Prelude to a Wedding (3 page)

He frowned. He did know where they were
going, had set out with that destination in mind. That wasn't like
him.

"I could have sworn we passed this store
before," Bette remarked.

His frown disappeared. He liked the edge of
amused skepticism in her voice.

"I said I knew where we were going. I didn't
say we were taking the most direct route."

She muffled a splutter of laughter, but he
heard it and liked that, too.

"Trying to throw me off the track so I can't
find the place again? If this is a secret hideaway, wouldn't it be
easier just to blindfold me?"

"Aw, you know how nosy people are these days.
I was afraid somebody'd stop us or call a cop. Besides, I gave up
my handkerchief to the noble cause of mopping Ed Robson's brow
hours ago, and I didn't want to risk my good tie. You wouldn't
believe how many ties I've ruined by blindfolding women wearing
mascara." He stopped and turned toward her as if scrutinizing her
in the glow of a store's lights. "Unless you're not wearing
mascara? It's not too late to use the tie . . ." He let his voice
trail off hopefully.

"Your tie would be ruined. I'm wearing
mascara." Beneath the words lurked a chuckle. "But all this talk of
ties reminds me . . ."

Her hands rose to just above where the
well-loosened knot of his tie rested. Glancing down, he saw he'd
misbuttoned his shirt at some point in this frenetic day. But that
didn't interest him nearly as much as the revelation that occurred
when Bette Wharton's index finger brushed his chest as she finished
pushing the third button through its proper hole.

She'd hardly touched him. Considerably less
skin had come into contact than in a business handshake, but no one
would ever have confused the sensations. The bolt of heat tightened
his muscles and kicked the breath out of him.

In the uneven light of the store displays, he
saw a tide of color rising along her neck and sweeping into her
cheeks. The instant before she could pull her hands away, he caught
them in both of his and held them, not quite pressed against his
chest. If he brought her hands back to where her finger had
brushed, he wasn't entirely sure what he'd do. He couldn't risk
that. But if he let her pull away now, there'd always be a barrier
of awkwardness between them. And he couldn't bear that.

So he simply held her hands. Long enough so
that both of them could regulate their breathing and convince
themselves nothing had happened. When she took a long breath and
looked at him with a smile tinged with wryness, he knew she'd
succeeded before he had. To mask that, he spoke the first words
that came to his lips.

"Thanks. I told you those waiting rooms are
rough. I think that happened when this guy grabbed me by the
collar. He was one of those chicken fathers."

He saw the question flit into her eyes,
shoving aside some of the confusion and discomfort, and he felt a
spurt of relief almost as strong as the disappointment.

"You know," he continued his explanation,
"the fathers too chicken to go into the delivery room. Although
this guy had no trouble grabbing me by the shirtfront and demanding
what in the hell was taking so long. As if I knew!"

Her chuckle assured him her recovery was
complete.

"The worst afternoon of my life. Thank God
Jan was nearly as efficient in having a baby as she is in
everything else. The nurse kept telling me Jan was having an
incredibly short labor—as if she thought that should make me feel
better."

"Poor Paul." She smiled, apparently unaware
it was the first time she'd used his name. She slipped her hands
away from him. "What you need is food to fortify you after such a
long day."

"Yeah." He pretended to believe the
sympathy.

"So maybe we should get to the
restaurant."

"Okay." But be didn't move, enjoying the
flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, intrigued by the way her
thoughts were alternately revealed and hidden. With eyes like that,
teasing was irresistible.

"So . . ." she said again.

"What do you mean, 'so'?"

"Don't you want to eat?" she asked.

"Yeah, I want to eat."

"Then don't you think we should get
going?"

"No."

"No? Why not?"

"Because if we go, we won't be able to
eat."

He saw annoyance warring with amusement in
her deep blue eyes and loved it. "Paul—"

"All right, all right," he gave in with a
laugh. "Turn around." He saw her take in the small sign that read
Mama Artemis, then laughed again when she turned back to him with a
grimace.

"You're a fiend."

"I know." He took her elbow again to guide
her through the door and along the narrow hallway that led between
two shops before widening to the restaurant proper, tucked into the
back of the building. Having his hand around her elbow already felt
pleasantly familiar.

"Paul!" A small, round woman with gray
streaking the dark hair piled on top of her head wrapped plump arms
around him with enthusiasm. "It's been too long! Much too long. You
must tell us how you have been all these long months we have seen
nothing of you. And your mama and papa, and your dear little
sister. But now you come, come and sit, you and your young
lady."

Bette would barely have had time to absorb
the lightning switch from the frown and scolding to the smile and
invitation before she was towed along between crowded tables. But
she didn't seem thrown. When she sent a quick, questioning glance
over her shoulder, he smiled, shrugged and headed after them.

In a far corner, amid deep, rich colors aglow
in candlelight, Bette slid into a small booth, its seat a quarter
of a circle so small that when he sat next to her their knees
tangled.

"Here. Now you settle, get comfortable, and I
get wine. Then we talk about the dinner and I will tell you what
you must have to eat." The woman patted Bette's hand and Paul's
shoulder and hurried away.

"Is that Mama Artemis?"

"No. That's her daughter, Ardith. Mama
Artemis is much more forceful."

Bette shook her head as she chuckled. "Where
are they from? I don't recognize the accent."

"I really don't know. Not that I haven't
asked. I have. But when they start talking about it they get into a
lot of complicated history, and just when I think I'm starting to
follow it, they get excited and lapse into their native language.
Best I can tell you is somewhere in southeastern Europe. I guess
one of those places that's been passed back and forth a good
bit."

Ardith bustled back with a bottle of wine
swaddled in a napkin to catch the weeping condensation.

"How is Mama Artemis, Ardith?"

"Ah, Mama. She is the same. Always Mama." She
poured the pale gold liquid into the chunky clear glass in front of
Paul. "She is a terror, Mama." Even if Ardith hadn't smiled, Paul
could see that Bette recognized the affection and admiration and
knew "terror" was a term of respect.

At her gesture, Paul tasted the wine and gave
wholehearted approval. "Glad to hear she's doing well," he said.
"Be sure to tell her Jan had her baby today. A boy."

"Ah, a baby! Yes, yes, I will tell her. Such
a happy thing, young Jan to have a baby. And you should be having
babies, too. You should find a woman, marry her, settle down and
have babies."

"Aw, Ardith." The refrain was so familiar he
responded automatically, but underneath a memory stirred uneasily
of that same refrain spoken in another voice.

"Yes, yes, many babies. Baby girls for you to
spoil and baby boys to play with the toys like you do with my
nephews. They ask for you. Goran has found three soldiers he wants
to show you. And a new engine. You come some Sunday. And you bring
your young lady."

As she launched into a description of the
meal she would serve them, Paul knew it had been more edict than
invitation, and if he didn't bring Bette, he'd spend all his time
explaining why.

He sighed as Ardith left them, apparently
satisfied that their choices—more accurately, her choices for them—
were in order.

"I don't know why I come here," he grumbled,
only half-kidding. A lot could be said for places where nobody
asked you to Sunday dinner or cared whom you were with or
speculated on when you'd get around to having babies.

"Isn't the food good?"

"The food's terrific."

"Maybe that's the reason," Bette said as if
she meant it, but he spotted a glint in her eyes. "Or maybe it's
because you're obviously adored here."

"You saying I have an ego problem, huh?"

She shrugged, a movement that also raised and
lowered her knee a fraction of an inch where it touched his, just
enough to send a shiver of sensation running up his leg. "Or maybe
it's because they invite you to come over on Sundays to enjoy the
children's toys."

He grinned, trying to ignore where that
shiver of sensation had concentrated. "Occupational hazard."

"Occupational? It sounds more like child's
play."

He tilted his head. "Didn't Jan tell you what
I do?"

"Of course she did. I couldn't select
possible temporaries for you without knowing what they'd be
doing."

"What do I do?" He saw her resistance to
stating what she clearly felt was the obvious. "Humor me,
please?"

She let out a short breath. As she started to
answer, part of him experienced inordinate pleasure at the idea
that she was willing to humor him.

"You are an independent appraiser, with a
good bit of business coming from referrals from Centurian Insurance
Group as well as several other major firms, although you do a
variety of noninsurance-related appraisals. And Jan mentioned
you've worked with some large museums."

He nodded, and hoped he succeeded in masking
the automatic frown. At least Jan hadn't mentioned the Smithsonian
offer. Prestige was one thing, but you had to consider the cost,
too. "That's true as far as it goes, but do you know what I
appraise?"

He saw her quick intelligence consider the
question and grasp its ramifications immediately. He could
practically hear her thinking that insurance companies rarely hired
independent appraisers for the bulk of their business—the cars,
boats, houses and routine household goods that they could assess
through statistics galore.

"A specialty. Something out of the
ordinary."

"That's right." He waited.

"What is it? What's your specialty?"

He liked Bette Wharton a lot at that moment.
She didn't want to have to ask. He figured she felt not knowing the
answer represented a slipup in her preparation. But she didn't show
any of that in her tone. No grudging echo tainted a single
syllable.

He wanted to kiss her. Right then and there.
To lean forward across the small table and let his lips explore
that up-swung lip of hers, to slip his tongue along it and then
inside it.

The blood quickening through his body was a
warning. Better get his mind—and his hormones—off that track and on
business, or he'd be doing just what his imagination had conjured
up. And he had a feeling Bette was the kind of woman to take it all
too seriously.

Yes, better to stick to business. Even if she
wasn't likely to take his business too seriously.

He shrugged. The movement helped a little,
although he knew no shrug would ease the tension that had begun to
tighten certain of his muscles. "It's pretty simple. I mostly
appraise cards, trains and books."

"Cards, trains and books?" she repeated
blankly.

"Baseball cards, toy trains and comic
books."

Bette stared at him. "You're kidding."

"Most of the time, yes. But not about this. I
also operate as a sort of clearinghouse for specialists in other
areas from all over the country, and I specialize in appraising
other stuff myself, too. Things like original Monopoly games,
nineteenth-century mechanical toys, vintage Erector sets. But I'd
say those three—baseball cards, toy trains and comic books—are the
most common in my trade."

"Then your occupation really is child's
play."

He'd heard it before. He'd heard notes of
censure a lot stronger than the faint echo in Bette's words. But
they had never bothered him before.

He did his best to shake it off. He grinned
and tossed out the words of truth.

"That's me, a kid at heart."

Chapter Two

Bette tried to ignore the strange frisson of
relief and disappointment that touched through her.

A kid at heart
. She believed he'd
spoken no more than the absolute truth, and that relieved her.
Because that meant the odd undercurrent of attraction would soon
wither. Dependability, solidity, maturity—those were the attributes
she valued. Someone who would work through the difficulties in life
as she did, someone who anticipated them and prepared for them.
Certainly not someone who admitted to being—bragged about being—a
kid at heart.

So why are you disappointed
? asked a
voice inside her.

To quiet it, she asked, "How did you get to
know Mama Artemis and Ardith?"

"I did a job for them back when I was
starting out. In fact, before I'd set up the business."

"What kind of job?"

Paul gestured widely to the room around them.
"Appraising." For the first time Bette noticed one wall was
decorated with assorted wooden game boards, the colors mellowed and
softened by age. On a shelf along the opposite wall resided
arrangements of old-fashioned toys, a teddy bear appearing to pull
a wagon bearing two dolls, a wooden sled next to ancient-looking
skates, a hoop and stick.

"The toys? You appraised these toys?"

"These and a whole lot more. This
collection's the tip of the iceberg."

"Did they bring all these things with them
when they came to America?" She wondered again about the origins of
Mama Artemis and her family. Not Poland; she'd heard no trace of
her grandfather's speech in Ardith's voice.