A Case for Calamity (Twelve Brides of Christmas #8)
Mackenzie Crowne
Dedication
For my fabulous critique partners,
AJ Nuest and Vonnie Davis;
Two incredibly talented authors
who’ve talked me down from the ledge
on numerous occasions,
guiding me through my various writing calamities
with their own special brand of charm, wit and talent. Love you, chickies.
Chapter One
Google lied. Gabe Sutton wasn’t that guy the senior girls sighed over back in high school, he was the one smoking cigarettes behind the gym and pinstriping the parking lot with burnt rubber in a souped-up muscle car. The six-foot-four, cowboy phenom rising to his feet in the exclusive Parisian restaurant was the guy the senior girls’ mothers insisted their daughters avoid.
Jane Whitmore cleared her throat, squelching the helpless sigh of appreciation rising up from the very core of her femininity. Oh, Shae. Remind me later to thank you for sending me in your place to thwart your father’s latest matchmaking attempt.
Unlike Gabe Sutton’s bio photo, no sharp smile rode his crisply cut lips. The thick, slightly shaggy, jet black hair was the same. The lowered brows, not so much. Broody interest, Jane’s mother would name the sober inspection in his mossy green, long-lashed gaze. Or suspicion.
Jane fought the urge to bite her lip. Did he suspect she wasn’t the woman he was expecting to meet? Though she and her best friend, Shae, were both blue-eyed blondes and of a similar height, their features were very different. If he’d googled Shae Austin—the way Jane had him—the jig was up.
She swallowed back nerves as her mother’s condemning voice echoed in her head. “You’re a Whitmore, Jane. As such, more is expected of you than daydreams and flighty larks with your friends. It’s time to grow up. Either claim your grandmother’s bequest by marrying Todd, or you’re cut off!”
Ha! Cut off from what? She hadn’t seen a dime from her disapproving parents since graduating from college and refusing to join the family business. For three years, she’d been blissfully free of the Whitmore financial noose, and she wouldn’t have it any other way. Tonight’s lark would no doubt validate her parents’ opinion of her as a screw-up, if they found out, but in Jane’s mind, pretending to be Shae for a few hours in order to help her friend out of yet another of her father’s marriage manipulations was no less screwy than Jane marrying a man she didn’t love.
Shoving back thoughts of her own marriage disaster awaiting her at home, she welcomed the fingers of anticipation tingling up her spine. Tonight was her last night in Paris, and she planned to enjoy it. A nice meal with a handsome man, followed by a stroll through the city on a lovely fall night, would fit the bill nicely.
She eyed the tall cowboy Shae had pleaded she meet in her stead. According to his bio, Gabe Sutton built his charter air service from a single plane into a national competitor in less than five years. He’d come to Paris with plans to go international. Confidence rode his shoulders as faithfully as his thousand-dollar suit. An overachiever, and a hot one at that.
Mother would swoon…with good reason.
Sucking in a bracing breath, Jane lifted her chin. She’d done nothing wrong—yet. If the cowboy phenom questioned her identity, she didn’t have to cop to her part in Shae’s wacky plan to best her father. Gabe needed an interpreter. Jane spoke fluent French. End of story.
“Thank you for meeting me, Miss Austin.”
The deep drawl of her friend’s name on his lips released her pent-up breath. She smiled. “My pleasure, Mr. Sutton.”
“Gabe, please.”
The ma?tre d’ melted away at Gabe’s subtle nod. Stepping around the table, he offered his hand. Despite the three-inch heels bringing her height to a respectable five-foot-nine, he towered over her. She placed her hand in his, suppressing a shiver at its callused warmth, and was relieved when he released her after a single shake and guided her into her chair.
He sat across from her. “May I call you Shae?”
Like the low tenor of a weeping cello, the bass rumble of his Texas drawl drifted over her. The fine hair on her arms and other, more sensitive, places lifted as if chilled. She blinked. “Shae?”
His dark brows snapped together.
“Yes! Yes, of course. Shae.” She managed a wan smile and hoped to cover the slip with a weak laugh. “That’s my name.”
Ugh. Pay attention, Jane!
One dark brow rose at her nervous response, but he smiled. “Will you have wine?” He cocked his chin toward the bottle at the center of the table.
She eyed the tumbler in front of him, ignoring her jittery heartbeat and sweating palms.
He lifted the glass in a mild salute. “I prefer scotch.”