Читать книгу The Groom Said Maybe! - Сандра Мартон, Sandra Marton - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

THE only thing worse than leaving Washington on a Friday was returning to it on a Monday.

Every politician and lobbyist who earned his or her living toiling in the bureaucratic fields of the District of Columbia flew home for the weekend. That was the way it seemed, anyway, and if Friday travel was a nightmare of clogged highways, jammed airports and overbooked flights, Mondays were all that and more. There was something about the start of the workweek that made for woefully short tempers.

David had made careful plans to avoid what he thought of as the Monday Morning Mess. He’d told his secretary to book him out of Hartford on a late Sunday flight and when that had turned out to be impossible. he’d considered how long it would be before he could make a polite exit from the Cooper wedding reception and instructed her to ticket him out of Boston. It was only another hour, hour and a half’s drive.

A simple enough plan, he had figured.

But nothing was simple, that Sunday.

By midafternoon, hours before he’d expected to leave Stratham, David was in his rented car, flooring the pedal as he flew down the highway. He was in a mood even he knew could best be described as grim.

Now what? He had hours to kill before his flight from Boston, and he had no wish whatsoever to sit around an airport, cooling his heels.

Not ever, but especially not now. Not when he was so annoyed he could have chewed a box of nails and spit them out as staples.

There was always the flight out of Hartford, the one he’d turned down as being scheduled too early. Yes. He’d head for Bradley Airport, buy a ticket on that flight instead.

Maybe he should phone, check to see if there was an available seat.

No. What for? Bradley was a small airport. It didn’t handle a lot of traffic. Why would a plane bound for D.C. on a Sunday afternoon be booked up?

David made a sharp right, skidded a little as he made up his mind, and took the ramp that led north toward the airport.

The sooner he got out of here, the better. Why hang around this part of the world any longer than necessary?

“No reason,” he muttered through his teeth, “none at all.”

He glanced down, saw that the speedometer was edging over sixty. Was fifty-five the speed limit in Connecticut, or was it sixty-five? Back home—back in his real home, Wyoming—people drove at logical speeds, meaning you took a look at the road and the traffic and then, the sky was the limit.

But not here.

“Hell,” he said, and goosed the car up to sixty-five.

He’d done what had been required, even if he had left the reception early. He’d toasted the bride and groom, paid his respects to Annie, shaken Chase’s hand and had a drink with him. That was enough. If other people wanted to hang around, dance to a too loud band, tuck into too rich food, make a pretense of having a good time, that was their business.

Besides, he’d pretty much overstayed his welcome at table seven. David figured the Blums and the Crowders would make small talk for a month out of what had gone on between him and Stephanie, but they’d also probably cheered his defection.

The needle on the speedometer slid past seventy.

“Leaving so soon?” Bobbi Blum had asked, after he’d made a circuit of the ballroom and then paused at the table just long enough to convince the Blums and the Crowders that he really was insane. Her voice had been sweet, her smile syrupy enough to put a diabetic into a coma, but the look in her eyes said, “Please, oh, please, don’t tell us you’re just stepping outside to have a smoke.”

Maybe it had something to do with the way he’d demanded to know if any of them had seen Stephanie leave.

“I did,” Honoria had squeaked, and it was only when he’d heard that high-pitched voice that reality had finally made its way into David’s overcooked brain and he’d realized he was acting like a man one card short of a full deck.

And for what reason? David’s mouth thinned, and he stepped down harder on the gas pedal.

It wasn’t Honoria’s fault—it wasn’t anybody’s fault—that he’d let Stephanie Willingham poison his disposition before she’d vanished like a rabbit inside a magician’s hat.

“Give us a break, Chambers,” he muttered.

Who was he trying to fool? It was somebody’s fault, all right. His. He’d homed in on Stephanie like a heat-seeking missile and that wasn’t his style. He was a sophisticated man with a sophisticated approach. A smile, a phone call. Flowers, chocolates...he wasn’t in the habit of coming on to a woman with all the subtlety of a cement truck.

He could hardly blame her for leaving without so much as a goodbye.

Not that he cared. Well, yeah, he cared that he’d made a fool of himself, but aside from that, what did it matter? David’s hands relaxed on the steering wheel; his foot eased off the pedal. The widow Willingham was something to look at, and yes, she was an enigma. He’d bet anything that the colder-than-the-Antarctic exterior hid a hotter-than-the-Tropics core.

Well, let some other poor sucker find out.

He preferred his women to be soft. Feminine. Independent, yes, but not so independent you felt each encounter was only a heartbeat away from stepping into a cage with a tiger. The bottom line was that this particular babe meant nothing to him. Two, three hours from now, he’d probably have trouble remembering what she looked like. Those dark, unfathomable eyes. That lush mouth. The silken hair, and the body that just wouldn’t quit, even though she’d hidden it inside a tailored suit the color of ripe apricots.

Apricot. That was the shade, all right. Not that he’d ever consciously noticed. If somebody had said, “Okay, Chambers, what was the widow wearing?” he’d have had to shrug and admit he hadn’t any idea.

Not true. He did have an idea. His foot bore down on the accelerator. A very specific one. His brain had registered all the pertinent facts, like the shade of the fabric. And some nonpertinent ones, like the way the jacket fit, clinging to the rise of her breasts, then nipping in at her waist before flaring out gently over her hips. Or the way the skirt had just kissed her knees. He’d noticed the color of her stockings, too. They’d been pale gray. And filmy, like the sheerest silk.

Were they stockings? Or were they panty hose? Who was it who’d invented panty hose, anyway? Not a man, that was certain. A man would have understood the importance of keeping women—beautiful, cool-to-the-eye women—in thigh-length stockings and garter belts. Maybe that was what she’d been wearing beneath that chastely tailored suit. Hosiery that would feel like cobwebs to his hands as he peeled them down her legs. A white lace garter belt, and a pair of tiny white silk panties....

The shrill howl of a siren pierced the air. David shot a glance at the speedometer, muttered a quick, sharp word and pulled onto the shoulder of the road. The flashing red lights of a police cruiser filled his rearview mirror as it pulled in behind him.

David shut off the engine and looked in his mirror again. The cop sauntering toward him was big. He was wearing dark glasses, even though the afternoon was clouding over, as if he’d seen one old Burt Reynolds’ movie too many. David sighed and let down his window. Then, without a word, he handed over his driver’s license.

The policeman studied the license, then David.

“Any idea how fast you were tooling along there, friend?” he asked pleasantly.

David wrapped his hands around the steering wheel and blew out a breath.

“Too fast.”

“You got that right.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s it? Just, ‘yeah’? No story? No excuse?”

“None you’d want to hear,” David said after a couple of seconds.

“Try me,” the cop said. David looked at him, and he laughed. “What can I tell you? It’s been a slow day.”

A muscle clenched in David’s jaw. “I just met a woman,” he said. “I didn’t like her. She didn’t like me, and I think—I know—I pretty much made an ass of myself. It shouldn’t matter. I mean, I know I’ll never see her again...but I can’t get her out of my head.”

There was a silence, and then the cop sighed.

“Listen,” he said, “you want some advice?” He handed David his license, took off his dark glasses and put his huge hands on the window ledge. “Forget the babe, whoever she is. Women are nothing but grief and worry.”

David looked at the cop. “That they are.”

“Damn right. Hey, I should know. I been married seven years.”

“I should, too. I’ve been divorced seven years.”

The two men looked at each other. Then the cop straightened up.

“Drive slowly, pal. The life you save, and all that...”

David smiled. “I will. And thanks.”

The cop grinned. “If guys don’t stick together, the babes will win the war.”

“They’ll probably win it anyway,” David said, and drove off.

A war.

That’s was what it was, all right.

Men against women. Hell, why limit it? It was male against female. No species was safe. One sex played games, the other sex went crazy.

David strode into the departures terminal at the airport, his garment carrier slung over his shoulder.

That was what all that nonsense had been today. A war game. The interval with the policeman had given him time to rethink things, and he’d finally figured out what had happened at that wedding.

Stephanie Willingham had been on maneuvers.

It wasn’t that he’d come on too hard. It was that she’d been setting up an ambush from the moment in church when they’d first laid eyes on each other. He’d made the mistake of letting his gonads do his thinking and, bam, he’d fallen right into the trap.

On the other hand... David frowned as he took his place on the tail end of a surprisingly long line at the ticket counter. On the other hand, the feminine stratagems she’d used were unlike any he’d ever experienced.

Some women went straight into action. They’d taken the equality thing to heart. “Hello,” they’d purr, and then they’d ask a few questions—were you married, involved, whatever—and if you gave the right answers, they made it clear they were interested.

He liked women who did that, admired them for being straightforward, though in his heart of hearts, he had to admit he still enjoyed doing things the old-fashioned way. There was a certain pleasure in doing the pursuing. If a woman played just a little hard to get, it heightened the chase and sweetened the moment of surrender.

But Stephanie Willingham had gone overboard.

She hadn’t just played hard to get. She’d played impossible.

The line shuffled forward and David shuffled along with it.

Maybe he really wasn’t her type. Maybe she hadn’t found his looks to her liking.

No. There was such a thing as modesty but there was such a thing as honesty, too, and the simple truth was that he hadn’t had trouble getting female attention since his voice had gone down and his height had gone up, way back in junior high school.

Maybe she just didn’t like men. Maybe her interests lay elsewhere. Anything was possible in today’s confused, convoluted, three-and-four-gender world.

No. Uh-uh. Stephanie Willingham was all female. He’d bet everything he had on that.

What was left, then? If she hadn’t found him repugnant, if she wasn’t interested in women...

David frowned. Maybe she was still in love with her husband.

“Hell,” he said, under his breath. The elderly woman standing in front of him looked around, eyebrows lifted. David blushed. “Sorry. I, uh, I didn’t expect this line to be so long...”

“Never expect anything,” the woman said. “My Earl always said that. If you don’t expect anything, you can’t be disappointed.”

Philosophy, on a ticket line in Connecticut? David almost smiled. On the other hand, it was probably good advice. And he’d have taken it to heart, if he’d needed to. But he didn’t, because he was never going to see Stephanie Willingham again. How come he kept forgetting that?

End of problem. End of story. The line staggered forward. By the time David reached the ticket counter, he was smiling.

“Mrs. Willingham?”

Honoria Crowder let the door to the ladies’ room of the Stratham Country Club swing shut behind her.

“Mrs. Willingham? Stephanie?”

Honoria peered at the line of closed stalls. Then she rolled her eyes, bent down and checked for feet showing under the doors. A pair of shiny black pumps peeped from beneath the last door on the end.

“He’s gone,” she said.

The door swung open and Stephanie looked out. “You’re sure?”

“Positive. The coast is clear. Mr. Chambers left.”

“You saw him go?”

“With my very own eyes, Stephanie. He gave us the third degree and when we’d convinced him you’d left, he did, too.”

“I’m terribly sorry to have put you through all this, Mrs. Crowder.”

“Honoria.”

“Honoria.” Stephanie hesitated. “I know my behavior must seem—it must seem...” Odd? Bizarre? Strange? “Unusual,” she said. “And I’m afraid I really can’t explain it.”

“No need,” Honoria said politely.

It was a lie. Honoria Crowder would have sold her soul for an explanation. She’d felt like a voyeur, watching the sparks bounce between the Chambers man and this woman. She’d said as much to Hayden, even added that anybody standing too close could almost have gotten singed. Hayden had given one of his prissy little smiles as if he had no idea what she was talking about—but Bobbi Blum, who’d turned out to be lots more perceptive than she’d looked, had leaned over as she’d danced by in her husband’s arms and whispered that what Honoria had just said was God’s honest truth.

“I’m not sure if those two are going to haul off and slug each other senseless, or if they’re going to grab hold of each other and just...” She’d blushed. “Just, you know...”

Honoria knew. She wouldn’t have put it quite so bluntly, but yes, that about summed things up. The Willingham woman and that man had turned out to be the entertainment of the day.

“It isn’t as if I was afraid of him, you understand.”

Honoria blinked. “Beg pardon?”

“That man. David Chambers.” Stephanie cleared her throat. “I, uh, I wouldn’t want anyone to think he’d, you know, threatened me or anything.”

“Oh. Well, no, no, actually I didn’t—”

“It’s just that he...that I...that I felt it was best if...if...”

If what, Stephanie? Why are you acting like such an idiot? Why are you hiding in the ladies’ room, as if this were prom night and you’d just discovered that your slip was showing?

Stephanie grabbed for the doorknob. “Thanks again.”

The door swung shut, and that was it. Honoria Crowder sighed, washed her hands, and headed back to table seven.

“Fascinating,” Bobbi Blum said when Honoria told her the latest details over decaf and wedding cake.

“Interesting,” Honoria corrected.

Bobbi leaned closer. “Wasn’t he just drop-dead gorgeous?”

Honoria opened her mouth and started to correct her there, as well. Drop-dead gorgeous was such a New York kind of phrase. It was overblown. Overdone. Over-dramatic...

But my goodness, it was accurate.

That build. Those eyes. The hair. The face... Honoria’s inborn New England sense of reticence deserted her, and she sighed.

“Drop-dead gorgeous, indeed,” she murmured.

David Chambers surely was.

The wonder of it was that Stephanie Willingham hadn’t seemed to notice.

Stephanie got into her rented Ford, snapped the door locks, and turned on the engine. She checked the traffic in both directions, then pulled out of the parking lot.

She felt badly, leaving this way, never even saying goodbye or thank-you to Annie, but if she’d done either, Annie would have wanted to know why she was leaving so early, and what could she possibly have said?

I’m leaving because there’s a man here who’s been coming on to me.

Oh, yeah. That would have gone over big, considering that Annie had clearly hoped for exactly that to happen.

Stephanie frowned as she approached the on-ramp to the highway. She slowed the car, checked right, then left, and carefully accelerated.

If Annie only knew. If she only had an idea of what had gone on. The way David Chambers had looked at her, as if he wanted to—to—

He’d even said as much! Oh, if Annie only knew. If she knew that he’d told her he wanted to make love to her, that it was what she wanted, too.

Stephanie’s heart did a quick flip-flop.

How dare he?

“How dare he?” she muttered.

She hadn’t wanted any such thing. Never. Not with this—this self-satisfied, smug cowboy or with any other man. She shuddered. Not since Avery—not since her husband had...

Was that the airport exit? Had she missed it? There was a sign, but she’d gone by too fast to read it.