Gorgeous Grooms: Her Stand-In Groom / Her Wish-List Bridegroom / Ordinary Girl, Society Groom. Jackie Braun
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sipped her champagne, enjoying the warmth it spread through her system. “Why should you? It’s not your fault.”
“No,” he agreed. “But he’s a fool. You made a beautiful bride, Catherine.”
The compliment came as a surprise, as he didn’t seem the sort to issue one easily. And so it warmed her, or perhaps that was just the champagne.
“Thank you. It was the dress. Who wouldn’t look good wearing Vera Wang?”
“It was more than the dress,” she thought he said, but the wind stole his words. Or maybe that was just what her bruised ego needed to hear.
The waves lapped against the boat’s hull, rocking them gently. The rhythm and the wine made her sleepy, but she kept up her end of the conversation, even when he steered it to politics, business practices and current events. They were safe topics, and far more interesting than the usual polite small talk she’d encountered from men, who apparently thought because she wore a bra it meant she couldn’t read a newspaper.
It was growing dark, and nearly half of the champagne was gone, but she held out her glass when he presented her with the bottle. After he’d filled it halfway, she said, “If we were at the reception you’d offer a toast.”
He shook his head. “I wasn’t the best man.”
For some reason she wanted to dispute his words. In the end she said, “But as a Danbury surely you would have been expected to speak? What would you have said? I’d like to know.”
“I would have wished you every happiness,” he replied solemnly, dutifully. And she believed him.
“And now? What is there to toast now?”
She’d asked the question before, but this time Stephen had an answer. Holding up his glass, he said, “La Libertad.”
The word rolled slowly from his tongue, the R a seductive purr that raised gooseflesh on her arms and left her to wonder whether he meant the sailboat that had spirited her away from reality or her near-brush with matrimony.
“La Libertad,” she repeated, her accent not nearly as perfected. She swallowed the last of her champagne and settled her head back against the cushions. Closing her eyes, she said, “I like the sound of that.”
Chapter Two
FROM the window of his office, high in the Danbury Building, Stephen watched a sailboat slice through the choppy waves on Lake Michigan. He envied those on board, wishing he could be out there as well, harnessing the wind, outrunning old demons. Soon, too soon, August would give way to September, and then summer to autumn. Not long after that the world would become dormant, La Libertad would be put into storage, and ice would make Stephen’s favorite place inaccessible for the next several months.
Unbidden came the memory of Catherine Canton, and the way she had looked wearing his bathrobe on that sultry July evening when they had hidden from the paparazzi aboard La Libertad.
They’d talked for a few hours, before he’d sailed the boat to port and taken her home. In that time they’d finished the bottle of champagne, and he’d glimpsed the woman beneath all the polish and panache. In addition to her dry sense of humor she possessed a quick wit. She was far smarter, far deeper, far more interesting than he had given her credit for being.
Debutante. The label no longer fit quite so neatly. Or perhaps his admittedly biased definition had changed. Before that night he’d written her off as beautiful, but shallow. But a shallow woman did not keep up on current events, or follow politics. Nor was she merely a fashionable woman, more interested in weekly manicures and facials than substantive issues. She knew designers and followed the latest clothing trends, he was sure, but she also understood branding, and in a brief conversation aboard a sailboat, relaxed by sparkling wine, she’d shown more insight into why Danbury’s was losing customers to its competitors than many of the people in his own marketing department did.
He’d found himself on the verge of calling her more than once during the past several weeks, to pick that finely tuned brain. In the end he hadn’t needed to. She’d called him.
Stephen glanced at his watch. Eleven-fifteen. He would be meeting her in less than an hour for lunch. The invitation had surprised him and left him intrigued. Business, she’d said. What exactly did she want? He shrugged into his suit coat. He would find out soon enough.
Catherine discreetly flipped open her compact and checked her appearance again as she waited in the restaurant for Stephen to arrive. Why she should be nervous about seeing him, she didn’t know. This was business, after all. And yet she’d chosen a flowered silk dress rather than a conservatively cut suit. Okay, so maybe she had a little crush on her fiancé’s—ex-fiancé’s—cousin. It would never amount to anything, of course. They were too different. And yet, after spending that time with him aboard La Libertad, she couldn’t help but wonder if, beneath it all, they might be very alike.
She dismissed that thought immediately as she watched him enter the restaurant. Stephen Danbury didn’t walk so much as stalk, like a big black panther taking stock of his surroundings as he followed the hostess through the crowded dining room. Confident, powerful, in full command. He was a force to be reckoned with. His dark gaze panned the room before settling on her, and Catherine sucked in a breath which she held until he reached their table.
“Your waiter will be with you in a moment,” the hostess said. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Coffee, black.”
When they were alone, he said, “Hello, Catherine.”
She held out a hand that was swallowed up in his and offered a smile.
“It’s good to see you again, Stephen. And thank you for meeting with me. I know your schedule is very busy.”
“I always have time for an intriguing offer.”
He seemed to hold her hand a moment longer than was necessary, before finally releasing it and settling into the chair opposite hers.
“What is this business you’d like to discuss?”
No idle chit-chat for him. She’d counted on small talk and pleasantries to carry them through at least the appetizer. By then she’d hoped to have sufficiently screwed up her courage. She pleated the linen napkin in her lap, a show of nerves she was grateful he could not see.
“Well, as you know, I am the executive director of the Safe Haven Women’s Shelter. Our facility houses abused women and their children, helping them get back on their feet emotionally and financially once they’ve left an abusive relationship.”
“A noble effort,” he replied, but she couldn’t tell from his expression if he meant the words or if he was just being polite.
“We can accommodate up to fifty women and their children. That might seem like a lot, but in a city the size of Chicago it’s just a drop in the bucket. In fact, we’re full at the moment and we have a waiting list.”
“I’m familiar with the shelter and its work,” he said.
“Oh.” Catherine took a sip of water before continuing. “Then perhaps you are aware that the building we call home is old and in need of substantial repair. I’ve implemented a fund-raising plan that has helped tremendously. We encourage companies to ‘adopt’ different apartments in the facility and then refurbish them. Sometimes it’s as simple as a fresh coat of paint, carpeting and new bedding. Other rooms need furniture, window treatments, plumbing repairs, light fixtures, rewiring, et cetera. It’s a write-off for the companies that participate, and I try to make sure their efforts get adequate coverage in the local media.”
“That’s a clever plan.”
“I can’t take credit for it. Other communities are doing it with great success. I heard about it at a conference I attended.”
“It’s