Rent A Husband (7 page)

A man, a ridiculously handsome man dressed in the most stylish tuxedo she has ever seen—a tuxedo that perfectly fits his tall, broad shouldered frame—stands at the bottom of the stairs, watching her, clapping his hands.

“Bravo,” Forrest Forbes says, “you make me feel overdressed.”

Darcy stares at him, catapulted out of her trance.

She shrieks and falls into the comical routine of trying to cover too much flesh with two few hands, all the while edging back up the stairs.

“Oh my God, I’m sorry, I . . .”

He widens his eyes then makes a production of covering them with his hand.

“You forgot you had company. I understand. Is there anything I can get you?”

Darcy, safely in the corridor upstairs, shouts: “Champagne. There’s champagne on ice in the kitchen. Pour us some please, I’ll be down in a minute.”

She sits back down at the mirror and shakes her head at her reflection.

“Hell, girl, you’re in a bad way.”

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

She finishes her make-up, slips on her ridiculously
expensive Valentino ball gown
and walks down the stairs to where Forrest Forbes waits with a glass of champagne.

“You look beautiful,” he says.

“Thank you.”

“Although I still think the earlier number was a little racier.”

“Mr. Forbes you’ll kindly erase that from your memory.”

“Not easily.” He raises his glass. “To us.”

“To us,” Darcy says and drinks her champagne.

As Forrest leads her toward the door, Darcy checks out the mirror in the hallway and she has to admit they make a striking couple.

Maybe it’s the champagne doing its mischief in her empty belly—
when last did she eat?
—but the image of Forrest Forbes wielding a riding crop flits across her mind and before she can stop herself she says, “Do you ride, Forrest?”

“Of course. Why?”

“No reason.”

But she’s smiling to herself as they cross to the Forrest’s car.

Are you flirting, Darcy?

Yes
, she decides.

She is.

And little excitement stirs in Darcy.

Maybe tonight won’t be so bad, after all.

17

Carlotta McCourt, teetering down her driveway on stilt-like high heels, nearly falls when she sees the most gorgeous man who ever drew breath handing Darcy Pringle into the shiny new Jaguar.

So discomforted is she, that Carlotta—who hasn’t touched her vile husband in years—grabs hold of Walt’s arm to stop herself from landing flat on her face.

“Whassamadder?” Walt says in his Homer Simpson voice, even in a tuxedo looking like what he is: a fat loser.

“Nothing,” Carlotta says, retrieving her hand and using her Pilates-toned core muscles to steady herself.

But she can’t drag her eyes away from the opposite sidewalk, where Darcy and the mystery man are lit by the dome light of the car.

They are laughing and Darcy looks far too happy for a woman in her situation.

And the man . . .

God, the man . . .

When Carlotta watched him through the glasses last night she saw he was a hunk, but now, as she and Walt approach their Lexus—her slob of a husband not dreaming of opening the door for her—she can see the stranger up close and what she sees has her starved for breath.

He is tall and moves with the kind of grace that only a man skilled between the sheets possesses.

His face, as he turns to smile at Darcy, is chiseled and handsome without being pretty.

No way this guy is anything other than a far-too-desirable heterosexual male.

How did Darcy get so lucky?

Carlotta, lowering herself into the Lexus that stinks of stale cigarettes and soiled golf socks, understands her mission for tonight: find out the truth about The Tall Dark and Handsome Stranger.

18

Eric Royce hands the keys to his vintage Bentley to the valet—Eric is a car nut and has one for every occasion—and stands a while on the lawn of the Santa Sofia Country Club, watching the last of the sun fade from the sky.

It’s a beautiful evening, and he can smell hibiscus, and even the clichéd palms look somehow exotic silhouetted against the mauve sky.

Does Eric feel awkward arriving alone for the Spring Ball?

No.

Since he was a kid, he’s had to deal with being The Outsider, and he’s learned to make it work for him, so watching the expensive cars gliding up, he tells himself that he’s Tom Buchanan from
The Great Gatsby
, observing the goings-on at West Egg through clever, cynical eyes.

And if he’s Tom, then Darcy, walking toward him on Forrest Forbes’s arm, has to be Daisy, and Forbes would have been a natural for the part of Jay Gatsby if only the damned man could act.

Which reminds Eric that he’s not here to indulge himself in faux-Fitzgeralding; he’s here to watch his best friend’s very lovely back.

“Darcy, you look gorgeous,” he says.

“Doesn’t she just?” Forrest Forbes says in that overbred voice of his.

As Darcy waves and calls a greeting to a couple who are walking up the stairs into the club, Eric puts his mouth very close to Forrest’s ear and says in his best Bronx accent, “Screw this up and I’ll have your nutsack dangling from my rearview? Hear me?”

“Loud and clear, old boy. Loud and clear,” Forbes says.

“What’s loud and clear?” Darcy asks.

“Just boys’ talk, Darce.”

But she is no longer looking at him, she’s looking across to where Porter Pringle and his young bride—a vision of loveliness, even Eric has to acknowledge—approach them up the stairs.

Forrest Forbes comes face-to-face with his natural enemy: the jock.

Even though Forrest is no slouch when it comes to physical prowess, he’s never been able to tolerate team sports.

All that sweaty male camaraderie (the joshing, the flicking of backsides with towels in the locker room) revolts him.

And the man walking toward him, as tall and broad-shouldered as Forrest, is a man who thrives in that atmosphere, wallowing in the admiration of lesser specimens.

Forrest needs no introduction to know that this is Porter Pringle.

But Eric does the introductions, and when Porter takes Forrest’s hand and squeezes it in a painful grip, Forrest (sighing inwardly) squeezes back and sees the little glimmer of surprise in Porter’s eyes.

Then the surprise is replaced with something cold and calculating, and Forrest curses himself for being drawn into this pathetic display of machismo.

He should have left his grip limp as a banana.

The last thing he needs is this idiot’s attention.

“So where do you hail from, Forrest?” Porter says.

“Boston, originally.”

“And how have you washed up on our shores?”

Darcy takes Forrest’s arm and says, “We’re cluttering the stairs, let’s go on in. We can chat inside.” She flicks her eyes over to Paige. “You look wonderful, my dear. Isn’t it amazing what they can do with maternity wear these days?”

And Forrest, letting her draw him up the stairs and into the ugly little fake Spanish building, feels a twinge of admiration for Darcy Pringle.

Darcy walks into the spotlight that has been waiting to ambush her, and the band strikes up “Livin' La Vida Loca,” the song that had always been Darcy’s and Porter’s.

Nobody had thought to brief the bandleader to come up with an alternative.

And, with every eye on her and Forrest Forbes, it’s all Darcy can do to smile and nod graciously at a smattering of applause from the packed room.

The spotlight skids off Darcy and finds Porter and Paige, right on their heels.

She is gratified at the noticeably less enthusiastic applause, the major clapping coming from Carlotta McCourt, standing up out of her seat at her aisle table, leaning into Porter and whispering something into his ear that makes him smile one of his hungry smiles.

As she and Forrest take their table right up by the bandstand, Darcy thinks back to that moment on the stairs.

What was it that she had seen when the men shook hands?

There was that very male sizing up thing, and she couldn’t help but notice the silly schoolyard squeezing session, but it was the expression in Porter’s eyes that she couldn’t shake, when he’d looked from her to Forrest.

An expression of ownership.

He still loves me
, Darcy thinks and despite herself her heart skips a beat.

Idiot.

It’s just that alpha male thing.

Even though he’s moved on, in Porter’s mind Darcy is still his property.

If bigamy were legal in this country, she realizes, Porter would have stocked up on wives like gangbusters.

She looks over at Porter sitting at the next table, lifting a glass of champagne to his lips, and conflicting emotions swirl through her.

Sadness.

Loss.

And something unfamiliar.

For the first time she’s able to really
feel
what Eric has been urging her to feel for months: a raw jolt of hundred-proof anger.

Porter, lifting his glass to her in salute, says, “Cheers.”

And she smiles her best smile, raises her glass in turn and mouths, “I hope you choke on the bubbles, you cheating bastard.”

This is Eric’s fourth Spring Ball, and the food (canapés and some chicken thing that he shoves away in disgust) is as revolting as ever.

The band are somnambulistic, snoozing their way though elevator-muzak standards.

He (like the awkward family member at a wedding) is seated at a table at the rear, with the horribly dull couple who own the dry-cleaners.

They are clearly terrified of him (a real live one of
them
at their table) and he knows it was clod-heads like these who’d been so pleased with Proposition 8.

Not that Eric Porter would consider marriage, even if it were legal in this state.

No, no.

He values his freedom far too much.

And marriage causes pain and heartache, as the lovely Darcy can attest.

Then he shoves these thoughts from his mind.

The only part of the evening that Eric enjoys is about to begin.

Porter struts up to the microphone as the band wheezes to a halt.

Smiling the best smile that dentistry can buy, he thanks one and all for coming, vacuums up the applause like the true egoist he is, and allows Darcy the stage.

This is where Darcy Pringle shines, and tonight, in her beautiful dress, with her diamond earrings and matching necklace dangling over those very shapely collarbones, is no different.

“Welcome,” she says, scanning the crowd, “it’s a real pleasure to see such a
wonderful
turnout.”

Eric is filled with pride when he hears no hesitation in her voice, even though he knows how tough this is for her.

“Please get ready to dig deep into those wallets. There are a bunch of very special children out there whose lives will be transformed by your generosity.”

And so begins the auction.

The objects are not important: drinking glasses, bottles of unremarkable wine and boxes of chocolates, merely an excuse to get these people to part with their money.

Darcy holds up an ugly German beer stein.

“The opening bid for this is one thousand dollars.”

With no trouble at all, Darcy rattles through a series of bids and unloads the tankard on a local contractor for five thousand dollars.

She gets good money for a Chilean cabernet and the ugliest vase he has ever seen.

Eric, as always, waits for the last item to be auctioned before he joins the fray.

This is when the fun begins, when the big boys take each other on.

Darcy, holding up a bottle of sparkling wine says, “We are now on our last bid. Traditionally showdown time here at the Spring Ball. Who will give me five thousand dollars?”

And Porter, also waiting, lifts his hand. “Six,” he says.

Eric wags a finger. “Seven.”

“Eight,” Porter says.

“Nine,” Eric says, alarming the couple at his table.

And so it goes on, a realtor and a hotelier entering the brawl, and finally at fifty thousand, Porter thinks he has it all sewn up as always—the guy with biggest bid—when Eric says, “Sixty thousand.”

Mrs Chemi-clean nearly swallows her dentures, and Eric is pleased to see Porter narrowing his eyes like a gunslinger.

Porter has money, but sixty thousand in this economic climate—with an expensive divorce under his belt—has got to bruise him.

“Sixty-five,” Porter says.

Eric, enjoying himself now, keeps increasing the bid in multiples of ten, and Porter looking increasingly less affable, trumps him each time.

The room falls silent when Eric says “One hundred thousand dollars,” by far the biggest bid every recorded in the history of the Spring Ball.

You could hear a mouse burp as Eric looks across at Porter.

The man glugs down his champagne and blinks.

When he speaks his voice is just a little hoarse.

“One hundred and five thousand dollars.”

Eric is tempted to go higher, but he decides he has punished Porter sufficiently and shakes his head.

Darcy, her smile as dazzling as her necklace, says, “Sold to the fabulously generous Porter Pringle for one hundred and five thousand dollars.”

The band strikes up something noisy and Darcy steps down, blowing Eric a kiss.

He raises his glass.

“Bad luck,” Mr. Chemi-clean says with a smug smile.

“Oh, the better man won,” Eric says, drowning his laugh in the cheap bubbly.

Forrest, rinsing his hands in the men’s room, sees Porter Pringle in the mirror, stepping up to the sink beside him.