Читать книгу The Case Of The Vainshed Groom - Sheryl Lynn - Страница 9

“Surprise!” Connie Haxman hooted a laugh as she tugged the arm of a tiny woman.

Seated at the head table in the reception hall, Dawn tensed. She stared at the newcomer’s emerald-green satin suit and the marabou-festooned hat perched at an angle on her carroty hair. Desdemona Hunter, society reporter and author of the biweekly “Party Patter” column, was one of Connie’s dearest friends. Desdemona—called Dizzy by her friends—graced every guest list that mattered in southern Colorado. None of Connie’s countless charity balls, dinners or holiday celebrations could proceed without Desdemona’s reporting.

Next to Dawn, Quentin choked on the champagne he was in the midst of swallowing. Desdemona’s photographer snapped pictures. The popping flash blinded Dawn, and red spots danced in the air before her eyes. Quentin coughed into a napkin.

Dawn thrust a hand toward the photographer. “Please! No more photographs. Please.”

“It’s my gift to you, my darling. The wedding of Dawn Lovell-Bayliss is front-page news.” Connie looped an arm around Desdemona’s shoulders. “Don’t you agree, Dizzy?”

“Or at least, worthy of an entire column. My, my, my, just look at all these lovely people! Is that Judge Gideon? It is him! Ooh, and Elizabeth Masterson. Whatever is your connection to her?” Desdemona nodded vigorously, making her marabou feathers jiggle and bob. “Your dress is exquisite, Dawn. Is that a Karan, dear?”

“Uh, no, it’s an Angelo. It’s not an original, though, I didn’t have time to order a custom—”

Quentin pressed his mouth against Dawn’s ear. “Get rid of that idiot right now!”

Dawn recoiled from Quentin’s red face and glittering eyes. As she stared in horror at the purple splotches spreading across his cheeks and the vein pulsing in his forehead, she realized she had much to learn about her new husband.

The wedding ceremony in Sweet Pines Chapel had been accomplished without a hitch. Two dozen of Dawn’s friends had come from Colorado Springs, and the small gathering had nearly filled the tiny chapel. The only low spot had been Ross Duke. He’d performed his bestman duties exactly as he was supposed to, but he’d been grim-faced throughout the ceremony. Now everyone gathered at the Elk River lodge where Elise Duke and her daughters had arranged a sit-down reception dinner worthy of royalty. Everyone except Ross; he’d disappeared.

Despite Ross’s peculiarities, the evening reception had unfolded with the watercolored loveliness of a sweet dream. The tables were laid with snowy cloths and silver service, and draped with garlands of silk roses. Dawn had giggled throughout toasts to the happy couple. She and Quentin had fed each other wedding cake. They’d danced. They’d eaten a dinner of venison medallions and chanterelles prepared by a master chef. They drank champagne and gazed into each other’s eyes.

Now Connie had turned the dream into a nightmare by bringing in a reporter. To make matters worse, Dizzy Hunter and her photographer acted like a magnet, drawing the wedding guests near. They were the cream of Colorado Springs society: judges, high-powered attorneys, doctors and CEOs. Dainty purses unsnapped as women checked their lipstick and hair; men straightened ties and smoothed jackets. Dawn feared the quiet, dignified celebration she’d promised Quentin was about to turn into the media circus he had feared.

Dawn did not understand Quentin’s aversion to media attention, but she did realize he was serious about it. She stood abruptly, waving both hands at Connie and Desdemona.

“Stop taking photographs right now!”

Glaring suspiciously at Dawn, Desdemona made a curt hand signal. The photographer lowered his camera. People hushed, watching Dawn. Some appeared offended by her outburst, but most looked surprised.

“Excuse me.” Quentin leapt off his chair. Holding the napkin close to his face, he hurried toward the men’s room. With his hunched shoulders, shuffling walk and the napkin pressed to his face, he gave the impression of a man about to be sick.

Desdemona clamped her fists on her hips. “Well!”

“Oh, my darling, I’m so sorry.” Connie hurried to Dawn’s side. “I didn’t mean to make him angry. What did I do?”

“I—I’m not sure. Oh, Ms. Hunter, I’m so embarrassed. I had no idea Quentin would.” Dawn stared helplessly in the direction her husband had gone. She hadn’t the faintest idea how to apologize for what had happened, or even if an apology were required. “I believe my husband has a phobia.”

“This is my fault, Dizzy,” Connie said. “Dawn told me not to invite reporters.”

“A phobia about reporters.” Desdemona’s face was skewed by a skeptical grimace. “Oh, right.”

The photographer turned his camera over in his hands. “Maybe it’s the flash, Dizzy. He could be a war vet or something. You know, having flashbacks about mortar rounds.”

The Colonel appeared. Wearing a somber black tuxedo, with his silver hair cropped short and his back as erect as if he wore a brace, he cut an imposing figure. He glared down his nose at the photographer. The young man quailed under the Colonel’s fearsome gaze.

“Is there a problem, Mrs. Bayliss?”

It took a few seconds for Dawn to realize the Colonel was addressing her. She glanced at her guests. She sensed pity mixed with censure, for Quentin Bayliss was not one of them and his actions now highlighted his not belonging in their society. She imagined the gossip that would soon be rippling along golf courses and through country clubs, and deeply regretted not following Quentin’s advice in forgoing a reception. She forced a smile to assure her guests all was well. “Uh, no, sir, Colonel, sir. No problem.”

Desdemona pressed forward. “Colonel Horace Duke! Sir, it is a pleasure to finally meet you.” She grabbed his right hand in both of hers and pumped it. “Desdemona Hunter. Surely you follow my column. I adore what you’ve done with the lodge. Ralphie Beerson let it go to pot, and it was a crying shame. I’d love to see this place make a comeback as the place to party.”

Connie drew Dawn away from the table. “I’m so sorry, my darling. I only meant to give a gift you could keep in your scrapbook. Can you ever forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive. I’m certain Quentin is finding the humor in this by now.” She eyed the Colonel, whose crispness was fading fast under the onslaught of Desdemona’s rapid-fire compliments. A smile appeared on his craggy face.

The smile reminded her of Ross, who, in height and build, resembled his father. Ross had disappeared from the reception soon after the toasts had ended and before the dancing began. He hadn’t spoken a word to her since the confrontation in her room.

“Dawn?” Connie’s voice was low with concern.

She shook away thoughts of Ross. “I don’t think anybody approves of Quentin. Look at them whispering.”

“Don’t be silly. Everyone thinks he’s charming. They’re concerned for you, that’s all.”

Feeling pity for me, more likely, Dawn thought. She hated being the target of pity, and avoided the countryclub-golfing circuit because she knew people pitied her. Mousy, awkward and unfashionable, she’d never lived up to her mother’s beauty and flair, or her father’s intelligence and ambition. Now they probably thought she had married beneath her. They did not understand Quentin loved her for herself. “Do you think it’s too early for Quentin and me to retire to our cabin?”

“That’s a marvelous idea. I’ll ask someone to go in after Quentin and make certain he’s okay.” She smiled broadly. “I bet his nerves finally caught up to him. I have never in my life seen such a coolheaded groom. Ha! I knew it had to be an act.”

When Connie left her, Dawn looked around the hall for any sign of Ross. As people tried to catch her eye, she regretted even more deeply inviting them to her wedding. She’d done so out of obligation, because if her parents were alive they would have invited these people. Their jostling around Dizzy Hunter in the hope of a photo opportunity proved Dawn’s wedding was merely another chance to be seen in the company of the right people. Unlike Ross, who had never seemed to care a whit about her breeding or who she knew or the size of her stock portfolio. She hated herself for wanting one last glimpse of him, for wanting to hear his rich, good-humored voice one more time. She especially hated how much his coldness hurt her feelings.

She lowered her gaze to her wedding ring, a simple gold band nestled against the gaudy engagement diamond. She was Mrs. Quentin Bayliss until death do them part. From this day forward only her husband deserved her love, attention or concern.

Ross Duke was nothing but a memory.

“MRS. BAYLISS,” Quentin said. He held Dawn’s hand and squeezed her fingers. He gestured at the front door of the Honeymoon Hideaway cabin.

“Mr. Bayliss,” she replied. Enchanted, excited and a little bit afraid, she squeezed his hand in return. “It’s so pretty.”

“I knew you’d like it. Those sensible clothes of yours hide a romantic streak as deep as the Grand Canyon.”

Discomfited he’d noticed and pleased he had, she giggled. “I can’t imagine anything more romantic than this.”

Tiny white lights draped in the bushes and trees lighted the gravel path leading from the lodge to the cabins. The four Honeymoon Hideaway cabins were angled and landscaped so each had a private entryway. Spotlights illuminated a central pond where triple fountains gleamed like quicksilver.

He unlocked the door, then bowed to her. “Might I have the honor of carrying my lovely bride over the threshold?”

Her knees wobbled, and her heart pounded so hard that she felt positive it might beat its way free of her body. “Please.”

He pushed open the door, then scooped Dawn into his arms. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Laughing, he carried her into the cabin, and set her carefully on her feet. For a moment she thought he was going to embrace and kiss her, but he turned toward the bar where champagne was chilling in a silver bucket.

Disappointment filled her. Quentin was always a perfect gentleman and never pressed her sexually. She considered his restraint one of his best qualities. Predators wanted either sex or money from a woman, and Quentin was no predator. Still, she’d hoped marriage would make him more affectionate.

She wandered slowly, fearing to blink lest this beautiful room disappear. Her shoes sank luxuriously into the velvety carpet. She eyed a low table with a pickled finish that gave the wood a rosy glow. The entire room seemed to glow. She edged closer to the bed.

Bed seemed far too mundane a noun to describe the plush wonder of the king-size mattress covered with a confection of pink satin and ecru lace, piled high with pillows. It seemed to invite her to jump into its plumpness.

“Would you like me to start a fire, darling?” Quentin asked.

“It would be pretty, but much too warm. I think not.” She enjoyed his handsome smile. Despite a tendency to fat, he presented a solid, masculine figure. She loved his thick, black hair and couldn’t wait to run her fingers through it. He held out a flute of champagne and a silver tray piled high with chocolate truffles.

At his urging, she selected a truffle. “No more champagne, thank you. I’ve already imbibed enough.”

His eyebrows raised and the corners of his mouth turned down. “A private toast.”

“You’re the true romantic, not me.” She accepted the champagne. Behind her the bed seemed to whisper her name and she tingled with anticipation. “To what shall we drink?”

“To you. You’ve made me a very happy man today. You have given me riches beyond compare.”

“I do love you,” she whispered, gazing into his warm brown eyes. Desire tickled her deep inside. With it came guilt. Her one affair had happened a long time ago when she was in college, but the shame from then mingled with her recent infatuation with Ross Duke. A horrible urge filled her to confess everything.

“Dawn? What’s the matter?”

She had to look away. She had never meant to deceive him, but now she was trapped in her lies. “There are things about me you don’t know.” She pressed the rim of the flute against her lower lip. The fuzzy sweetsourness tickled her nose. “I should have told you before. I—I—I have done something I’m rather ashamed of.”

“I know everything about you I need to know.” He touched her chin with a fingertip and gently urged her to look at him. “Darling Dawn. You are precious to me. If what you mean to say is you have acted a bit indiscreetly in the past, rest assured it makes no difference to me. What matters is now.”

She searched his eyes, fearing she’d find anger or insincerity or jealousy. She found warmth, compassion and shining love. The urge to confess withered.

He touched her champagne flute with his. Crystal against crystal rang like a bell. “A toast to the happiness you have given me by becoming my bride.”

He drank deeply; she followed suit, draining her champagne. An aftertaste tightened her cheeks. The wine had soured, leaving an acrid taste in her mouth. She smiled quickly so as not to spoil the moment.

Seconds later her head began to spin and nausea roiled in her belly. She regretted every drop of champagne she’d swallowed this evening.

“Darling?”

Quentin’s voice seemed to come from a hundred miles away. Rosy lights swirled and danced, offering no opportunity to focus on anything. She swayed and was vaguely aware of dropping the truffle. She knew she had dropped it, but could not make her hand grab for it. Before she realized it, she was sitting on the bed while Quentin loomed over her. Her vision doubled and his image swam before her eyes.

“Are you all right?” he asked, smiling as he held her shoulders.

“The champagne.” Her voice sounded froggy and slow. Her head felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds and it took every ounce of willpower she possessed to hold it upright.

“An excellent vintage, wouldn’t you agree? Only the best for you, darling, only the very best.”

DAWN OPENED her eyes slowly, painfully. Gradually her vision adjusted enough to give her a shadowy view of curtained windows. As her head cleared, she remembered she was in the honeymoon cabin with her new husband.

Chilled, she rubbed her bare arms. Stiff fabric against her forearms roused her curiosity. She felt her bosom and belly, tracing the patterns of leaves and roses. She recognized her sash and the embroidered-rose fasteners.

She was still wearing her wedding dress!

She gingerly felt about her and figured out she lay atop the covers on the bed. Which meant the large shape under the covers next to her was Quentin.

She covered her eyes with both hands. Only she—clumsy, inept, ridiculous she—could get drunk on her wedding night and pass out on her groom. She swore she’d never drink another drop of champagne as long as she lived.

“Quentin?” she said softly. “Dear?” She sat up and looked over his body. The cold blue light of the clock showed it was not yet five in the morning.

She eased off the bed. With both hands outstretched, she groped her way to the bathroom. Only after she had shut the door did she turn on the light.

The light seemed as bright as a phosphorous flare, piercing her eyeballs with needles. Eyes squeezed shut, she sagged against the door and groaned. So this was what a hangover felt like. Lovely.

The pain faded quickly and by degrees she opened her eyes, testing her tolerance. Except for a mild throbbing in her sinuses she felt fine.

She glowered at her reflection. Her beautiful dress was rumpled and dingy-looking. Half her hair had come loose and now hung in scruffy hanks around her face. What remained of the twist had tangled into a lopsided knot. Mascara was smeared under her eyes and her face was blotchy. The string of pearls had left a red imprint along her neck, giving her the appearance of a strangulation victim.

Groaning, she turned away from the mirror, and faced another. The bathroom was lined with mirrors and inset lighting. The afteraffects of her overindulgence were thrown back at her in triplicate and quadruplicate.

Her gaze rested on the bathtub, an oval gold- and-pinkmarble delight big enough for two. If she hadn’t been such a lush, she and Quentin could have spent an hour or two frolicking in the tub. “But, no,” she muttered. “You have to drink too much and spoil everything.”

She stripped out of her clothing, praying a good dry cleaner could repair the damage she’d done to her dress. She stepped into the shower stall and turned on the water full force in hopes that the hot, pulsating spray would make the remainder of her headache vanish.

When she was done, she peeked out of the bathroom. The room had lightened enough for her to discern Quentin’s bulk under the covers. Not enough, though, for her to figure out where the employees who’d transferred her belongings from the lodge to this cabin had put her negligée.

She mustered courage. They were married, which meant no secrets—or shyness—between them. She looked down at her nude body. A strict regimen of exercise and proper diet kept her trim, but her breasts were too small and her hips were angular.

For better or worse, she thought. Quentin knew he hadn’t married a beauty queen. Giving herself no time for cowardice, she stepped out of the bathroom. She left the door ajar and followed the narrow strip of light to the bed.

Quentin lay on his side with his back to her. The morning was cool, but not cold, yet the covers were bundled to his ear. She eased pillows out of the way, and slid under the sheets.

The heat radiating off him took her aback. She laid a hand against his bare shoulder, finding him damp with sweat. She marveled he could bear the weight of the sheets, blanket and comforter. A smile tugged her lips. Perhaps he had overindulged in the champagne, too. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one who had been in no shape last night to take advantage of the bridal bed.

Perhaps he might forgive her.

She folded back the covers, baring him to the waist. Between the pale glow of the clock, the silvering light of dawn seeping through the curtains and the light from the bathroom, she had a view of a shadow man. He smelled hot and distinctly masculine. She caressed his shoulder and was amazed by how hard his muscles felt in repose. She explored his ribs and waist, finding him lean and muscular without a trace of softness. For a man who showed not the slightest interest in exercise or sports, he was in surprisingly good shape.

Heat flooded her midsection, centering deep within her belly. She pushed the covers all the way off, kicking the comforter off the bed. Wide-eyed, she sat up and admired his long, sleek body, now outlined in gold and silver.

“Quentin?” She poked his shoulder with a finger. “Quentin, it’s morning, dear. Time to wake up.”

He remained exactly as he had been.

Irked by his lack of response, she considered her options. Leaving him alone seemed the most considerate thing to do. Unlike her, Quentin was not a morning person. She could order coffee and breakfast. Surely the smell of coffee would rouse him in a gentle, friendly manner. Or, she could take a morning jog through the forest and he’d be awake by the time she returned.

She poked him again. This time he grunted and shifted his arm. “I love you, dear,” she said. “I’m sorry I drank too much last night. I have no head for alcohol.”

She ran her tongue over a hard ridge of muscle along his triceps. His skin had a faintly salty taste, with a woodsy undertone. He shifted again and pawed at his face. She kissed the side of his neck and his hair tickled her nose. He made a soft mmm sound, and she decided it meant approval.

Amused, but frustrated, she wondered if there were boundaries of taste in marital relations. This one-sided exploration was beginning to make her feel as if she were molesting him.

She grasped his shoulder with both hands and pulled him over onto his back. He lolled, his right hand flopping onto the mattress.

“Are you playing a joke on me?” She peered closely at his face, longing to see his features. “Wake up, dear.”

She delicately touched the center of his chest, resting her fingertips over his heart. His chest rose and fell, and crisp hairs parted before her caress. His skin had cooled. She followed the cleft between his pectorals, up to the bony ridge of his clavicle, detoured in the intriguing musculature at the base of his throat and then to his chin. Beard stubble rasped her fingers. She found his lips supple and soft.

She pressed a kiss to his mouth.

She drew back a few inches. He smacked his lips.

“I knew you were awake,” she whispered. She kissed him again, savoring the erotic sensitivity of her lips and the warmth of his.

He touched a hand to her shoulder. Triumphant, grown giddy with excitement, she pressed the kiss and he responded by parting his lips. She touched the tip of her tongue to his and fire burst within her, filling her with liquid heat. He clutched her shoulder, his fingers touchingly awkward, but very strong.

Unable to bear either the silence or darkness, she reached over his chest and groped for the nightstand. He slid his hand over her back and pressed her closer to him. His mouth turned hot against her neck, kissing her with wet lustiness. She shivered.

“Let me find the light, dear.” Her body was twisted into an awkward position, so she struggled for balance. He resisted her efforts, holding her against him with one arm. Her breasts burned against his chest. She almost gave up on finding the lamp when his hold relaxed and she lunged over his body.

He mumbled unintelligibly and stroked his hand flat along her spine, ending up resting it boldly on her bare bottom. She gasped and found the lamp. She turned on the light.

Turning about, resting across his body, she smiled down at her groom.

She realized instantly the situation was not right, but it was so not right her brain locked up, unable to process what she saw. Instead of falling in heavy, jet-black, straight hanks, his hair was brown and soft with a curl. His face, instead of being rather full with heavy jowls, was lean and chiseled with high cheekbones and a squarish jaw. The eyes were all wrong, too. Instead of warm brown, they were bleary, bloodshot and pewter-gray.

He squinted as if the light pained him.

Dawn remembered a time she’d absentmindedly walked into a men’s room instead of the ladies’ room. It had taken several seconds for the sight of urinals and the absence of a vanity to sink in so she could realize her mistake. Once she had, she’d been horrified.

But not half as horrified as she was now.

Ross Duke grimaced. “Dawn? What are you doing in my room?”