Fool for Love: Fooling Around\Nobody's Fool\Fools Rush In (20 page)

“Your wedding engagement?” Maggie suggested, studying Claire's face as she enunciated each syllable. “Does that ring a bell?”

Her wedding engagement? “What are you talking about? I'm not engaged!”

“It was on the radio, Claire.”

“My wedding engagement? On the
radio?
” Pain throbbed inside her skull. “What wedding engagement? And why in the world would it be on the radio?”

“Your fiancé,” Maggie said, still speaking slowly, as if to an imbecile. “Mark Lavin? The head honcho of a radio station? Does any of this sound familiar?”

“No.” Claire dropped into her chair. Her elbow jostled the strings, and the balloons bobbed and rustled above her head.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, he's quite a catch.”

“It doesn't.” Claire gave her a hard look. “How
would you happen to know he's a catch? Do you know him? Do
I
know him?”

“You're engaged to him, remember?”

“I'm not—” Claire sighed. She'd already denied her engagement several times. Either the radio was wrong or she'd lost her mind.

“You haven't introduced me to him yet,” Maggie continued. “But I know he's a catch thanks to the article in
Boston's Best
a couple of months ago.”

“What article?” Claire asked warily. Her hands gripped the edge of her desk. She felt like one of the helium balloons—if she let go, she might just float away, completely out of this world, which she was no longer sure she recognized.

“Boston's most desirable bachelors,” Maggie explained with forced patience. “They chose five, and he was one of them. Definitely the studliest of the bunch, too. I wonder if there's a copy of the magazine anywhere. It was the Valentine's Day issue.”

A Valentine's Day magazine. A radio announcement. None of this made sense. Why would Claire O'Connor, of all people, be engaged to some studly Boston bachelor? Especially one who ran a radio station?

“Oh, my God,” she said as her memory stirred back to life.

“What? It's beginning to ring a bell now?”

“Oh yeah,” Claire muttered. Her gaze drifted to the calendar open on her desk. April 1st. April Fool's Day, and alarms were clanging inside her brain.

 

M
ARK WASN'T SURE
what pissed him off the most: Rex's attitude, his annoying practical joke or the idea
of getting married. It wasn't as if he was militantly opposed to the concept of marriage. His parents were happily married and he assumed that eventually he would be happily married, too. But he'd just been named one of the city's hottest bachelors by
Boston's Best,
and he wanted to savor that status for a while. Although he'd been surprised that the magazine had chosen him, along with a successful fund manager at Fidelity, a celebrity chef at a fusion restaurant in the South End, an orthopedic surgeon at Mass General and a young Boston University professor, he'd appreciated his place on that short list. He'd appreciated even more the attention it brought, the fame and glory.
Boston's Best
had run a full-page photo of him sitting on a park bench in the Public Garden, a smaller shot of him at his desk, surrounded by stacks of CDs, and a five-paragraph profile making him sound pretty damned special. He knew better than to believe his own hype…but the hype was fun. He'd relished the sudden increase in flirting that came his way, and the good-natured jabs from envious colleagues and friends. He'd been pleased by the publicity the profile had brought to WBKX. And thinking of himself as one cool Boston dude? Yeah, he'd loved it.

And now Rex was marrying him off. The bastard!

Mountains of work awaited his attention, but he couldn't concentrate. Instead, he lifted his phone and punched in his secretary's extension. “Ellie?” he said when he heard her voice. “Do me a favor. Find out everything you can about Claire O'Connor.”

“Your fiancée?”

He heard laughter in her voice, but he ignored the taunt. “Find out who the hell she is.”

“You're marrying her and you don't know who she is?”

“Just do it,” he snapped, then slammed down his phone.

 

“T
HERE YOU GO
,” Maggie said, waltzing into Claire's office an hour later with a magazine in her hand, her index finger wedged between the pages. She slapped the magazine onto Claire's desk and flipped it open to the page she'd been marking with her finger. “There's your fiancé.”

Claire stared. She'd been doing a lot of that since she'd settled at her desk—more specifically staring into space, contemplating why Rex Crandall had chosen her to make fun of and trying to figure out what to do about it. She'd be happy to ignore the bogus wedding announcement, but that was impossible when colleagues kept poking their heads into her office to shout their congratulations and question her about the time and place of the nuptials. How many other people had heard Rex's radio show? How many hundreds of thousands of Boston-area listeners believed she was engaged to this Mark Lavin person, whoever the hell he was?

She directed her gaze to the photo of Mark Lavin, which occupied a full, glossy page of
Boston's Best.
Oh, God—he was gorgeous. Thick, dark hair tumbled in waves around a face of angles and edges. His eyes were deep-set and the color of espresso, his nose long and narrow and his smile wickedly seductive. He wore a leather jacket with the collar turned up,
faded jeans and sneakers—the kind of outfit rich people wore when they wanted to prove that despite their wealth they were really Average Joes.

He was no Average Joe, though. For one thing, he'd been declared one of the top five bachelors in the city, and for another…he was
gorgeous.

The facing page contained a smaller photo of him, seated at a desk heaped with CD jewel cases. He wore a blue shirt with the collar open and the sleeves rolled up; a colorful tie hung loose below his throat. His hair was as tousled in the indoor photo as in the outdoor one. It wasn't exactly long, but it was long enough. Long enough for a woman to lose her fingers in its thick waves.

She wasn't that woman, though. She wasn't the type to lose her fingers in the hair of a breathtakingly handsome bachelor she didn't even know, even if she was supposedly engaged to him.

“You can see why everyone's congratulating you,” Maggie remarked, ogling the larger photo of Mark Lavin. “This is a guy a lot of women would like to marry.”

“How do you know that?” Claire retorted. “Maybe he's obnoxious. Maybe he picks his nose in public and tortures puppies for fun.”

“Look at those eyes,” Maggie argued, gesturing toward the photo. “Do they look like the eyes of a man who tortures puppies?”

No. They looked like the eyes of a man who enjoyed sex. Claire felt her cheeks heat as that unbidden thought drifted through her mind.

Her phone rang. She prayed the call wasn't another congratulations—although she'd have just as
much difficulty getting through a conversation about any other subject. Sighing, she lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

“Claire Connor?” The voice was male and unfamiliar.

“I'm Claire
O'Connor,
if that's who you're trying to reach.”

“Right. Sorry.” He hesitated, then said, “This is Mark Lavin. Your fiancé.”

Claire sent Maggie a frantic look and mouthed,
It's him.
Maggie jabbed her finger at the magazine photo with a wide-eyed questioning look and Claire nodded. Her gaze remained on the picture, as she tried to connect it to the dark, gravelly voice on the other end of the line.

“Are you still there?” he asked.

She cleared her throat. “Yes.”

“Rough morning?”

An unexpected smile teased her lips. Shifting in her chair, she jostled the strings tied to the arm, causing the balloons to bob above her head. “It's been awful.”

“That bad?”

“I've got friends angry with me for failing to tell them you and I were seeing each other. I've got other friends grilling me about where we've registered for our wedding presents. And I've got—” her elbow jostled the balloon strings again “—balloons.”

“Balloons.”

“Yes.”

“This thing has obviously gotten out of control,” he said grimly. For some reason, his solemn tone made Claire want to laugh. After a moment, he
added, “We should probably get together and come up with a strategy to shut down this rumor. How about if I stop by your office so we can work something out?”

“No,” Claire said quickly. “No, don't come here.” Good God, if he came to her office, everyone would make a huge fuss. Meryl, Beryl and JoAnn might bring even more balloons.

“I'd ask you to come here…”

“No.” If she went to Mark Lavin's office, she might run into Rex Crandall, and she didn't trust herself not to punch him in the nose.

“Can we meet somewhere, then?”

She eyed her calendar. There, right below the bright red April 1 was her note about the demolition hearing. “I've got a meeting at one-thirty. It could drag on for hours.” And the odds were good that people at the meeting would have heard she was betrothed. Her gaze drifted from her calendar back to the magazine, to Mark Lavin's dark, mesmerizing eyes.

“Five-thirty,” he suggested. “We can meet at the Kinsale. That's right near your office. You're in City Hall, right?”

She supposed she ought to be flattered that he'd made an effort to find out where his alleged bride-to-be worked. Of course, she knew more about him than he knew about her, thanks to the article in
Boston's Best.
She knew that he was the general manager of WBKX, he was thirty-two, he'd grown up in western Massachusetts but now lived in Somerville, he'd graduated from Wesleyan University and earned a master's degree at Emerson—and he loved being sin
gle. In case there was any doubt, the last line of the article quoted him as saying, “I love being single.”

“Claire?”

She gave herself a shake. “Yes. The Kinsale at five-thirty.”

“And we'll figure this mess out,” he promised. “We'll come up with a way to set the record straight.”

“And we'll hire a hit man to take care of Rex Crandall.”

He laughed. “That, too.”

H
E SAT
at a table in the Kinsale, nursing a Glenlivet and scrutinizing every woman who entered the pub. Which one had Rex linked him to? That skinny chick with the spiked pink hair? No, thank God—she bee-lined to a group of equally punky people at a table near the bar. One of those two matronly women lugging shopping bags? No, they were clearly tourists, with their cameras, their comfortable walking shoes and their shopping bags featuring the logos of Quincy Market shops. Ellie had ferreted out that Claire Connor—
O'Connor,
he'd have to remember that O—worked in City Hall, in the Landmarks Commission office. He doubted she would wear comfortable walking shoes and carry a camera.

He sat up straighter when a buxom blonde sashayed in, but she waved at someone behind him and sauntered past his table without stopping. Then a group of beefy guys in duckbill caps came in, and an older guy in a fisherman's knit sweater…and a tall, slim redhead in an open trench coat and tailored slacks, a leather tote gripped in one hand and worry shadowing her eyes. Green eyes, he noted. Jade green. Pale skin, a tiny nose and wide cheeks. She searched the room, then zeroed in on him. A nervous smile twitched her lips.

If Rex were going to marry Mark off to someone, he could have done a lot worse than this.

Mark rose from his chair. She wove among the tables to reach him, the amber light from the overhead fixtures lifting golden highlights to the surface of her long, curly hair. She extended her right hand and he took it. It was cool and fine-boned. “Mark Lavin?” she asked.

“And you must be Claire O'Connor.” With an O.

Another faint smile tugged at her lips. “I'm sorry I'm late. That demolition hearing ran on and on.”

Releasing her hand, he gestured toward the chair across from him. She sat, then shrugged out of her coat and draped it over the back of the chair. As he resumed his seat, he studied her more closely. Her mouth reminded him of a kitten's, the corners tilted up even after her smile faded, and her upper lip was unbearably dainty. Her eyes were tired but intense. She fidgeted with the handles of her tote for a moment, then resolutely lowered it from her lap to the floor. She was obviously nervous, but her hand hadn't been clammy in his. It had felt velvety soft, with a hint of strength in her grip.

Mark beckoned a waitress over. “Would you like a drink?” he asked Claire.

“Just…a cup of tea, please,” she requested. “Herbal, if you have it.”

He wondered if she avoided liquor, then reminded himself that he shouldn't care. It wasn't as if he were going to marry her or anything. If she was a teetotaler, she could drink her total tea, and he could entertain himself by gazing into those dazzling green eyes of hers.

He took a sip of his single malt and leaned back. “Where are your balloons?” he asked once the waitress had departed.

“In my office. I popped a few with the point of a pencil. It was therapeutic.” She flashed him a grin.

“Nobody sent me balloons,” he told her, feigning disappointment. Then he grimaced. “The phone rang off the hook all day at the station, though.”

She looked sympathetic. “Really?”

“Listeners. Women, mostly, moaning about how unfair it was that I let
Boston's Best
include me in their bachelor story when I was obviously involved with someone.”

“What did you tell them?”

He snorted. “I didn't tell them anything. They called the station, not me. Rex put them on the air.”

She pursed her lips. “Rex Crandall.”

“I take it you know him?”

Before she could answer, the waitress returned with a cup, a small pot containing steaming water and a tray of teabags. Claire studied the selection like some kind of connoisseur, then plucked a lavender envelope from the tray and nodded her thanks to the waitress. She occupied herself opening the envelope and dipping the teabag into the pot.

“I also got a call from the magazine,” he told her. “They're pretty ripped. Apparently it's a big deal to get picked as one of their annual top-five bachelors, and I seem to have tainted the honor.”

“Did you tell them the story wasn't true?”

“Yeah. But it's kind of like saying, ‘I don't beat my wife.' The minute you deny something like that, people assume you're lying.” He watched her pour
tea into the cup. Once she'd finished, he asked, “So you know Rex Crandall?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“And…what? You insulted him? Questioned his manhood? I mean, I know why he targeted me. I'm his boss and I'm on his back all the time. But why you?”

She traced the handle of her cup with one slender finger. “I dated him last fall.”

Mark labored not to show his astonishment. Claire O'Connor seemed way too classy for Rex. Her complexion was dewy, her clothing neat and perfectly tailored to her tall, slender body, and she had good manners. She was the sort of woman who unwound from a long day and a demolition hearing—whatever that might be—with a cup of herbal tea.

Rex, on the other hand, was a gonzo. No way could Mark see him with someone like Claire.

“He was hosting a free concert in front of Faneuil Hall,” she said. “There were a few bands, T-shirts were given away—it was some sort of publicity thing for your radio station.”

“Right. I remember that.” WBKX sponsored numerous concerts during the year, many of them free outdoor shows to promote up-and-coming artists and the station.

“I wound up being his contact. Faneuil Hall is a landmark, so the station had to work through my office.”

“And you went out with him?” Mark simply couldn't see it. The thought of Rex even looking at a woman as refined as Claire, let alone talking to her
or—God forbid—touching her…No. The picture refused to come into focus “A few times. He's an interesting man. He has a lot of energy.”

Did he sleep with you?
Mark wanted to ask. Not that it was any of his business who she slept with, but…damn, her eyes were something. And the delicate hollow at the base of her throat, and the wistful, inexplicably sexy curve of her smile…

“I could see it wasn't going to develop into anything, and after a few dates I told him so. I thought he took it all right. I mean—look at me. I'm not his type, am I?”

“Not in the least.” He shouldn't have felt relieved, but he did.

“One evening, not long after we had that conversation, my phone rang. It was a friend of his, telling me he'd fallen off a ladder and suffered a head injury. This friend said that just before he passed out, he asked for me. He was in a coma at Metrowest Medical in Framingham, and I should come right away.”

Mark frowned. He didn't recall Rex missing work due to a head injury last fall.

“Of course I raced to the hospital. I was so upset and frightened for him. I didn't know if he was near death, or why he'd asked for me. I just went. On Route 9, a policeman gave me a ticket, even after I told him why I was speeding. I got to the emergency room, ran inside and no one knew who Rex Crandall was. No one fitting his description had been admitted. So I went back outside—and there, in the parking lot, Rex and his friend were waiting for me.
They'd made a bet, apparently. Rex had told him that even if a woman broke up with him, she'd still come running if he needed her. He took fifty dollars from his friend. And I paid seventy-five dollars to the Framingham Police Department for that damned ticket.”

“Jeez.”

“I let him know what I thought of his stupid practical joke. Right there in the hospital's parking lot. I didn't exactly censor myself,” she added, smiling crookedly.

He imagined her cursing Rex out. He imagined her all flushed with anger, her eyes flashing, fiery emotion spilling from her pretty pink lips. The idea sent an unexpected heat humming along his nerves.

“I would have thought that settled the score for him,” she went on. “I broke up with him, he cost me seventy-five dollars and made me feel like a fool, and so be it. I can't imagine why he's still bothering with me. It's been six months since he pulled that stunt.”

“Rex's mind is a strange thing,” Mark explained. “I don't know what's going on with him most of the time. Maybe marrying you off to me is his way of saying he's sorry.”

“Because you're such a great catch?” She smiled wryly.

Well yeah, as a matter of fact. He
was
a great catch—
Boston's Best
sure thought so. But to come right out and say so would make him sound conceited, so he just shrugged.

She appraised him for a minute, then shrugged, too. “He does have a lot to apologize for. When I broke up with him, he said I was…well, never
mind.” She lowered her eyes, evidently discovering something riveting in the steam rising from her cup of tea.

“What?” Mark was far too curious—about her, about what Rex said she was, about the long, tawny lashes fringing her eyelids. “What did he say you were?”

“A dried up arctic bitch,” she said.

Ouch.
“He's got a way with words.”

She raised her eyes to him, and they flashed with amusement. Still, Mark felt bad for her, bad that she'd received that kind of infantile abuse from Rex. Mark had broken up with a few women in his day, and a few women had broken up with him. It was never a pleasant experience, but when he was doing the breaking up he always tried to be gentle about it.

“Okay,” he said, fortifying himself with a sip of Scotch. Rex might be a son of a bitch, but Claire seemed smart and game. Together, they could figure out a way to wiggle out of this make-believe marriage-to-be. “The way I see it, we've got several options. One would be to make a bold public statement declaring that we're not engaged.”

“A bold public statement?” she asked dubiously.

“A press conference.”

“A press conference!” She laughed. “Surely we're not that newsworthy.”

As the general manager of one of the city's most popular radio stations, the sponsor of numerous benefit concerts and a highly esteemed eligible bachelor, according to Boston's top-selling local magazine, Mark considered himself reasonably newsworthy. Obviously Claire didn't view herself the same way.
Perhaps something more low-key would be appropriate. “We could issue a press release.”

She shook her head. “Wouldn't that be like saying, ‘I don't beat my wife'? If we deny it in a big way, people will think we're protesting too much.”

Good point. “Another option,” he suggested, “would be to ignore the whole thing and hope it goes away.”

“That was more along the lines of what I was thinking.”

“But if we go that route, you run the risk of getting more balloons,” he warned her. “If we don't step forward and say we're not hooked up, some people are going to continue to think we are.”

“But that's still better than a press release.” She sipped some tea, lowered her cup and met his gaze. “Do you think it would be possible to get Rex to say something on his show tomorrow? If he admitted that he made the whole thing up…”

“For one thing, if we ask him to do that, he'll know he got us good. If I order him to do it, I've got an employer-employee situation, which I'd rather avoid. And frankly, unless I make an employer-employee situation out of it, I don't think he'd offer an on-air retraction. And I don't think getting one of the other announcers to do it would be particularly effective. Rex can be a real asshole.”

“Indeed.” She tapped her fingers together as she thought. Her eyes seemed brighter now, not so strained. Not jade, he decided, but shamrock-green. With those eyes and her red hair, and the O in her last name, she fit right into this Irish pub—except that she was drinking tea instead of Irish whiskey.
“There's got to be a middle ground in this,” she said. “Something between a forceful denial and complete silence.”

“Like what?”

She exhaled heavily, drained her cup and put on a brave face. “If those are my only choices, I think we should go with complete silence.”

Mark nodded. He didn't mind letting it be her choice. He could deal with the consequences. He could make his own private statement to
Boston's Best,
so they wouldn't think they'd made a mistake in highlighting him in their Valentine's Day issue, and he could tighten the screws on Rex in ways only a general manager could tighten the screws on a deejay—even the most popular morning drive-time deejay in Boston.

Claire could pop her balloons and get on with her life. Someday, he thought, she'd make someone a lovely fiancée. What was the word Rex had used to describe her?

Comely.

Mark knew what
comely
meant, and he wasn't a teenager, snickering at a silly pun. But when he contemplated Claire O'Connor's lush hair and her long legs and everything in between…

No. He didn't even want to think about it. He was a desirable bachelor and Claire had been, until a half hour ago, a complete stranger, and this was all a stupid joke. If Mark was a gentleman—and he liked to believe he was—the best thing he could do, the
only
thing, was to extricate Claire from this ridiculous situation and let her get on with her life.

And let himself get on with his.