The Sometime Bride

Chapter Five

Carrie dropped down on all fours and searched the oriental carpet for the back of her earring. This was ridiculous. Really! Five minutes until dinner and Carrie was quaking in her sandals like a nervous teenager. You would think this was her first date and not a mere business arrangement with a friend.

And that’s strictly what it is, she thought, finally locating the jewelry piece and standing to insert her earring in the mirror. Strictly business. She and Mike Davis had made a deal, a pact to help each other out in this uncanny time of distress for the two of them. He would butter up her family, and she, in turn, would schmooze with his prep school cronies. Next weekend would be over before she knew it, and her loosely knotted affiliation with Mike Davis would be over altogether.

Carrie frowned at her reflection, wondering what would have become of her and Mike Davis if Mike had truly occupied Wilson’s slot all this while. Of course, she wouldn’t have met Mike in New York, but then, as he lived closer, perhaps their relationship would have been better maintained than her and Wilson’s weekend-style affair.

Carrie watched herself color at the thought of maintaining any kind of affair with the hunky Mike Davis. Criminy. Blushing like a schoolgirl, and he wasn’t even in the room!



Mike tossed his Polo shirt onto the bed, thinking it was really too damn preppy. Not only that, he reminded himself, at this sort of place, one had to wear a tie.

Mike walked over and thumbed through the hanging clothes in the mirrored armoire that served as his closet. A sports coat and light starch button-down would work. That and his conservative yellow—no, too Wall Street, he told himself. He certainly couldn’t have Carrie thinking stockbrokers on a night like this.

Although it was true Mike was out to impersonate Wilson, he was just as determined to prove to Carrie just how different from Wilson he actually was. Because, like it or not, in less than a day, the voluptuous Carrie St. John had gotten right under Mike Davis’s skin. He didn’t know how it’d happened. Or even how in the world she’d done it. Particularly since—from the get-go—she’d seemed so determined to keep this arrangement between them strictly friends.

Oh, Mike could get friendly with Carrie, all right. More than friendly. Downright carnal, in fact. But the puzzling thing was, Mike’s growing attraction to Carrie involved more than just hormones. There was something about her. Something very earthy and real that set her miles apart from plastic, poised women like Alexia.

Carrie was pretty, all right. No one could argue that point. But what made her truly beautiful was that—unlike Alexia, who’d been attractive in a more Seventh Avenue way—she didn’t appear to know it. Yet, there was something very womanly about her. Something so soft and feminine it made Mike ache to be all man. Christ, he thought, looking down at his boxers. Only three minutes till eight, and he’d have to take another cold shower.



Carrie sat alone at the romantic outdoor cafe table. All around her, other couples dined, trading secrets in hushed whispers, many of them linking hands.

This inn was the perfect lovers’ retreat…assuming the lovers were still together, she sighed. Well, maybe her grandmother was right. Ever since she’d been a little girl, Grandma Russell, who had raised her, had insisted that things always turned out for the best. And maybe finding out Wilson was a two-timing jerk was best done now—and not after the wedding.

The maître d’ appeared and offered to pour her wine, but she told him she’d wait. Carrie checked her watch and saw it was ten after eight. Terror flashed through her. What if Mike had deserted her too? What if, despite her initial impression, he turned out to be just as gutless as Wilson and had—at the last minute—ridden off into the sunset, leaving her to face her grandmother, great-aunts, and friends all on her own?

Carrie noticed a dignified older gentleman standing near the door that led to the inn’s kitchen engaged in conversation with the maître d’. The silver-haired man, whom Carrie guessed to be in his late sixties, stroked his goatee, then sent Carrie a warming smile across the nest of tables that separated them.

He must be the innkeeper, she thought, taking a sip of water. But before she could set down her glass, he approached and extended his hand. “Ms. St. John,” he said with a genuine smile, “Charles Gilpatrick. I wanted to tell you what a pleasure it is to have you at our inn. I would have spoken with you yesterday evening but have just now returned from an innkeepers’ conference in Roanoke.”

Carrie gave his hand a firm squeeze and smiled back at him. “I’m so glad you came over to say hello. You’ve done a remarkable job with the inn. It’s beautiful.”

“And suited to your taste, I trust?” he asked, releasing his grip. “We can’t have our chief financier unhappy with the accommodations.”

Carrie felt her cheeks warm at the compliment but held a single finger to her lips. “Let’s just keep that our little secret,” she said with a wink. “I don’t get away on vacation that often, and when I do—”

“Yes, of course. I realize how difficult it must be for you not to be bothered. You are probably one of the more successful investors of our time.”

“You do go on!” she said with a laugh.

“Well, any woman who makes the cover of Forbes by age twenty-six…”

Carrie shushed him with a shake of her head. “When I’m in Virginia, Mr. Gilpatrick—”

“Please, call me Charles.”

Carrie smiled up at the ingratiating older man. “Charles. While in investment circles I may be known for my financial acumen…” A modest, self-deprecating laugh. “In Virginia, I prefer to simply be known as Carrie.”

“But of course,” Charles said, extending his grip to seal their agreement. “The girl next door. Not a problem, Ms. St John.”

“Carrie,” she corrected, graciously accepting his lingering handshake. “And I thank you for your discretion.”

Charles lifted her hand lightly to his lips and gave the back of it a deft kiss.

“Will your fiancé be joining you for dinner?” Charles asked, straightening. “I understand his name was on the register.”

“He’ll be here any minute,” Carrie said in an effort to reassure herself just as much as the innkeeper. Where on earth could he possibly be? Women were supposed to be the tardy ones. And clearly that was understandable, what with all the primping and trouble that went into sliding on control-top panty hose without running them silly. But Mike Davis was strictly wash-and-wear. Carrie was certain he’d look just as good stepping out of a shower as he had coming out of the pool. What was keeping that infuriating man?



Mike froze in his tracks, unable to believe what he was seeing. Who was that old goat sending his roving eyes all over Carrie’s plunging neckline? And why was she laughing and tossing back her head in that coquettish fashion that said whatever he was telling her really floated her boat?

Mike blew a hard breath and ran his fingers through his hair, thinking he was probably blowing things all out of proportion. That couldn’t be Wilson, could it? Come back to claim his bride? The man was old enough to be her father!

Carrie turned her head in Mike’s direction, and he ducked back behind the fanning leaves of a potted fern. Mike needed to really think this thing out. Maybe if he asked one of the waiters…

Mike jumped a mile high when he felt the feminine touch at his forearm.

“Not going to find me in there,” Carrie said, motioning to the spreading fern.

“No, of course not,” Mike said. “I just dropped a…” Well, as he wasn’t wearing a tux, he certainly couldn’t say cufflink.

“An engagement ring?” Carrie questioned with a teasing smile.

“Why, no. No… A pen.”

“Right,” Carrie deadpanned.

Mike’s brow shot up. “Pen? Ha-ha! I said pen, didn’t I? No, I actually meant—”

Carrie twisted her lips and studied the color sweeping up his neckline. Mike hadn’t dropped a darn thing into that planter. He’d been spying on her!

“Well, look, if it isn’t the Hope Diamond you’ve dropped in that dirt, how about you forget about it for now and come on over to the table. There’s someone there I’d like you to meet.”

Mike looked her up and down and swallowed hard. God, was she gorgeous in that long black dress. It was simple but elegant, just like her. “Oh?” Mike asked, clearing his throat. “Friend of yours? Old…friend?”

Carrie held back a laugh at his curious expression. She couldn’t decide if his color was more eggplant or pomegranate. But why? Over Charles Gilpatrick?

“Why, yes. I suppose you could say that. At least you’ve got it half right.”

Darn it. Mike knew it! Half right meaning he’d been correct about the old part. Clearly Wilson would no longer be Carrie’s friend. But why, then, had she been carrying on in such a flirtatious fashion? Encouraging the geezer, who was, holy cow, old enough to be her father! When he’d agreed to pose as Carrie’s fiancé, she hadn’t told him he’d have to dust his head with baby powder!

“Listen, Carrie, I don’t know if now is the time…”

But she’d already latched on to his arm and was dragging him toward her table. “No time like the present.”



The white-haired gentleman stuck out his arm. “Wilson Haywood, I presume.”

Mike firmly gripped his hand, slam-dunked by the realisation. Hey, whoa! It took every ounce of restraint Mike had not to thumb his chest like an idiot and say, “Who, me?”

He shot a quick glance at Carrie, who slipped him a sly wink. Oh, so it was showtime, was it? A little practicing up for his big debut? Yeesh! The least Carrie could have done was warn him. Well, now, maybe it was her turn to be caught off guard.

Mike gave the older man’s hand a firm squeeze. “Indeed it is. And, you…?”

“Sweetheart,” Carrie said, beaming a bit too radiantly, in Mike’s opinion. “This is Charles Gilpatrick, the innkeeper here.”

Mike’s chest wall relaxed a notch. Of course he was the innkeeper. Who on earth else could he have been?

“I trust,” Mr. Gilpatrick said, directing his question at Mike, “you and Ms. St. John are enjoying your stay here?”

Mike stepped over and drew a tight arm around Carrie’s shoulders. “Delightful place. You should be very proud of what you’ve done with it. You’ve only been in business for about a year now, isn’t that right?”

Gilpatrick’s gray eyes warmed in appreciation. “I see Carrie’s not the only one with an aptitude for doing her homework.”

Mike pulled Carrie in a little tighter, her side heating his skin, even through his clothing. “She’s quite the student, my Carrie,” Mike said, caressing her shoulder.

Carrie squirmed in his grip as his fire spiked through her. It started at his fingertips, where they lightly massaged and caressed her bare shoulder, ricocheted to her breastbone, then sank low in her belly. Boy, was she done for, Carrie thought, realizing she’d missed something in the conversation and that both Charles and Mike now had their expectant gazes turned on her.

“Honey?” Mike asked, leaning over, his whiskey whisper tickling her ear.

Carrie blanched, suddenly light-headed. “Yeah, sure. That’s fine,” she responded, sinking into her chair beneath the two men’s congenial laughter.

“The Merlot will be fine, Charles,” Mike said. “Thanks so much for the offer and coming over to introduce yourself.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Charles said, departing with a nod of his head.

Carrie picked up her water glass and drained most of it while Mike sat across from her. “What was so funny?” she asked, knowing she’d embarrass herself by asking but fearing it would be worse for her still if she never even knew.

Mike’s smile broadened over his own water glass. “Charles had offered a complimentary bottle of Virginia wine, or in your case, since you’re such a special guest— his entire wine cellar, to which you—”

Carrie rested her near-empty water glass against the side of her flaming cheek. “Indicated I’d take the whole wine cellar.”

“More or less,” Mike replied with a grin. “But, no worries, I saved our new friend from bankruptcy by agreeing to take him up on his earlier offer of a Merlot instead.”

“I see,” said Carrie, setting down her glass.

A wine steward appeared and displayed a Norton Vineyard label before Mike. “Excellent year,” Mike said. “Believe that one was an award winner, wasn’t it?”

Their server nodded solemnly and uncorked the bottle with white-gloved hands. After a brief wine-tasting interlude, the beverage was poured and Mike and Carrie left alone to once again confront each other in peace.

“Mind telling me why we are considered such special guests in this place?” Mike asked, lifting his glass.

“Mind telling me how you know so much about Virginia wines?”

Mike swirled his glass and surveyed the softly shadowed face of the woman in front of him. Elegant, sophisticated, and, if she was getting special treatment from innkeepers, most likely rich. In light of all that, Mike somehow didn’t think telling Carrie he’d spent his high school summers working the vineyards would sound all that impressive.

“Let’s just say,” Mike said, lightly clinking her glass, “I’m a man of impeccable taste.”

“To impeccable taste,” Carrie said, raising her wine to her lips.

“Seriously, Carrie,” Mike said, once they’d both set their glasses back on the table. “Why is it that we, or rather you, merit such special treatment here?”

Carrie looked at him innocently and shrugged, picking up her menu.

Mike reached out and lowered the laminated page so he could look in her eyes. “Are you…? You’re not…?”

“What?” she asked, her eyes lighting with amusement. “Somebody famous?”

Mike leaned in just a tiny bit more. “We-ell?” he asked, drawing out the word in a blood-pounding way as sea-green eyes washed all over her.

Carrie laid down her menu and gripped the table edge to get her bearings. “Nope. Nobody famous, if you must know. Just your regular old girl from Virginia. Hope that doesn’t disappoint too much.”

Uh-uh. Carrie St. John had done nothing to disappointment him yet, and she wasn’t going to start now. Her eyes were fanning wide, half playful, half daring. The deepest chocolate brown, even darker by candlelight than they’d appeared in the light of day. And everything about her seemed to be drawing Mike closer. Even as he willed himself to remain stoic in his chair.

But instead of staying put, Mike found himself reaching across the table. Wrapping her satiny shoulders in his trembling grip, leaning his mouth in toward hers as the moonlight and the table and the milling voices of others all melted away.

Carrie tilted her chin in expectation and didn’t break away. Rather than pause, she seemed susceptible to the same raging pull that had engulfed Mike’s senses. Her eyes lingered tantalizingly on his own—beckoning, promising. She let out a little gasp, lightly moistening her lips.

“Ready to order?” the maître d’ inquired, slicing the air between them.

“Not on your life,” Mike said, slamming down his napkin.