hadn’t noticed you wearing it before.”

“I, um, had to have it resized.”

“Ah. I’m just surprised—I assumed your occupation had turned you against marriage.”

Annabelle almost frowned in confusion, then realized with a start that he thought
she
was engaged. Laughter bubbled in her throat—although the idea was absurd, what perfect insulation to cool the increasing heat between them. Because even if Clay entertained the slightest intention of kissing her again, he certainly wouldn’t waste his time on a taken woman. “Well,” she said breezily, tucking a strand of wet hair behind a wet ear, “maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

“Touché.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “I assume you were informed about our plans this evening.”

So he wasn’t looking forward to having dinner, she realized with the most irksome little tickle of disappointment. Annabelle managed a casual shrug. “Since our parents insist on dragging us along, perhaps we can try to reason with them and put a stop to this ridiculous wedding.”

“Right,” he replied as a wrecker pulled up next to them. “Let’s try to make the best of an unpleasant situation.”

Annabelle manufactured a shaky smile. “Yes, let’s.”

Chapter Nine

“PROMISE ME, CLAY,” his father said as they stood at the restaurant bar, “that you’ll be on your best behavior tonight.”

Clay scowled. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Dad, I’m no longer a child to be reprimanded.” Not that his father had reprimanded him as a child, either—Martin hadn’t been around enough to dole out discipline.

Martin sighed. “Son, if you’re angry with me over this marriage, fine, but don’t take it out on Belle, and more specifically, Annabelle.”