The Stand-In (4 page)

She turned her blue high beams on him. “Are we starting this shadowing thing now?”

“No time like the present. So, where to?”

“Well, I have a dress fitting at Spadina and Bloor,” she mumbled, fumbling in her purse. She handed a scrap of paper with an address to the cabbie and turned back to him. “I suppose you can come.”

“I think you’re stuck with me, Winn. You heard Margie. I get to be the peanut butter to your bread for the next few weeks.” He shifted in his seat. Why did that image give him an erection? He must be hungry. After the dress fitting, he’d go to lunch and try to forget the travesty that was his career. And then he’d go home and drink himself to death. “It’ll be fun.”

“I’m not so sure about that. Like I said, I always work alone.”

“But you attend weddings all the time. Don’t you ever bring an escort?”

“Nope. I have the option, but you have to understand, for me this is an acting job. I have to be ‘on’ all the time. I can’t spend my time chasing my date, wondering if he’s drinking too much or feeling neglected. It’s my job to make the bride feel like a
princess
on her special day.”

Whoa. There was no way he missed the tone in her voice when she said “princess.” He peered at her. She looked like any professional woman on the job. Pencil skirt. Cotton blouse, buttoned-up appropriately. Heels, not too high. However, her pleasant face held just a smidgeon of tightness. Right there, around her eyes. He couldn’t miss it.

Somewhere inside this woman hid a story. In spite of Margie Kent’s threats, he needed to find it. “You must love weddings.”

She stared at the back of the cabbie’s head. “There’s nothing like a good wedding.”

He had to hide his own smile as she evaded his question like a consummate liar. Wait until he talked to Jake. There was definitely more happening here than women being paid to act as bridesmaids. He had a feeling Winn Busby sat at the core of a scintillating story, one which, if handled correctly, might hurtle him back into the big leagues. Okay, perhaps not in the political arena, but he could make the pages sizzle again. He’d give the
Player
readers a fascinating story, the likes of which they’d never seen. He’d sell more than a few magazines with this one.

Winn Busby might be a good liar, a good actress, but he’d outed superior liars in his time. His nose might as well have been made to sniff them out. After all, he’d lived with the best of them for years. After watching his father in action, and seeing how his mother simply accepted his behavior, nothing made him sicker. Frankly, he was never happier than when exposing them. And after his emasculating experience with Gloria Dietrich, he was definitely in the mood to shine the light of truth.

* * * *

Winn sucked in a breath and twirled for Patrick. She’d never tried on a gown in front of a man, and certainly never a man like this. Shithead Mike might be handsome, but Patrick took that word to a whole new level. He winded her every time she so much as looked under her lashes at him. Tall, with the lean musculature of a professional basketball player, he possessed the sort of stature that made a woman forget her good sense. His tousled brown hair and melted chocolate eyes just added to the lady-killer vibe. To say nothing of his roguish smile. She’d always been a sucker for a man with a devastating grin. The sort of smile that hinted at past misadventures and the willingness to partake in more.

And now, by some sick twist of fate, she had to model her fluffy dress for him. “What do you think?”

He angled his head and bit his bottom lip, taking her in from top to toe. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but that’s a horrible dress on you.”

As Winn made a face, her seamstress Carmela rose up off her knees in a flurry of tape measures and flying pins. She proceeded to manhandle Winn’s body, twisting and plumping it.

“No, no, signore,” Carmela corrected. She ran behind Winn and yanked at the coral sash around her waist until she couldn’t breathe. “We make the waist more piccolo.” She fluffed the coral organza skirt, the one that looked like a toilet paper cozy. “We fix the length.” She attacked Winn’s cleavage, hoisting her breasts together and upward. “We tighten here. We give her more boobies. She will be beautiful.” The woman ended with a flourish, kissing her fingers in dramatic fashion.

Patrick blinked a few times. “Don’t get me wrong, Carmela. Ms. Busby is very attractive. The dress just sucks.” He turned to her. “You seriously have to wear it?”

She forced a smile. “I’m paid to wear it and love it. As far as my bride is concerned, I think it’s the most beautiful gown in the world.”

“And you get to keep it?”

“Yup.”

“Lucky you.” The arch to his brow indicated he doubted the value of the perks of her job. He walked over to one of the racks, rummaged through a few dresses, and pulled out a black Vera Wang strapless number. He brought it over and thrust it at her. “Now this would look nice on you. Something to show off your hips…and your boobies.”

She met his teasing gaze and heat exploded all over her face. “Put that back. It costs more than my car.”

He feigned shock and pretended to drop it. When Carmela frowned, he hung it back on the rack, a smile on his mug.

Shoot. She’d have to talk to Margie about this guy. He wasn’t taking this very seriously. Maybe a different reporter was available? Or a different stand-in?

In the few months Winn had worked for Margie, she’d become one of her top girls. Each month saw increased bookings. She’d finally been able to pay off her car loan and was hoping to upgrade to a better vehicle soon. Hell, she’d even begun to make plans with Enid to take a much-needed vacation in a spot littered with palm trees and flavored with rum. She liked the stability, loved the money, and she didn’t want anyone screwing up her bookings.

All she needed was Patrick Lincoln to show up at the next wedding, making a fool of her. She wouldn’t allow it to happen.

In a strange way, her new job satisfied her need to act. It honed her skills and allowed her to do something other than flipping burgers for a living. Sure, she wasn’t treading the boards in the theater district, but it was the closest she’d come in a long time. She didn’t have to endure the humiliation of auditions anymore because Margie chose the bookings for her and kept her as busy as she wanted to be. Sure, it might be kind of sad that so many women approached Margie for a stand-in bridesmaid, but it was none of Winn’s concern. She remained professionally distant, did her job, and counted her cash at the end of the night.

Why, this was as close to loving a job as she’d ever come.

And if she had to pretend she believed in the institution of marriage to be successful, she’d do it. Dammit, she would make toasts to her happy couples, wishing them well, knowing more than half of them would become divorce statistics in the first few years of wedded bliss.

Better them than her.

She aimed her gaze at Patrick. “Surely you don’t need to accompany me to all my appointments? Can’t we just meet at the wedding?”

He hummed in disagreement. “I’m sorry, Winn. You’re an actress. You know how important it is to prepare. Consider me part of your preparation.”

She bit back a sigh. “Fine. But you don’t get to insult any more dresses. What if my bride walked in and heard you?”

He made a show of zipping his lips. “Understood. And you look divine in that gargantuan dress. So have I seen any of your acting work?”

“Not unless you hang out with senior citizens.”

He narrowed his eyes. “No acting credits you’d like me to reference?”

“No, thanks. I prefer not to dwell on the past anyway.”

“Okay. So how did you find this job? I bet there’s a good story.”

She shrugged and the entire dress shrugged with her. Carmela looked at her and made a
tsk-tsk
noise. “Sorry,” she whispered to the seamstress. She glanced at Patrick. “Not really. I answered an ad in the paper.”

“You really aren’t much for sharing, are you, Winn? I can see I’m going to have to seduce the info out of you.”

“Yeah. Good luck with that.” Winn puffed out her cheeks and let the air out in a slow stream. She definitely needed to talk to Margie about this guy.

He made a few notes in a book he carried with him and then tapped his pen on his knee. “So how involved do you become with the grooms at these weddings?”

“
Involved?
”

“You know. Do the men have any input on which bridesmaids their brides hire? Specific requests on height, weight, hair color, that sort of thing?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve really only ever dealt with the brides. Margie makes the initial selection based on the bride’s input and I take it from there.”

“Hmm.” He jotted down a few more notes. “And have you ever been asked to
perform
in any way at these weddings?”

“Perform? Like…singing?” He asked weird questions.

“You tell me, Winn. You’re the stand-in.”

“Um, no. Although some of my weddings are theme weddings, so you have to go along with the theme.”

He pinned her with his piercing gaze. “Themes, huh? Interesting. Do you have any themed weddings coming up?”

“Yeah, shortly, in fact.”

“Well, sign me up. I want to see it very much.” He scribbled in his notebook again.

For the first time, Winn got the distinct feeling he was reading more into her answers than she meant. She’d have to keep an eye on this one.

Carmela seemed happy with her alterations and had stopped sticking her with pins, so she padded with care back to the dressing room. Shutting the door, she then reached around her back, searching for the zipper. However, because the seamstress had made adjustments, the slider now sat between her shoulder blades at a different angle and she couldn’t make it budge. She opened the dressing room door and poked her head out to call Carmela, but the woman had already moved onto the next customer. Considering the seamstress was now tucked under some bridezilla’s legs, Winn didn’t want to disturb her. She looked around, but the other employees were busy too.

Her gaze landed on Patrick.

His brow arched. “Need help getting out of that thing?”

“Just the zipper, please.”

He hesitated for a moment, gnawing on his lip. But then he put his notebook down and walked over, taking up a spot close behind her. She breathed in and his pleasing scent wafted over her. She knew his cologne. The commercial featured Brad Pitt rolling around on the beach. As hot as Brad might be, he had nothing on Patrick Lincoln.

As his large fingers met with her skin, charges of electricity zipped through her. She jerked.

“It’s okay,” he said on a breath, close to her ear. “I won’t ravish you. Besides this dressing room is way too small to make it interesting. I like to move around, use the space.” He tugged on her zipper and the flaps came apart.

He didn’t move once the zipper was down. Knowing her skin was exposed, Winn knew she ought to thank him and send him on his merry way. Only she didn’t. For some strange reason, she stood still, and enjoyed the sensation of his hot breath making her skin erupt into goose pimples. Plus she was too busy imagining what it would be like to
use the space
with him.

It had been some time since she’d exploded into goose bumps because of a man. Sue her for taking a moment to relish it.

He finally cleared his throat and stepped away. She almost leaned into him as he moved, as if pulled by a magnet. Clutching the bodice to her chest, she averted her gaze. “Um, thanks.”

“Any time you need a zipper unzipped, I’m your man.” His grin was quickly followed by a frown, as if he regretted his words and their weird moment in the dressing room. He walked out, shut the door and his heavy steps reverberated as he paced the showroom floor.

Winn stared at the closed door for a moment, as the memory of his fingers on her skin made her head spin. Shaking her head, she stepped out of the ridiculous dress and changed back into her pencil skirt and blouse.

* * * *

“So, where will we have our first date?”

In the middle of sipping her coffee, Winn looked at Patrick and swallowed hard. She put down the beverage and looked in her purse. She was sure she had an extra invitation.

“You know, I could have e-mailed you the details. You didn’t need to take me out for coffee. Don’t you have other stories you’re working on right now?”

His tanned face reddened. “Actually, no. I’m completely devoted to this one at present.”

She stared. Obscure details tumbled into place in her head. She’d seen him before, but never in color. Only in a tiny, black-and-white photo on a newspaper byline.
Oh. My. God
. Patrick Lincoln. How had she not made the connection earlier? She used to read his column in the
Torontonian
. He’d exposed several city councillors last year for their misuse of municipal funds. The year before, he’d been a thorn in the mayor’s side, demanding answers about trip expenses on the public’s dime. When politicians saw this man coming, they shit their pants.

And now he wrote about professional bridesmaids. If she recalled correctly, there had been some sort of scandal recently surrounding him and his boss’s wife. Hadn’t he seduced the married woman right out of her husband’s arms?

Great. Her feelings for the male species were already lukewarm at best, considering her history. However, cheaters had a special place on her list of losers. They pretty much topped it.

Why didn’t Margie mention exactly who he was? Could it be she had no concerns, or did her boss not read political columns?

He leaned back in his chair and sucked back his black coffee. “I see you just connected the dots. Okay, full disclosure. I am
that
Patrick Lincoln.”

“Um…”

“Listen…”

“Who do you work for now?”

“I’m freelancing and the story is for a, um, well-read periodical.”

“Which
well-read periodical
?”

His eyes flashed as he stared her down. He must have figured it was better to own up to the truth. “
Player
Magazine
.”