Save the Date (23 page)

Because Lucy was not an actress. Her teacher had seen it then. And it was just as true today. And girls assigned the part of a mute Native American did not grow up to pull off a fake proposal.

“I do,” Lucy whispered weakly. “I do.” This time with a little more enthusiasm.

Lord, what if his friends laugh at me? What are the tabloids going to say? Alex Sinclair finds a bride and marries down?

“How’s it coming, honey?” Julian asked from the other side.

“Awful.” Hot tears spilled down her cheeks. Was it too late to cancel? Postpone the event? How hard could it be to call two hundred close friends and political connections and tell them to come back another time?

“Can you open the door?” Julian wiggled the handle.

“No, it’s stuck.” Her evening gown hung from a hook on the door with a mocking sway. “Guess I’ll have to stay in here a while.”

“Open the door, peaches.”

“I can’t do this. Tell Alex I’ve changed my mind. He’ll understand.” She fingered her hair and stifled a groan. In her attempt at chic, she had taken a straightening iron to her stubborn curls, only to produce something in between a wave and a disaster. Like a bad ’80’s crimp job—only worse. “I’m not going to the party. Tell Alex I’m sick.”

“Don’t be silly. The man will be here any moment.”

“I’m not joking.” She would not be the laughingstock of those Charleston highbrows. “I’m staying in tonight. I don’t care how you get rid of him, but just do it.”

“Baby, I know
show
business, not the miracle business. There is no getting rid of Alex. When he wants something, he gets it. And what he wants is you.”

All because of a stupid contract. Alex didn’t possess one ounce of real affection for her.

“Tell him I break up.” Lucy’s breath hitched. “Because I’m never coming out.”

At seven o’clock Alex pounded on the bathroom door.

“Lucy, open up.” He used the voice of authority that his team had followed for years. No one contradicted him.

“Buzz off.”

Leave it to Clare to take it upon herself to tell Lucy about tonight’s proposal. He had wanted it to be a surprise, so Lucy wouldn’t work herself into a panic. Like this one.

He jangled the knob. “Julian says you’re not coming out.”

“At least one man on the planet listens to me.”

Alex lowered his voice until it was a calm drawl. “I know you’re nervous about tonight. But you’ll do fine. I’m going to be right there with you.” He dug deep and threw her a lifeline. “I’m a little nervous, too, if it helps.”

“It does not.”

They were going to be late if he didn’t get her out of that bathroom. And a man couldn’t be late to his own party. “Lucy, I want you out of this bathroom on the count of three, you got it? One . . . two . . .” This was not looking good. Not good at all. “Two and a half. Two and three-quarters . . .”

No response.

He ran a rough hand over his face and leaned against the door. “Tell me what this is about.”

“Don’t you get it? I’m not Sacajawea.”

Alex pressed his head against the door frame and closed his eyes.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she said pitifully. “Why did I think I could pull this off? That I was someone who could run in your circles? I can’t even fix my own hair.”

“Put it in a ponytail. Heck, wear a shower cap for all I care.”

“This isn’t a tennis match at the country club! Nobody else on that boat’s gonna have a ponytail.”

“I don’t care about other women, Lucy. Just you. Just like you are.”

He could hear her deep inhale. “That is . . . strangely hot.”

“Let me in.”

“No.”

“You either open this door or I make like a defensive tackle and break it down.”

“For your information, women are not attracted to brute force.”

“I’ll write you some sonnets later.”

She kept him waiting a good minute. Sixty long seconds standing outside her bathroom door like a complete idiot, useless and inept. It was almost enough time to calm his own nerves.

Because the woman was going to send him to an early grave.

Tonight was big. It was major. The whole world would hear the news of their engagement, and it had to be just right. This was the final secret strategy of his campaign. If they messed it up, it was over. And then where would he be?

Alex shoved the negative thoughts from his mind. Tonight
would
go perfectly. And he
would
win this election. And then he’d get that peace he’d been chasing after so hard. He’d finish up what his brother didn’t get to do, and he’d finally be able to close his eyes at night. He’d silence the voice that told him he was just a pretty face on a package of underwear.

Finally the lock clicked.

And the door opened.

And there Lucy stood. An angel with a halo of blonde frizz.

He stared at what they both knew was an absolute disaster and said the only thing he could. “I love it.”

With a quivering lip, Lucy sank onto the floor, her pink Quiddich: The Sport of Real Men shirt hanging over her shorts.

He dropped down beside her. “I know you’re nervous about tonight.”

“I’m not nervous. I’m absolutely petrified, you insensitive Neanderthal.”

Time was ticking. Now was the moment to pull out the big guns. “Think of your girls.” He ran his hand down her cheek, skimming the softness beneath the pad of his thumb. “You’re doing all of this for them. Do you have any idea how lucky those women are to have you?” Her confidence was as thin as parchment paper. “How lucky I am to have you?”

She leaned her cheek into his hand. “I don’t want to ruin this for you.”

“The only way that will happen is if you bail on me now.” His lips found their way to her forehead, then lingered on her cheek, seeking reassurance. For her. And for himself. “I need you, Luce.”

Three eternities passed before she ran a hand under her red nose and nodded. “Fine. I’ll go.”

Alex’s lungs expanded as he let the air back in.

“But the first woman who makes a crack about my hair—”

“I’ll punch her lights out.” Alex pulled her to her feet.

“You’re supposed to love me, so it needs to be more severe than that.”

“I’ll yank out her heart with ice tongs.”

“Aw.” Lucy patted his chest. “You would do that for me?”

He captured her hand, felt its warmth all the way through his shirt. “No amount of carnage is too much for my girl.”

She reappeared fifteen minutes later, a vision in off-white, her hair pinned loosely on top of her head.

“Is that the dress you’re wearing?”

It was the wrong thing to say. “What’s wrong with it?”

A gossamer thing, it dipped low in the front, revealing not too much, but just enough to give a man a focal point. Tiny beads covered the bodice, like it had been iced in sugar crystals. A slit stopped halfway up the dress, showing off Lucy’s long legs and shapely calves. She looked like something from the cover of
Vogue
. A Parisian runway. A Hollywood premiere.

“Take it off,” he said.

She crossed her arms. “You and I should probably talk about the fake premarital sex we’re not going to be having.”

“The dress has got to go.” She was not his Lucy. “I know you have something else you could wear.”

“But Clare said—”

“I don’t care what she said.” Did Clare think he wanted Lucy to look like the runner-up to Miss Charleston? Lucy probably had Vaseline on her teeth and duct tape on her bra. “You have five minutes to find something else to wear,” Alex said. “As long as you come out looking like you, I don’t care what it is.” His eyes went to her hair. “On second thought, I’ll get Julian.”

Thirty minutes later Lucy walked out on four-inch heels and stood before him modeling a retro teal dress. It was like something out of an old black-and-white Katherine Hepburn movie. A scoop neck revealed creamy white shoulders that begged for a man to trace the curves. The narrow waist gave way to a full-bodied skirt that stopped right past her calves. Three-quarter-length sleeves accented the arms that had held broken young women and offered them a home.

He knew she was waiting for him to say something. The truth would probably have her locking herself in the bathroom again. He had been tackled by men twice his size and not been knocked this off-balance.

“You’re beautiful.” His voice came out rougher than he’d intended.

She gave a weak smile. “It’s the hair.”

With her hand in his, Alex escorted Lucy downstairs to parade her before Julian and Clare.

“It’s our Goodwill find from last week.” Julian twirled his finger for Lucy to spin. “Vintage Dolce never looked so grand.”

Alex watched her cheeks blush as Lucy obliged, her skirt fanning around her. She was totally unaware how captivating she was. She didn’t have the polished and glossed beauty of the models and actresses he’d dated. But what she had was something more. Somehow better. He felt more himself around her. His name didn’t affect her, nor his money. He had to work harder to impress her, which, strangely enough, he found himself doing more and more lately. Just his competitive streak, he supposed.

Clare, dressed in a striking black floor-length gown, stood up and inspected her protégé. “
Hmph.
Not what I had envisioned for this evening, but not bad. I suppose it will have to do.”

Alex lightly held Lucy’s fingers in his. “She’ll be the envy of every woman there.”

Clare’s razor-sharp gaze went from Lucy’s red-painted toes peeping out of her heels to the top of her head. “The hair is an abomination, but you will hold your head up high,” Clare said. “If anyone breathes a word of insult to you, I’ll make sure it’s the last party they ever attend in this town.”

“Thank you.” Lucy gave a small nod. “I think.”

Ignoring the vibrating cell in his pocket, Alex held up Lucy’s wrap and settled it over her shoulders. With his hand at her back, he guided her out the door and into the evening air.

It was time for the next phase of his campaign to begin. By the end of the night, Lucy Wiltshire was going to wear his ring.

And send him to Congress.

Chapter Twenty-five

T
he sun began its slow descent as the
Southern Mischief
slid across Charleston Harbor. The homes lining the Battery provided a pastel rainbow of colors meant to calm. But Lucy’s stomach was tied in a perfect double knot, and her thoughts turned longingly to the
Dr. Who
DVD collection tucked in her suitcase at Clare’s.

Alex was going to ask her to marry him. Tonight. He wouldn’t tell her when or how, and that did nothing but agitate her frayed nerves. Last night she had dreamed that he had gone down on one knee, asked the necessary question, and the whole ship had erupted into laughter. People pointing. Staring. Alex had peered at Lucy as if seeing her for the first time. Then walked away.

“Son.” Marcus Sinclair walked toward them and shook his son’s hand as if they were business associates. “Good to see you. I guess you didn’t get my call about golf yesterday?”

“I’ve been busy, Dad. I have this little election thing going on.” Alex’s voice was dry as toast.

“You also have a family,” Marcus said.

Alex moved to kiss his mother’s cheek, then his sister’s. “Looking lovely tonight, ladies.”

“We’re just glad we got an invitation,” his mother said with a wry grin. “Political functions are about the only time we see you anymore.” She reached out her hands to Lucy. “Fabulous dress. Somebody has good taste.”

Lucy turned to find Finley staring at her hair. “You hardly look like the same crazy lady who was walking down the street in her pj’s.”

A fifteen-piece orchestra had set up nearby, and the faint strains of Beethoven matched the elegance of the yacht. But Lucy knew if it had been up to Alex, they’d be playing Aerosmith.

Donna rested her hand on her son’s forearm, a gesture of comfort and familiarity. Lucy wondered what her own mother would’ve thought about tonight. She certainly couldn’t have judged Lucy for her duplicity.

“We need to talk about Fourth of July arrangements, Alex,” Donna Sinclair said. “You’ll be joining us at the beach house, won’t you?” She hastily explained to Lucy, “We have a family tradition of spending a few days together over the holiday.” Her smile was wistful as she looked at her son. “And it’s the boys’ birthday, of course.”