Stand-in Groom (2 page)

“Oh, no!” Chelsea pulled her hand free and closed her eyes. “Oh, God, I’ve got a meeting with a client in an hour.” She laughed, but it sounded faintly hysterical, so she stopped. “I look like I’ve been hit by a train.”

“You look like you’ve been mugged.”

Chelsea stood, searching the street for a taxi. “If I hurry, I can take a cab home and get cleaned up and only be a few minutes late.” She turned to face him. “Thank you again. If you hadn’t come to my rescue …”

Johnny stood up, too, and again she was startled by how very tall he was. “Lookit, I’m running a little early. Hop in the truck, and I’ll give you a ride home and back.”

She gazed at him in surprise. He laughed, as if he could read the trepidation in her eyes.

“I’m not dangerous,” he told her. “I promise. Come on, I work for Meals on Wheels, delivering food to helpless little old ladies who unlock their
apartment doors for me without batting an eye. Hell, I’ve got a key ring the size of New Hampshire for all the people who can’t get up to answer their own door.”

Meals on Wheels. The words were painted on the side of the truck that was still parked in the middle of the sidewalk. Meals on Wheels was a charity organization that delivered precooked meals to shut-ins. Some of them were ill, some elderly, all of them unable either to get to a grocery store or cook their own meals for whatever reason. Whoever this Giovanni Anziano was, the Meals on Wheels organization trusted him enough to allow him to make deliveries.

He smiled again, and Chelsea felt her stomach flip-flop. She could imagine him smiling at her that way as he leaned over to kiss her, as he pulled her against that rock-solid body, encircling her with those powerful arms. She could imagine him smiling at her as he helped her out of her clothes and …

Where on earth had
that
thought come from? She wasn’t prone to having on-the-spot fantasies about strange men—no matter what they looked
like. No matter if they were, indeed, too sexy for their shirts.

“Hop in,” Johnny said again. “I’ll go get your shoes.”

Chelsea Spencer.

She was sitting in the Meals on Wheels truck. She was sitting next to him, holding tightly to her bag as he took the right turn onto Beacon Street, heading out toward Brookline, where she lived.

Johnny glanced at her again, smiling as he met her eyes. Man, she was the definition of incredible.

It was weird, because she wasn’t especially pretty—at least not in the conventional sense. Her nose was a touch too pointy, her chin too sharp. But taken with the rest of her face, she was strikingly attractive. Her eyes were a shade of blue Johnny hadn’t even known existed before he first caught sight of her. Her hair was silky and golden blond. And her mouth … Her lips were gracefully shaped and gorgeously full. It was the kind of mouth he fantasized about. And God knows he’d been doing a hell of a lot of fantasizing lately. …

“I’d been meaning to stop in your office and
introduce myself for a couple of weeks now,” he said, pulling up to a red light and turning to look at her.

She glanced at him again, and he could see an answering flash of attraction in her eyes.

He felt his pulse accelerate and forced himself to slow down. He had a shot here. If he asked her out, there was actually a chance that she would accept. But he had to chill out, take it slow, be cool. Be very, very cool.

The light turned green, and he stepped on the gas.

He couldn’t believe it when he’d seen the three punks knocking Chelsea down to the ground. And he
really
couldn’t believe it when she started chasing after
them
. The lady had guts. When most people were mugged, they got up and ran in the opposite direction. “Are you going to press charges?” he asked.

She snorted. “Of course.”

Johnny nodded. “Of course.” He tried to hide his smile. “Silly question.”

“Will you do me a favor?”

Oh yeah. Especially if it involved full body contact … He nodded again, aware that she was
watching him. He forced himself to sound cool. Nonchalant. “Sure.”

She smiled. “Don’t you want to know what it is first?”

“Nope.”

“Hmmm. In that case, maybe I better think about whether there are any other big favors I need done …”

She was flirting. Chelsea Spencer was flirting with him.

“How about we discuss the terms of this favor over dinner tonight?” he countered. There. Damn! He did it. He asked her out.

But she just laughed. “There’re no terms. I just need you to file a statement with the police. You probably got as good a look at those guys as I did.”

“All right, but …” He shook his head. “Just don’t expect the police to be able to do too much with what we tell them.”

Her smile faded. “I know there’s only a small chance the police will be able to find those boys, but …” She suddenly sat forward in her seat, pointing. “Take the next left. My building’s the second on the right.”

He followed her instructions and double-parked in front of her building. This block was all high-priced condominiums. The buildings were perfectly maintained, their grounds well kept. It was Nice, with a capital
N
, and a silent but very present dollar sign in front of that capital
N
.

Chelsea Spencer had money. A lot more money than he’d imagined. Johnny gazed up at the ritzy building. It was possible this lady was out of his league. Not that
he
necessarily thought so, but if
she
thought so, the game was over.

Chelsea opened the truck door and turned to look back at him. “I’ll be quick.”

“Don’t be so quick that you forget to wash out those scrapes with soap.”

She smiled. “You sound like my mother.”

“No, I sound like
my
mother. She was a doctor.”

“No kidding.”

“Nope.”

She was just sitting there, one hand on the opened door, gazing across the truck into his eyes. Johnny gazed back, hardly daring to breathe.

“I’ll, um, go change,” she said breathlessly.

“I’ll be right here.”

It took her thirteen and a half minutes.

For thirteen and a half minutes Johnny sat behind the wheel of the truck and planned. He’d take her out to dinner tonight to his restaurant. He rolled his eyes in self-disgust.
His
restaurant? Try, the restaurant in which he worked.
His
restaurant was the one that was still in fantasy form.
His
restaurant was pre-embryonic—an idea, a gleam in his eye, the beginnings of a small fortune in his savings account. But it was only a matter of time before he had enough money to make that dream come true.

But until then, he had to settle for the distinguished title of Head Chef at Lumière’s, among the best of Boston’s four-star restaurants.

He wasn’t on shift tonight, but he could easily go in during the late afternoon and prepare a dinner for two. Veal. Chelsea Spencer would go for veal, in his special sauce and …

Tomorrow he’d meet her for lunch. He’d bring a picnic basket and they’d walk over to the Common, spread out a blanket and a few of his garlic-dijon chicken-salad sandwiches and …

He had to work both Friday and Saturday night, but Sunday he had the entire day off.

Sunday. Sunday, he’d pull out all the stops.
Sunday, he’d seduce her. He’d show up here at her condo early enough in the morning so that she’d still be in her nightgown. He’d bring warm butter croissants and he’d kiss the crumbs from her lips and …

Chelsea quickly descended the front steps of her building, brushing out her long blond hair. She wore flowing, loose-fitting pants and a long-sleeved blouse. A wide belt accentuated her slim waist. No one would’ve believed she’d been mugged not quite an hour ago.

She smiled as she climbed in the truck. “Police didn’t hassle you for double parking?”

He smiled back at her as he started the engine. “Meals on Wheels trucks don’t get hassled.”

She fastened her seat belt and began braiding her hair. “I don’t know how I can thank you for doing this.”

It was the perfect segue. “Well,” he said. “Actually, I wasn’t kidding about that dinner. If you’re not busy tonight, I’d love to—”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.” Chelsea Spencer shook her head, not meeting his eyes. That was a bad sign.

He was silent then, just driving. She didn’t want to go out with him. He didn’t need a rejection
stamped onto his forehead. But then she glanced at him. Eye contact. It was all the encouragement he needed.

“Look, I’ve got all of Sunday off,” he said, turning to gaze at her as he pulled up to a red light. “And if you’re busy then, let me give you my phone number, and that way, if you’re ever not busy, you can give
me
a call and—”

“I’m busy Sunday.” She met his eyes, firmly, squarely.

Johnny was the one who had to look away as the traffic moved forward. He was about a block and a half from Chelsea’s office, and he pulled into the right lane, keeping his signal on so that the cars behind him knew he was going to stop.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, and as he put the truck into park he looked over at her.

She was still watching him and she
did
look sorry. Was it the money thing? Or maybe it was the class thing. She probably came from a family who could trace their roots back before the time of the
Mayflower
. Johnny’s father, however, was a first-generation American, paternity unknown.

Or maybe it was just an unspoken rule. Girls from Brookline didn’t date guys from his part of
town. But maybe someday she’d decide to break the rules.

He reached alongside the seat for his clipboard and the pen that was attached. “Let me give you my number—”

Chelsea was shaking her head. “I don’t think so. Because on Sunday—”

“Take it anyway,” he said, writing his home number on a scrap of paper. “’Cause you never know, you know?”

“… I’m getting married.”

Johnny looked up. She was still looking at him, her blue eyes apologetic. “Married,” he repeated.

She nodded. “On Sunday.”

“This
Sunday?”

Another nod.

He looked out the window. “Oh.” He put down the clipboard, glancing over at her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable …”

“And I didn’t mean to make
you
uncomfortable.” She slipped out of the truck. “Don’t forget to make that police report.”

“I won’t.”

“Thanks again.” She gave him one last smile and shut the door.

“Hey, Chelsea.”

She pulled herself up on the running board and looked in the open window.

“This guy you’re marrying on Sunday …”

“Emilio Santangelo,” she said.

Emilio Santangelo. It was as Italian-American a name as Giovanni Anziano. It could have been him. He, Johnny Anziano, could have been standing at that altar come Sunday morning.

Not that he wanted to marry Chelsea Spencer. He just wanted a date or two. Or twelve. Or thirty … And hell, if she was going to marry some guy named Santangelo, she would’ve had no problem going on a date with an Anziano. It was his tough luck, though. He was too damn late.

“Tell Emilio congratulations for me,” Johnny told her. “Tell him he’s one hell of a lucky guy.”

Chelsea smiled at him. “Thanks, John. For everything.”

“H
I
, C
HELS
. I
T’S ME
, ’Milio. It’s really important that you call me back. It doesn’t matter what time it is here in Rome, just
call me.
”

Beep
.

“Chelsea, it’s Emilio again. There’s something wrong with your phone at home and I can’t get through. As soon as you get this message, call me. Day or night.”

Beep
.

“Chelsea. Where are you? If you’re in the office, pick up the phone.”

Beep
.

“Chelsea, It’s three in the morning here, and I can’t put this off any longer. I didn’t want to leave this on your answering machine, but … I can’t marry you. I can’t do it—I’m sorry. I’ve canceled my plane ticket. I’m not coming on Saturday. I met a woman, Chels. I swear to God, I didn’t mean for this to happen, but … I fell in love. I know you’re probably never going to talk to me again, but call me, all right? Just … call me.”

Chelsea sat at her desk, pressing the replay button on her answering machine and playing the series of messages from Emilio again and again.

Love. Her fiancé had gone and fallen in love.

With her digital answering-machine system, his smooth, faintly Italian-accented voice sounded as if he were standing right there, with her in her office.

He wasn’t coming on Saturday. He wasn’t going to marry her.

Moira O’Brien stood in the doorway, silently listening as Chelsea played Emilio’s last message for a third time.

“Breach of promise,” Chelsea said as her best friend and business partner came in to sit down across from her desk. “This was more than a
marriage—this was a business proposition. He’s reneging. I can’t believe it.”

“So sue the son-of-a-bitch.”

“Moira, he’s my friend. I can’t sue him.”

“You wanna bet?” Moira reached for the telephone. “My brother’s a lawyer. Let me give him a call—”

“I’m not going to sue Emilio.” Chelsea pulled the telephone out of reach. “But the next time I see him, you better believe I’m going to make him crawl to beg forgiveness.” She put her head down on the desk with a thump. “Oh, Moira, what are we going to do?”

“About the bank loan?”

Chelsea lifted her head to meet her friend’s worried eyes. “No, about the five hundred and fifty-seven shrimp cocktails that will go to waste—
Yes
, about the bank loan. The first payment is due three weeks from Monday. If I don’t get married on Sunday, I don’t get my hands on the money from my trust fund.”

“You’ve looked at the terms of your grandfather’s will?” Moira asked. “There’re no loopholes?”

Chelsea opened the file drawer of her desk and
pulled out a folder. She took the photocopied page that was clipped to the inside cover and passed it across the desk to her friend.

“Chelsea Jasmine Spencer to receive the first payment of funds from a trust to the amount of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, plus all interest accrued, upon the first business day following the return from a honeymoon, preceded by her wedding.” Chelsea recited the words she knew by heart. “Additional terms regarding release of funds to be revealed at that time.”