Bedroom Eyes. Sandra Chastain
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ignored the want and got down to business, speaking slowly so that he’d understand. “Don’t worry. I have it all worked out. We’ll take my car and drive up to Lake Lanier—my suitcase is already in the trunk. We spend the afternoon at a friend’s cabin rehearsing. Then we drive over to Mr. Jacobs’s for the party tonight and the wedding tomorrow.” She took a long look at his duffel bag and knapsack. “You did bring a dress suit.”
“Oh, yes. I don’t think I will embarrass you.”
“Well, I don’t suppose it really matters. My associates think you’re a photographer, so they expect you to be a little…eccentric.”
He went right past eccentric. “Photographer?” Mitchell echoed, more sharply than he intended. What in hell was Bettina doing using his name and now his real-life profession? “Whose idea was that?”
“Bettina’s. It was convenient. It gave a reason for you to always be away. And I liked the idea of a man who is free to go where he wants to and gets paid for it.”
There was a tinge of yearning in her voice and he wondered if she ever let herself go. Now he leaned against the doorway, keeping far enough away to defuse the effect of whatever seemed to connect them. “What kind of assignment was I on?”
“You were in South Africa. I don’t know what you were doing there. Bettina never told me and nobody ever asked. They only wanted to know when we were getting married.”
“And you told them?” She seemed calm. She didn’t try to make him feel welcome, nor was she overtly unfriendly.
“I said we hadn’t decided. I was waiting for you to get into town.”
“Well,” he finally said, “I’m here. Do I pass?”
She blinked. “Pass?”
“Inspection. Are you satisfied with me as your lover?”
She blinked and looked quickly away. “Not my lover, my fiancé.”
“If I were really your fiancé, I’d be your lover, too. We’d be good together, Anne Harris.”
Anne trembled slightly, then jerked her cool control back into place. “Let’s get this straight—being my lover isn’t included in the job, Mr. Dane.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. It’s just that this is more difficult than I’d expected. You’re not just a picture now; you’re a real man. I guess I wasn’t prepared for that. Perhaps it’s not too late for me to call it off and confess the truth to Mr. Jacobs.”
Before he could speak, the phone rang. Anne answered, listened for a moment, then said, “Mother, I’ve been trying to reach you. Do you realize that your little fib to Mr. Jacobs about my nonexistent fiancé could cost me a promotion and maybe even my job?”
Anne Harris was very convincing. If this was a matchmaking attempt, Bettina had chosen the right woman. The question was, was she in on the hoax? For now, maybe the best way to handle the situation was to go along. Bettina would be surprised at how convincing he could be.
Who was he kidding? If Anne Harris wanted a fiancé, she had one. He’d play the role because he couldn’t turn away. She might not be the woman he’d loved and lost, and everything about her said hands off, but he had to know.
Mitchell wished he could hear the other side of the telephone conversation. Anne appeared to be blaming her problem on her interfering mother. He could appreciate that. Sometimes Bettina’s meddling in his personal life was just as bad. He couldn’t imagine that Anne’s employer would refuse to promote her because she was single. There had to be more to the story.
“Where are you, Mother?” she asked. “I’ve asked you to let me know when you leave town.” Then, “So you’ve been in Key West with a lovely man who paints sunsets. How nice to be able to take off on a whim. No, I did not know that the Hemingway cats have six toes. Mother, stop prattling and listen to me. I have to take my fiancé to Mr. Jacobs’s granddaughter’s wedding this weekend. I don’t suppose you know anything about that, do you?”
There was a pause. “I’m sorry, Mother. I know you didn’t arrange the date for Mr. Jacobs’s granddaughter’s wedding.”
Another pause. “No, Mother, I have not suddenly acquired a real fiancé.” She hesitated. “I managed to find the imaginary one your friend Bettina provided for me.”
Mitchell listened openly. So Bettina and Anne Harris’s mother were friends. Hello…the plot was thickening.
“Yes, Mother, the real man. And yes, he is…what you said. I mean he looks like his photograph. But that’s not the point.”
What you said? Their conversation was certainly intriguing. Anne had caught his attention. Her mother and his sister were friends. By now Anne had moved into the kitchen. He was beginning to get the picture. Mama had somehow suggested to Anne’s employer that she was engaged. When Anne had to supply the imaginary fiancé, Mama had referred her to Bettina, who sent Anne Mitchell Dane’s picture. The question was, to what end? There was no way she could have known he’d come to town the very weekend of the wedding. But he had and Bettina had taken advantage of the coincidence. Now Anne had to produce him to protect her job. Logically, there were too many unforeseen variables for it to be a hoax.
Okay, maybe his future “wife” was playing it straight. So would he—for now. He took a good look at her slim back and long legs and decided to wait and see. In any case, this could turn out to be fun. And it had been a very long time since he’d had fun.
“No, Mother,” she said more patiently than he would have. “You do not need to come to the wedding and straighten out anything. I’ll handle it. You’re already on your way? Mother? Mother!”
Anne let out a sigh. “Damn. She hung up on me.”
Mitchell surprised himself and grinned.
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