Читать книгу Falling for You - Heather Macallister - Страница 9

FOR A GUY WHOSE PARENTS named him after the male lead in the seventies’ sobfest Love Story, Barrett Sutton was not at all romantic. He could be if the situation called for it, but he had a talent for avoiding those kinds of situations.

Unfortunately, weddings were exactly those kinds of situations and Barry currently couldn’t avoid them, not after being busted from crime reporter to the society section or “Lifestyle” section as the staff there liked to call it. Whatever they called it, it was now his job to report every little freaking detail about society weddings. And in Dallas, Texas, the society types had big, detail-filled weddings.

He hated it. Even worse, he was good at picking just which details to write about. Really good at it. And why not? He was a professional. A professional who’d grown up with sisters. However, if he didn’t start misspelling some names or messing with the bridal-gown descriptions, he would never get back to reporting crime for the Dallas Press.

But this wedding wasn’t the place to start misspelling anything. This wedding was the Shipley-Hargrove wedding. Yeah, the bride was party girl Sarah, better known as Sally, Shipley—and try saying that three times fast. The society reporters had gone into mourning. Their favorite photo-op princess was settling down. Even worse, over the course of the year-long engagement, her posse of party-girl friends was settling down, too. Skirts were longer, tops were opaque, men were sober and parent-approved. Apparently this was round two for Miss Shipley, who'd actually been jilted before. Nobody was taking chances this time.

Barry hadn’t been reporting society doings during the Sally heydays so there was considerable resentment when he’d drawn her wedding and the rehearsal assignment.

Yes, his life had sunk to this: professional jealousy over writing about lace, flowers and cake.

Hang the self-respect, he had to get his old job back before he lost all his contacts. It had taken him years to slide into a world where informants would trust him enough to talk. Now, instead of spending his nights buying rounds of the hard stuff in bars, he drank warm leftover champagne and tried to think up fresh ways to describe wedding cake and white dresses.

As he drove through Dallas, he gripped the steering wheel and allowed himself a moment of regret for the days of not so long ago, when a Saturday morning would find him finishing a story of murder and mayhem from the night before, and then heading home to sleep. Sure, some Friday wedding parties ran late, but stories about bacon-wrapped shrimp and “extravagantly massed nosegays of buff roses” didn’t have the same urgency, even if he did file them while wearing a tux.

Tonight’s Friday mayhem was nothing more than a bachelor party. But he would get back to reporting crime for the Press after this time-out in the penalty box. Usually reporters were honored for breaking a story. Barry’s only problem was breaking it before the police did. He’d made a lucky guess involving a congressman, but the Press was making an example of him—an example that had gone on way too long, in Barry’s opinion—but it was either suck it up, or quit.

The amount people spent on weddings was a crime in itself and in this case, the bride’s family was loaded. The groom’s, unknown. Barry could have some fun with that. He’d ask a few pointed questions and watch the spin over the groom’s background.

Yeah, whatever. He pulled up in front of good old St. Andrew’s. What was this, the twelfth wedding he’d been to here? And all in the daytime. From March until early June, the sun shone directly through the huge stained-glass windows. Apparently the architect had built it that way on purpose so that there could be some truly glorious Easter mornings. A number of brides chose daytime weddings to take advantage of the same effect.

Barry pulled into a parking place near the kitchen entrance. It made for a quick getaway if he needed one. Call it a holdover habit from his crime reporting days. Just because he’d been assigned to the society section—Lifestyle section—didn’t mean he couldn’t keep his skills sharp.

He turned off the ignition and swiped a stray pollen smear—pesky blooming trees—from the dash of his fully restored 1969 Ford Mustang Mach 1 351W. He needed wheels that blended in with the rich and famous. And since he couldn’t afford rich, he went for famous, or in this case a classic car. It was a good excuse to buy something he wanted to buy anyway. Auto therapy. After last fall’s public spanking, he’d needed a pick-me-up.

As Barry got out of his car, taking a moment to admire the blue finish gleaming in the midday light, a white Cadillac Escalade with custom peach, cream, and gold leather interior squealed into the parking spot next to his.

Paula Perry, wedding coordinator to the rich, exited the car.

He leaned over the top of his Mustang and made a show of checking his watch. “Rehearsal is scheduled for noon. Running late, are we?”

Her back to him, Paula dangled a pair of white satin pumps in the air. “Bride forgot her shoes. Can’t practice walking down the aisle without these.”

“Wouldn’t retrieving them be the maid of honor’s job?” he called, but Paula had already disappeared inside the church.

Barry slipped into the kitchen entrance just as a florist’s van pulled in. It was silver with a calla lily tastefully framing a discreetly worded Whitfield Floral.

Ooh, boy. This could be good. Whitfield meant understated and just this side of stodgy. Barry grinned to himself. The bride was trying to leave her inelegant past behind.

Maybe, just maybe, he thought as he made his way through the kitchen, the bride and her bridesmaids were going to wear Vera Wang. He oughta send fan mail to Vera Wang. Nobody highlighted boobs as tastefully as she did. Sexy-elegant. His favorite look.

Still grinning, he headed for the sanctuary. If Paula verified Vera Wang, then he was bribing the custodian to turn up the air-conditioning. Cold women and silk charmeuse. Another favorite look.

Barry stepped in the side entrance and checked out the bridesmaids. They stood in a clutch, watching as the bride put on her shoes. They all wore the uniform of the sexy, young, urban single with the exception of one who had a kind of country-cousin look going.

Ah, the pity bridesmaid. The one asked as a favor to someone. She had potential, though. He wouldn’t mind seeing her in a sexy bridesmaid’s dress.

As he walked toward the back, Barry looked up to the balcony for the photographer and saw a man in black slacks, turtleneck and silver hair tied in a ponytail. Adolph Gunnerson in his I’m-really-a-serious-artiste getup. Barry let out a low whistle. The man, himself, was setting up tripods. He must think he had a good chance for pictures in W or Town and Country.

He waved. “Hey, Adolph.” It never sounded right. Adolph wasn’t a casual “hey” sort of name.

“Barrett.”

Barry didn’t even know how the man had found out his given name. He rarely used it.

Leaning forward, Adolph gripped the railing. “I am the exclusive photographer and videographer for the Shipley wedding and associated events.”

“Congratulations. I’ve heard they tip well.”

Adolph glared down at him. “You will not need a press photographer. You will not need that.” He pointed to the digital camera in Barry’s pocket. “I will provide you with approved images for your paper.”

“You know, Adolph, in this country we have a little thing called freedom of the press.”

“Tell me again why you now report weddings?”

Adolph didn’t like him. Barry tried not to take it personally because Adolph didn’t like anybody. “Two o'clock deadline for the Sunday paper or we run with what I’ve shot.”

Talk about surly. The guy probably needed carbs. In Barry’s opinion, the world was a nicer place when people ate carbs. Carbs pillowed the hard edges.

He continued to the back where he could see activity in the narthex. The Whitfield florist and her assistants were assembling all sorts of white wrought-iron frames, ribbons, greenery and bows. The usual wedding glop. He pushed open the door. Might as well get the descriptions now.

“Barry Sutton, Dallas Press.” He flashed an oversize press card he’d made himself. People always responded better after having ID shoved at them.

“What flowers will you be using for the Shipley wedding?” As he spoke, he smoothly pocketed his ID and removed a small tape recorder. Sometimes he took notes, sometimes he didn’t. More often than not, he both recorded and took notes. There was a time when flowers wouldn’t have merited either.

“Ms. Shipley has selected a white-on-white floral theme. She will carry bridal roses, gardenia, tulips, stephanotis, and our signature miniature calla lilies in a clutch bouquet.”

“Very elegant.” He was beginning to recognize the favorite combos florists used. This couldn’t be good.

“We are always very elegant,” the florist murmured in her smooth voice, as though they both didn’t know that with enough money, the definition of elegant could be stretched tighter than spandex on a cheap hooker.

“Bridesmaids?”

“They’ll carry three calla lilies.”

“Class all the way.” Barry clicked off the recorder and winked at her.

He saw a theme here. The bride was, indeed, distancing herself from her wilder days. Was this the groom’s doing? Or had Mama and Papa—very nice folks; he’d met them—laid down the law? And if so, why now?

Which brought Barry back to the groom—who exactly was this guy? Ersatz royalty?

It was a mystery and Barry did love a mystery. He wanted to get his hands on a guest list. He knew there was one floating around. There always was at a wedding like this.

Usually, the security detail had a list to prevent crashers. Barry looked outside the church, saw the limos, but no large, serious-looking men with short necks and well-cut suits.

However, he did see Paula, the wedding coordinator, consulting with a slope-shouldered woman who looked both harried and important. A social secretary if he ever saw one.

Pasting on a third-degree smile—teeth showing with a hint of dimple—he approached her. “Hi there. You look like you’re in charge. I’m Barry Sutton with the Dallas Press.” He handed her a card. With some people, you got out the ID. With others, you gave them a business card.

“I know who you are.” She took his card anyway. “I’ll send you copy for your write-up.”

As she turned back to Paula, Barry touched her on the arm. If a third-degree smile didn’t work, physical contact usually did. “I write my own copy. I’m looking for a guest list.”

“That’s confidential.”

“Hmm.” Barry looked at her consideringly. “How can I put this…”

“Give him the guest list,” Paula interrupted. “The more important the guests, the more column inches his editor will reserve. Unless you aren’t interested in a premium write-up with mentions in the About Town and Fashion Sightings columns.”

The secretary fingered the papers in one of her folders. “I…”

“What?” Barry spoke and heard Paula echo him.

“I’m not certain that is our mission.”

What the— “I understand getting hitched is the ‘mission.’” Barry used finger quotes. She deserved it. “Coming up with a story is my ‘mission.’ With a guest list, I can make a few calls ahead of time. Without it, I see who shows up and wing it.” He took a step forward and lowered his voice. “By then, I’m close to my deadline. A little desperate for a good story. A little on the edge. Not discreet.” He shrugged. “And who knows what my photographer might happen to catch on film.”

The secretary paled and handed him a stapled packet of papers. “Here, but you must promise you won’t bother the guests. Particularly—” She broke off. “Just don’t bother them.”

“I won’t bother them. They all love me.” Barry scanned the columns. Good grief. A cast of thousands.

“Here, Barry.” Paula supplemented the list with one of her signature peach pieces of paper. “The official wedding schedule. Subject to change.”

Barry studied the timeline. “Rehearsal begins promptly at noon.” He looked at his watch, then made a note. “Guess it’s going to be impromptly.”

“We’re waiting on the matron of honor.” Paula gave him a tight-lipped smile. “She’s pregnant and isn’t feeling well at the moment.” She glanced through the sanctuary door at the milling bridesmaids and sucked air through her teeth. “And it appears the best man is running behind schedule.”

“No prob.” Barry widened his smile to reassure her that he wouldn’t write anything sarcastic because he knew Paula, and he liked her. She fed him information that was ninety-five percent correct, and she was fun after a couple of post-wedding martinis. Since she was married, he could flirt and she wouldn’t take him seriously. Which was good, because he never meant his flirting to be taken seriously.

Barry slipped into one of the back pews and surveyed the scene at the front of the church. The bridesmaids, minus the country cousin who didn’t seem to be there, all wore the urban style of short skirts and tiny belly shirts, along with the mother-of-pearl white high-heeled shoes they’d wear tomorrow. Very excellent fashion choices.

Barry allowed himself several moments to enjoy the sight, prayed for Vera Wang silk tomorrow, then scanned the guest list.

The names weren’t in alphabetical order but were helpfully arranged by reception seating order. And in spite of what he’d told the secretary, Barry was very discreet. Otherwise, these people would never talk to him and he’d have to hang around parties to which he’d never be invited on his own. Which was exactly how he’d spent his childhood when he’d tagged along after his older sisters.

Most of the names on the seating chart were familiar to him. The Dallas old guard would be out in force tomorrow. Barry was struck by the number of the older generation who planned to attend. And then his attention was caught and held by one name—Donald Galloway. Congressman Donald Galloway.

Barry was instantly transported back to last fall and the investigation involving Representative Galloway. The same undercover investigation that Barry’s report had exposed and that had landed him on wedding detail. He hadn’t known Galloway was cooperating with the authorities. He hadn’t known publishing the story would blow a two-year investigation. If someone had just told him—but Barry had found evidence of bribery and blackmail and figured he’d stumbled onto a scandal. And he had, but he’d ended up in the middle of it, along with Megan Esterbrook, the police media spokeswoman. He’d made lucky guesses in his article and she’d been accused of revealing too much information.

Barry had few regrets in his life, but getting Megan into trouble was one of them.

Megan. Earnest and sincere Megan Esterbrook. The Megan Esterbrook who could make a Girl Scout look slutty. The Megan Esterbrook who’d watched him when she’d thought he didn’t know it. Who blushed, even as she grabbed for her gun. Potent combo, that. Barry stared off into the middle distance for an instant, then cleared his throat. He’d had thoughts about Megan—unprofessional thoughts he’d wanted to explore but the time never seemed to be right. And now she barely made eye contact with him.

Yeah, he felt bad about getting her into trouble, even though he’d just been doing his job. Megan was so heartfelt and so serious about everything while Barry had learned not to take anything seriously. Or not much, anyway. But her betrayed expression had stayed with him.

Right now, he was not going to think about Megan or her puppy-dog eyes. He was going to get back to business. Donald Galloway would be attending this wedding. Barry would not be chatting with him. Too bad, because he knew there was something behind the blackmail no matter what the official line was. Unfortunately, he had to play by the rules in order to reclaim his investigative-reporter status and the rules said hands off Galloway. Actually, the rules said Barry was to report society doings or never work in print journalism again. So that’s what he was going to do.

Barry went through the list and starred the guests who he wanted to approach for comments and who he wanted the society photographer to shoot.

And speaking of pictures, Barry noticed that the bridesmaids were restless. Now would be a good time for him to take a few candid shots of his own. Though he wasn’t the official photographer, the pictures helped him in writing up the gushy junk his editor wanted. Once he’d saved the day when the real photographer’s equipment had been stolen along with all the wedding pictures. If one of his photos was actually used, it meant more money in his pocket.

He recognized Mrs. Shipley speaking to her daughter. Ah. A lovely candid mother-and-daughter moment. Daughter, wearing a more demure outfit than her bridesmaids—the skirt was Prada and maybe the top, too—and the mother conservatively attired in St. John Knits.

Barry held his breath, took the photo, then exhaled. He recognized fashion designers now. No real man should be able to do that.

Barry snapped more pictures—gotta love digital cameras—then looked around for the groom’s family. Still none present, as far as Barry could see.

Paula and the secretary, both talking on cell phones, hurried down the center aisle. From the side entrance, the Whitfield florist began bringing in the now-assembled candelabra. Finally, some action.

Barry zoomed in on the face of the tough, serious-looking groom and a no-neck guy who looked like a bodyguard. Generally, the reactions of men as they’re confronted with wedding excess were always good for a laugh and blackmail-quality photos. But the expression of this groom and the man standing next to him was lethally cold—and aimed right at Barry.

Something told Barry to keep taking pictures even as the two men turned away.

And then someone told him to stop.

“Sir.”

The man without a neck thrust a hand over the lens. He’d moved fast for such a big guy. “You’ll have to come with me, sir. We are not allowing photographs.”

“Back off, fella, I’m the press.”

Barry carefully set his camera out of reach and dug for his press card—the real one. He had a feeling this guy knew the difference.

Mr. No Neck studied the ID card, then grinned, revealing gold-framed front teeth. “Lifestyle? You mean parties and clothes and girlie stuff?” And Barry had to endure The Look, the one that questioned his manhood.

“It’s a living.” He accompanied this with a category-one smile—the bland, I’m-just-doing-my-job kind.

No Neck spoke into his watch, or something that resembled a watch, as he pressed his ear. In the meantime, Barry palmed a blank photo disk, just in case.

“You can stay, but no pictures and give me the disk.” No Neck extended a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt.

“Aw, come on. Give me a break. The paper didn’t send a photographer with me.”

No Neck gestured to the balcony. “He’s the photographer.”

Barry hesitated just long enough to make it believable, fiddled with his camera and handed No Neck the empty disk he’d palmed earlier.

“Thank you, sir.” The man hulked down the aisle and stationed himself near the side entrance, hands in the classic fig-leaf stance.

Okay, this was getting interesting. That was more than annoyance he’d seen on the groom’s face. There was a reason he didn’t want to be photographed and there was a reason the groom and this guy had taken positions from which they could survey the entire sanctuary while leaving their backs protected.

Barry’s reporter’s instinct kicked in. He wanted to know those reasons.

While everyone milled around waiting for the missing matron of honor and cast anxious glances at the double doors behind him, Barry got on the Internet with his laptop to check out the groom’s background. He still had some active accounts at sites not publicly available, thanks to connections he’d made and kept.

Smiling to himself, Barry clicked through the information he found. According to what he read, Augustus Hargrove, he of the threatening stare and suspicious friend, had a background as pure as the driven snow. Not so much as a parking ticket showed up. Right. The guy had to have drifted somewhere. Barry knew his type and his type always had an excess of testosterone that leaked out in a bar fight or something similar.

The man was apparently a “security specialist” for pity’s sake. Everyone knew that was just code for ex-military or ex-secret agent. Really, once spies retired, what else could they do?

Hargrove Security Systems was a relatively new business, so what had Augustus Hargrove been up to before that?

The guy’s background had been whitewashed. Very nice job. The problem was that it was too nice. It didn’t fit a man who could look so threatening in a church.

Barry dug around some more. Any story he uncovered that was connected with this wedding was playing by the rules as far as he was concerned. The managing editor couldn’t expect him to just ignore a hunch, could he?

How had Little Miss Party Girl hooked up with the guy?

Barry started in on Sally Shipley’s movements for the past year, oblivious to when the wedding rehearsal began, coming up for air only when people passed him on their way out of the church.

Great. He’d pay for that later. But right now, he wanted to ask the groom some questions. So where was the groom? He hadn’t been with the bride and her friends as they’d passed by. Barry packed up his laptop and strode toward the front of the church.

He was supposed to be concentrating on the bride, her bridesmaids and this afternoon’s trip to the spa. Barry didn’t want to miss the trip to the spa. That’s where most of the society reporters went wrong. The gossip factor was incredible once women got together with mud, or whatever it was, on their faces. Although he would never admit it, Barry booked manicures for himself to gain entry. Usually just a nail buffing, but being around had paid off big-time more than once.

However, today, he was more interested in the groom. Too bad he couldn’t be in two places at the same time.

In the church foyer, he spotted a cluster of men listening to Paula give them some kind of instructions. Though Augustus Hargrove wasn’t among them, Barry edged toward the men. As soon as Paula turned her attention to the bridesmaids, Barry began his usual interview patter along with the ceremonial flashing of the ID.

“Barry Sutton, Dallas Press. Do you have time to answer a few questions?” He spoke to the group at large and waited for someone to answer him.

Someone did. “Tee time is in a half hour, man.”

“This won’t take long.” Barry took down their names and learned that they were all related to the bride. “And where is the groom?” Barry kept his smile casual and friendly.

“Gus is out front.”

Okay. Paula began herding everyone outside, so Barry followed. Two stretch limos waited next to the curb. Barry knew one of the drivers, but not the other. Quickly introducing himself, he made a note of the new guy’s name while the bridal party headed toward the white limo and the groom’s party piled into the black stretch Lincoln Navigator—an SUV on steroids.

And behind that was an unmarked white van, prickling with antenna. Augustus stood next to it and as Barry watched, a man who might have been Gus’s twin in the cold, remote department emerged.

“Oh, man, is he in trouble now,” said someone from inside the limo.

Still watching the groom and the other man, Barry bent down. “Who’s that?”

“Derek. He’s the best man.”

Okay. Now things were cooking. Barry straightened and intended to approach the two men, but their body language stopped him. The groom was not happy—understandable, but the best man wasn’t looking any too thrilled, either.

And that van. Barry swallowed a snicker. Why didn’t they just paint a big sign on the side that said Surveillance Van? Anybody who watched any cop show on TV would know what the best man was driving.

That was one tense conversation going on beside the van. Barry took a couple of steps back and tried to melt into the giggling bridesmaids who were taking pictures of themselves by their limo, but kept an eye on the men.

Shaking his head, Gus strode toward the Navigator limo.

“Hey!” The best man—Derek—grabbed his arm and Gus promptly shook it off. “A few hours max.”

“I’m getting married,” Gus called back.

“Not until tomorrow,” Derek said.

Their eyes locked.

Barry tried to extricate himself from the bridesmaids, but they’d asked him to take a group photo. It took a few seconds, but in that time, Derek must have convinced Gus to do whatever it was he wanted him to do because when Barry handed back the camera and looked toward the other limo, the two men were walking together toward the pin-cushion van.

Barry made a note of the license-plate number, then watched as the best man and the groom got into the van and the limos pulled away without them.

The groomsmen were headed to the Water Oaks Country Club for an afternoon of golf. The van was following their limo, but Barry didn’t know if Gus and Derek were going to the country club or not. He suspected not.

The white limo pulled away and Barry stared after it, torn. According to Paula’s schedule, the girls were going to spend the afternoon at the Alabaster Day Spa. Another top-notch place, a favorite of old Dallas society. He got on his cell phone and wheedled a nail-buffing appointment in an hour and a half with a nail-tech intern, and counted himself lucky to get it. He should have called a lot earlier and would have done so if the groom situation hadn’t distracted him.

Well, he had an hour and a half to wait. For a nanosecond, Barry wrestled between following his reporter’s intuition and doing the job he was supposed to be doing, before getting into his own car and gently rolling out of the parking lot. Burning rubber was for teenagers.

It didn’t take him long to catch up with the limo and the van. Barry rode along for a couple of blocks, almost convinced that they were all going to the golf course and Gus was riding with Derek just to have a private conversation when the van suddenly turned onto a side street. No signal, no nothing. Barry was caught off guard. That turn was something else. Barry had a split second to continue following the limo, or deliberately follow the van. It wasn’t as though he were driving a nondescript car, so they’d know he was behind them, but the two men couldn’t know he suspected them of…well, something.

Before he could decide what to do, his hands, all by themselves, turned the wheel of his car. He was following the groom.

And he did a bang-up job, considering they went faster and faster and red lights became more suggestions than actual rules. This wasn’t good. Barry didn’t like traffic tickets. And he didn’t want to antagonize the cops, since they’d proven to be a good source of material in the past and he was still trying to mend fences there. And yet, as the speedometer inched past the speed limit—then galloped past it—he kept up with the van.

Ah, the adrenaline rush of a breaking story. He missed this.

And then the van pulled a maneuver straight out of the Action Movie Stunt Guide for Beginners. Maybe Intermediates. It ran up onto the median, pulled a U-turn against a red light and entered traffic on the other side.

There was no way Barry was taking his car over the curb. He couldn’t believe the van had made it. Swiveling around, he watched the van slip through a strip-center parking lot and down a service alley behind the stores until honking cars alerted him that the light had changed. By the time Barry managed to get his car over to the other side of the street, he’d lost the van.

Lost the van. Lost a big, solid white van that gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. Man, was he rusty.

Barry parked his car. Okay, now what? There was something going on. He knew it. And he wanted to find out what. Needed to find out what.

He’d been a good boy and had taken his punishment for months, which was how long it had been since he’d sunk his teeth into a story meatier than caterers jacking up prices when it was too late to book anyone else.

He stared at the van’s license-plate number and tapped his notebook. What was with the best man? No one seemed to know him—they barely knew the groom. Barry checked the wedding info he’d been given for a last name. There it was. Best Man: Derek Stafford.

It would be interesting to find out about those two, and it was his job to write about the wedding party. Details, his new editor was constantly carping.

So she wanted details. Barry checked his Palm. Who in the police department could run the license plate for him? Stephanie? No. They’d dated and it had ended badly. Didn’t it always? Gina? Maybe. Barry had maintained his contacts as best he could, but even he had to admit that the atmosphere in the police department was chilly these days.

His last story had been an incredible piece of detective work. It had just been published too early, that’s all. But nobody held a grudge like a cop.

Barry mentally sussed out the Dallas squad room, eliminating the men—he’d taken enough guff from them over the society reporting—and settled on Megan. There had always been an unacknowledged something between them. The question of who was going to acknowledge it first and when added a nice zing to their dealings.

Barry had to admit that he missed seeing Megan at briefings more than he missed the briefings. In the cynical world of journalism, she’d been a beacon of honesty. She’d made him believe when he hadn’t wanted to. How corny was that?

Way too corny. He had to push the zing aside and snap out of it. The point was that Megan was his best bet to run the plate. He sent her a quick e-mail.