The Stand-In (8 page)

And the worst lie had been about him. She’d lied, just as Winn lied through her teeth as she performed her job.

As the speeches continued, he stood up from his table and left the reception hall. All of a sudden, he needed air.

* * * *

After forty-five minutes of speeches, Winn escaped out of the reception hall and into the outer room. She made a beeline for the bar. Not to drink, of course. She was on duty. However, there was nothing in her contract that said she couldn’t sip cranberry juice. She ordered one from the bartender, leaned back against the bar, and watched as the catering staff set up a long table that would be used for desserts after the meal. She took two sips from her juice, held the cold glass to her forehead for a moment, and then closed her eyes.

Just one moment of peace. These weddings always made for a long day. This one seemed longer than most.

Just as she was about to kick off her four-inch heels, a young man in a red dress shirt approached the bar and sidled up next to her. “Hi,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Elena’s cousin, John.” He cast an appraising glance over her gown. “How on earth have I never met you before?”

She shook his hand, recognizing the smug grin of a player. “Elena and I don’t get to socialize much anymore. I live out of town.”

“Where, baby? Tell me so I can visit you.”

She let out a nervous laugh. “Actually, I’d better get inside. You know, in case your cousin needs me.”

He ran a curious finger up her bare arm. “Come on, Winn. Weddings are boring. I can tell you’re a girl who likes to have fun.” He held open his suit jacket and showed her the flask stashed in the inner pocket. “Wanna explore the coatroom with me?”

Oh, great. If there was anything she loved, it was a man who assumed she was up for it within seconds of introducing himself. She stepped away. “Sorry, John. I’m not really much of an explorer. You’ll have to play Christopher Columbus on your own.” As she moved in front of him, he tugged on her arm. She stumbled and had to steady herself so she didn’t drip cranberry juice down her front. “Hey, watch it.”

“I have been watching, babe. I’ve been watching you all day.” He drew uncomfortably close.

A large hand came out of nowhere, right between their bodies, effectively separating them. Patrick stepped in front of her and put his hands on John’s shoulders. “Back off.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Her jealous boyfriend. Now back off before I push harder.”

John put his hands up in an expression of surrender. “Sorry. I didn’t think she was attached.”

“Oh,” she retorted. “You take no for an answer now that you know I have a man? It wasn’t enough when I said no?”

The man turned as red as his scarlet shirt and fled into the reception hall.

Patrick turned to her. “You okay?”

“Sure. Thanks. Although you didn’t have to come to my rescue. Getting hit on at weddings is one of my occupational hazards. The men always seem to think the bridesmaids are an easy score.”

He grinned. “You know that tidbit is going in the story, right?”

“Yeah, I figured. No names, okay?”

“No names, my lady.” He offered her a courtly bow. “So, now that we’re officially going steady, wanna explore the coatroom with me?”

Winn laughed and stepped out of her heels. As she wrenched her feet out of the shoes, she stifled a groan. The cold marble floor felt like a piece of heaven on her hot feet. “You’re no better than he is.”

“Oh, come on. I’m way more charming.”

She looked at him from under her weighty false eyelashes. “So I noticed.” Charming wasn’t always a good thing, though.

Mike had been super charming, and because of it, charming men now put her in attack-dog mode.

Patrick leaned over and pretended to listen to her feet. “Um, I hate to break it to you, but your dogs are barking.” He picked up one of her discarded heels. “Why do women torture themselves with these things?”

“You mean you don’t like women in heels? Please.”

He angled his head and appraised the stiletto. “Honestly, I couldn’t care less. Besides, I kind of have a thing for toes. I like to see them. Now show me a woman in Birkenstock sandals, and I’m putty in her hands.”

She burst into reluctant giggles again. “Right, and I don’t like a man in a nice suit.”

He caressed his lapel. “Suit porn. Awesome. Now I know your weakness.”

She pried her shoe out of his hand and slipped back into her heels. “Shouldn’t you be writing something?”

He pointed at his head. “It’s all up here. I’ll make my notes later. Besides, I’m your plus one. I want to experience the glories of this wedding with you. Shall we go back in? There’s
nothing
else I’d rather be doing right now.” He held out his arm and took a deep breath, as if persuading himself of the truth of his statement.

Okay, so maybe Mr. Lothario wasn’t really happy to be here with her. Well, guess what? She didn’t really want him here with her either.

Nevertheless, she took his arm. “Okay. Back to work.”

As they walked into the reception hall together, the sounds of the “Macarena” hit them. Even though her feet were killing her, she turned to Patrick.

“Oh, no,” he said, backing away. “This is where I draw the line.”

She began a slow hip gyration in front of him. “Come on, Plus One. Experience the glories of this wedding with me.”

“I don’t dance.”

“You do tonight.” She moved behind him, put her hands on his shoulders and shoved him toward the dance floor.

For a few awkward moments, while she completed the sequence of moves, he just shuffled his feet and tried to blend in. Of course, he only called more attention to himself by deviating from the dance. It was all Winn could do not to explode into laughter as a couple of Elena’s aunts tackled him and positioned his arms and hips.

“Thank you, ladies,” Patrick said, extricating himself from their grasps. “I think I’ve got it now.”

As the aunts moved away, Winn teased, “Patrick, I don’t think you’re really trying.”

He stood still and glared at her. “You want the
Macarena
, lady? I’ll give you the
Macarena
.” With a dare shining in his eyes, he positioned himself in front of her and launched into a very feminine version of the dance, complete with eyebrow arch and pouty lips. “See? Your
Macarena
isn’t half as sexy as mine.”

As his hips rolled and his hands flailed, Winn lost some of her prized composure. A cackle escaped her and she joined him, swinging her own hips with provocative flair. As she improvised and bumped him on the thigh, Patrick ogled her lower half and let out a protracted growl.

Someone's
nonna
danced by. The elderly lady grabbed their arms and thrust Winn into his embrace. "You two are so adorable together.
Bellisimi!
"

"Thank you,
Nonna
," Patrick intoned, playing along. "I'm a very lucky man."

As if on cue, the DJ hit the lights and flashed a blazing spotlight around the room. His booming voice traveled over the speaker. “As per the happy couple's request, if you want Elena and Carlo to kiss, you have to show them how it's done. Who's our first set of victims?" The spotlight searched all over, landing on a few faces, but continued to rove.

As a tickle of discomfort hit her right between the shoulder blades, Winn let go of Patrick's arm. "I'm going to grab myself another drink from the bar."

Too late. The spotlight hit them square in their faces. They both squinted. Out of the inquisition-worthy blaze, the DJ's voice emanated. "And there she is, our lovely bridesmaid, Winn, with her special man. Time to kiss, folks. Show the happy couple your best lip-lock!"

Oh, God
. She hadn't kissed a man since Mike, had spent many evenings wondering if she ever would again. She certainly wasn't ready to do it on the job. This was why she never brought dates to her weddings. It complicated things.

Darn that Margie.

"Go on, Winn," Elena called from the front of the dance floor. "Show me how it's done."

She dared to look at Patrick, heat ravaging her extremities, making her feel as coral in color as her stupid dress.

Grinning like a buffoon, he shrugged. "You heard them. Let's do this. Besides, you wouldn’t want to fall out of character."

She swallowed past the lump in her throat. Damn her weakness for suit porn and a randy grin. To make things worse, he smelled so good, like someone who played polo for a living but never sweat. He pulled her close and for one crazy moment, Winn decided to let a total stranger take charge and kiss her.

When their lips touched, she let out a muffled squeal, but it proved not to be the sound of protest she’d expected. His lips, firm and warm, brushed against hers with curiosity. She held her breath against the velvety crush, momentarily lost in the scent of his cologne and the taste of recently imbibed scotch. As people began to hoot around them, his lips parted and his tongue flicked at her lips, persuading her to open.

Against her better judgment, corrupted by the tawdry moans of the now-blaring Tom Jones, who assured her he needed her kiss, she opened to Patrick. His tongue slid against hers, proprietary and smooth. Her common sense flew out the banquet hall window and her knees buckled. His grip on her back tightened, and before she knew what was happening, he slapped her ass. Adding insult to injury, he then dipped her.

The crowd went nuts. Somewhere in the background, Elena hollered in delight. Oh so slowly, he pulled her back to standing position. Their kiss ended to wild applause.

He stared at her, his eyes wider than she’d ever seen them. “Damn.”

Winn gazed, awestruck, and shut her gaping mouth. Luckily, Elena chose that moment to tackle Carlo in a grasping kiss that would shame a vampire. The spotlight deserted them for the bride and groom and they were left standing in their own private darkness on the dance floor. He still held her by the waist, and showed no signs of letting go. He licked his lips and frowned, as if unsure what to say.

She was just about to do something wild and crazy and ask him to explore the coatroom with her, when Margie Kent’s clear tones sang in her head.

Rule number one for stand-ins. No hookups on the job
.

She needed this job. No way in hell would she ruin it because some lunatic reporter had smacked his gums in her general direction.

“Um,” she mumbled, running a hand over her hair to fix any stray strands. “Wow, that should not have happened.”

“Really? I was going to suggest it happen again.”

“Patrick.” She glared at him.

“What? Did you or did you not enjoy the kiss?”

“It was…very nice.”

He clutched his chest. “Oh, woman, how you wound me.”

“I could have done without the public ass grab.”

“It was the best part.”

“Look, I’m not supposed to be kissing anyone on the job. And you’re supposed to be writing an article, not mauling the story’s subject.”

“What makes you think the kiss won’t make it into the article?”

She slugged him on the arm.

“Okay, okay. Don’t worry. I’m a professional, too. A professional what, I’m not sure about these days, but a professional.” He scratched his head and frowned. “So, about that drink…” He turned toward the bar area.

She turned in the opposite direction and fled to the washroom. “I need to pee.”

It was the only escape she could devise.

* * * *

About an hour later, Patrick glared from his table as Elena’s great-grandfather whisked Winn about the dance floor. He chugged a glass of ice water, torturing himself with the inevitable brain freeze. Italian folk songs had ruled the room’s airwaves for thirty-odd minutes and he had a headache from the repetitive strains of the “Tarantella.”

What was he thinking? He’d kissed her. He’d put his tongue down his subject’s throat.

He’d never done that to any Toronto city councillors when writing stories about them, at least, not to the best of his knowledge.

He blamed Winn. It was all her fault. That, and the
Macarena
. She’d put him in a weird mood with her speech about love and romance. And then, when that young punk had propositioned her at the bar, it had brought out the beast in him. No, the protective older brother in him, maybe. Yes, that was it. He was her escort tonight, after all, and considered it his duty to be chivalrous. Gentlemanly.

Only he hadn’t been thinking like a gentleman when he’d grabbed her ass in front of everyone. The only coherent thought streaking through his consciousness at the time was his need to throw her on a table, lift up that god-awful dress, and sink into her heat.

He stared at his empty glass, dazed.
What the fuck?

Had he lost his reason?

Women like Winn made him nervous. Sure, he enjoyed the flirt, enjoyed putting a smile on her face, but he didn’t trust her. She lied for a living. Earned money from untruths. No matter how she or her puppet master, Margie Kent, preferred to spin it, they gouged lonely women, pretending to offer them friendship. They called their work a service. He had another name for it, one that wasn’t fit for print.

Winn sailed past with Elena’s grandpa and her giggle landed on his ear. Her face bore a blush from all the dancing and a few blonde hairs had escaped her coiffed updo. Her elderly partner, a full head shorter than she, gazed up at her in adoration.

The perfect bridesmaid. Only it was all a ruse. A sham.

He’d do well to remember that.

As a journalist, one who needed to reestablish his career, he didn’t need to be flirting with fake bridesmaids. He needed to concentrate on his story, dig up the dirt, and get it published. Damn it, he owed it to his readers, owed it to Jake and
Player
, and he owed it most of all to himself.

So Winn Busby had a nice rack and a plump ass. So what? So her shy smile made his pants feel tight. His strange attraction to her only proved she excelled at her job. He’d been entranced, distracted, by the glamor and facade.

He couldn’t forget the strange expression she’d worn in the taxi last week. There was something more to this woman, something not quite right, and he would discover it.