Stand-in Groom (7 page)

He was watching her, his handsome face serious, his dark eyes intense. Their gazes locked and the butterflies that were left in her stomach accelerated the steps to their frantic dance.

She was actually going to marry this man.

She searched his eyes, wondering what he was thinking, wondering—inanely—whether or not he liked her dress. And then she was there. At the end of the aisle.

Her father lifted her veil, kissed her gently on the cheek, then handed her over to the man he thought was Emilio. But it wasn’t Emilio, it was Johnny.

Johnny’s hands were warm while hers were blocks of ice. He gave her a thoroughly relaxed smile. “Hey.” How could he look so calm and cool?

Her own lips and face felt brittle, but she tried to position them into something approximating a smile too. “Hey.”

Underneath his heavy lids, his gaze was as sharp as ever. “You okay?”

Chelsea nodded, the sound of his husky voice
somehow soothing her. She’d wanted to call him again last night as she had lain awake, tossing and turning. She’d liked talking to him on the phone the night before. She’d liked lying in the darkness of her bedroom, snuggling under her blankets, the phone and his voice nestled close to her ear. She’d liked it too much—and that was why she
hadn’t
called him again.

“You sure?” he asked, his voice low. “You look a little pale. You know, it’s okay if we call a timeout here.”

Her smile felt more genuine this time. “We’re not in the middle of a basketball game,” she whispered back to him.

“Yeah, well, it’s your wedding, right? You want a time-out, you can have a time-out.”

“I’m fine, really.” She took a deep breath, willing herself to be fine. Head up, shoulders back, nose slightly in the air. She’d learned it as a child. Stand as if you’re in control, hold your body as if nothing that happens will perturb you in the least, maintain a slight disinterest, a distance from the events happening around you. It worked, as it nearly always did. She glanced at Johnny, raising
one eyebrow very slightly. “I’m fine,” she said again, and she was.

“Good.” He was still watching her, as if he weren’t quite sure whether or not to believe her.

The ceremony passed in a blur. She refused to think about the words she was saying as she promised to love and honor this man through richer and poorer, sickness and health. Till death do us part. She tried to repeat the words as nonsense syllables.

Johnny, too, spoke the wedding vows softly, as if he didn’t want God overhearing his untruths.

She tried not to look at him as he slipped the wedding ring onto her finger, and as she did the same for him.

And then the minister declared them husband and wife. “You may kiss the bride.”

This was the part she’d been dreading. She didn’t want to kiss Johnny Anziano. She didn’t want to—because she’d dreamed about kissing him when she finally fell asleep last night. And she’d dreamed it the night before too. And even the night before
that
.

Chelsea had dreamed about kissing this man the night after he’d saved her purse from those kids. Shoot, she’d
daydreamed
it moments after meeting
him. And she was afraid that when his lips touched hers, he somehow would know.

She had a plan. She would wait until the last split second, and when his mouth was just a fraction of an inch away from hers, she would turn her head away and he would kiss her cheek.

In theory, it was a fine plan. In practice, it was thoroughly flawed.

Because he took his sweet time. He reached up and gently touched her face, pulling her chin and her mouth up to his, holding her firmly in place. That, combined with the warmth she could see as she looked into his eyes, was something her plan hadn’t made provisions for.

And in a shot, all of her carefully maintained calm disintegrated, leaving her defenseless.

She couldn’t pull away. The truth was, she didn’t want to.

His lips brushed against hers in the gentlest, most chaste of kisses, and she felt a flash of disappointment. That was hardly a kiss.

But he wasn’t done.

He kissed her again, still gently, but leaving no doubt in her mind as to what he wanted. He
wanted a real kiss, a deep kiss, a curl-your-toes and melt-your-bones kind of kiss.

And she wanted it, too, God help her.

With a soft moan of disbelief, she parted her lips, meeting his tongue with her own. He tasted like sugar-sweetened coffee and peppermint, a combination that hardly seemed compatible.

It was sinfully delicious.

His mouth was warm and soft, his dizzying kiss so far beyond her fantasies, Chelsea almost laughed out loud.

But then she remembered. She was standing in a church filled with her parents’ closest business associates and friends. She pulled back, and he released her. He was as shocked as she was—she could see it in his eyes.

The wedding guests were standing, applauding for them. Little did any of the six hundred realize, but they were cheering for Chelsea and John’s first kiss. It was downright bizarre. Except as far as first kisses went, this one was
way
off the scale and thoroughly deserving of a round of applause.

Chelsea could feel Johnny slip his hand around her waist as he drew her down the altar steps toward the aisle that led out of the church. His
touch was possessive, proprietary, and far too confident. He would take off her clothes that same way, she realized. Without hesitation, and as if taking possession of what naturally belonged to him.

He’d probably gotten far with a large number of women by simply taking control like that. Before they knew it, they were thoroughly seduced. And if that kiss at the altar was any indication, Chelsea had a sneaking suspicion that those women probably hadn’t minded.

But she minded.

“The minister said you could kiss the bride—not inhale the bride,” she whispered sharply as they plunged down the aisle.

There was amusement in Johnny’s eyes. “Hey, it takes two, and I wasn’t alone back there. You know that as well as I do.”

He was right. She had kissed him as passionately as he’d kissed her. “I’m sorry,” she said, at the exact moment he, too, apologized.

They were outside of the church, the heavy wooden doors separating them from the thundering organ music. They were alone—if only temporarily.

“No,
I’m
sorry,” he said again. “You’re right—I went too far. I knew you were off balance, and I
took advantage of that. It’s just … I’ve been dying to kiss you like that for a while now. I couldn’t resist.”

She made the mistake of gazing up into his eyes. Just a glimpse of the fire smoldering there was enough to make her heart pound.

“I still can’t resist,” he whispered, leaning forward to brush her lips with his.

He would have deepened the kiss again and she would have stood stupidly still and let him, were it not for the wedding photographer, who was striding toward them.

“Perfect
picture,” he enthused. “The absolutely
sweetest
, most genuine kiss I’ve ever taken. You’re going to want that shot for your memory album, I can guarantee it. How about we get a few in front of the forsythia now?”

The look in Johnny’s eyes was unmistakable. Underneath the rueful, good-natured humor was a clear message. He wanted more. And soon.

Dear God, Chelsea was in
big
trouble here.

Because she did too.

“A
BSOLUTELY NO TALK
of business today,” Johnny said for the twenty-seventh time. He spoke in what he considered his best “godfather” accent, but what Chelsea insisted sounded like Ricardo Montalban. What was wrong with these people, anyway? They seemed so surprised that he refused to talk business on his wedding day. If he were a doctor, would they be approaching him for free medical advice?

He could see Chelsea’s blond head all the way across the elegant country-club ballroom and he excused himself and worked his way toward her.
She was talking with a group of elderly ladies. They were her great-aunts—at least that’s the way he seemed to remember her introducing them on the receiving line. Some receiving line—everyone was so solemn and reserved.

In his neighborhood, people at a wedding smiled and laughed and kissed one another on the face or the mouth, and men embraced with resounding slaps on one another’s backs. And the bride and groom started the dancing as soon as they arrived at the party. It was expected that they wouldn’t stay long. They would barely even touch their dinners, instead escaping out the back door to celebrate their wedding in a far more private, intimate way.

He skirted the dance floor as he headed toward Chelsea. She’d been avoiding him rather skillfully since he’d kissed her outside of the church. That was going to stop. Right now.

He touched her arm and she glanced up at him, giving him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She looked around for the quickest route to escape, but there was none. So she did the next best thing. She transformed into the Ice Princess.

This time he was ready. This time he was watching
for it to happen, and sure enough, right before his very eyes, she turned into the Queen of Cool.

He bowed slightly to the older ladies. “You’ll allow me the pleasure of dancing with my bride,” he said to them.

Chelsea was the only one who protested as he gently pulled her onto the dance floor. “John, it’s not time yet. We’re not supposed to dance until—”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the bandleader said into his microphone. “May I present Emilio Giovanni and Chelsea Santangelo-Anziano-Spencer.”

“What did he just say?” Even the Ice Princess couldn’t keep from laughing, and when she did, Johnny caught a glimpse of the real Chelsea underneath.

“I told him we were hyphenating our names, and while I was at it, I thought I might as well throw in mine too. Santangelo-Anziano-Spencer. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” He smiled. “Of course, our children will have to spend years in therapy to recover from having a name that doesn’t fit on an address label.”

She bristled. “There aren’t going to be any children.”

“Relax. I was making a joke.” He pulled her into his arms as the band began to play.

But she pulled back slightly to gaze up at him. “This isn’t the song I asked them to play.”

“No, it’s the song
I
asked them to play. The bandleader agreed it was more dignified than ‘I’m Too Sexy for My Shirt.’”

“I recognize the melody, but I don’t know the name,” Chelsea said, frowning slightly.

Across the room, someone started tapping their water glass with their spoon—a request for the bride and groom to kiss.

“It’s called ‘Misty,’” he told her as a dozen more spoons joined in. “It’s a jazz standard. You’re probably not into jazz, right?”

She shook her head. “I listen to Top 40—when I have time to listen to the radio.”

The ringing sound was unmistakable. He gazed into her eyes and caught a glimpse of trepidation—she knew what it meant. “They’re not going to stop until I kiss you,” he said softly.

She moistened her lips. “I know.”

He lowered his head, but she stopped him, her voice low and serious.

“John, it’s acting—you know that, right?”

“Acting.”

“When we kiss each other,” she explained. “When I kiss you … it’s not real.”

For a minute he just stared at her. She looked incredible. Her wedding dress was out of this world, with a snugly fitting top and a heart-stoppingly low-cut neckline. It was a dress that had been made to be worn with a Wonderbra, and Johnny was willing to bet that Chelsea had one on. His view, as he looked down at her, was something to behold. God bless the designer who had introduced that fashion phenomenon.

But despite his enticing view, it was Chelsea’s eyes that kept drawing his gaze. She was looking at him calmly, steadily. Despite that one flash of nervousness he’d seen back at the church, she now seemed utterly cool and almost distant.

Johnny had always considered himself to be a good judge of women, in tune with their desires, aware of their needs. But Chelsea Spencer was a bundle of contradictions—one minute warm and friendly, filled with good humor and laughter, and the next cool and aloof, impossibly calculating and businesslike.

Which was the act?

Johnny had thought the Ice Princess was the disguise, but now he honestly didn’t know.

It’s not real
.

The sound of the clinking was nearly deafening now, so he lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her harder and deeper than he probably should have. But hey, it wasn’t real, right? And the wedding guests deserved to get their money’s worth.

He pulled her closer, molding her slender body tightly against his as he took possession of her mouth. It wasn’t real as she trembled, as she drove her fingers into his hair, as she kissed him back with a passion that took his breath away.

There was no way, plastered against him the way that she was, she could have failed to notice his instant hard-on. That was all too real.

She pulled back, a faint blush tingeing her cheeks, her eyes wide as she gazed up at him.

It was then, in that fraction of a second before Chelsea conjured up her Ice Princess persona, that he saw it. Molten desire burning in her eyes.

She was lying. The way she responded to him was real. And if that were true, he had to believe the Ice Princess was the act. It had to be.

“You’re one hell of an actor,” he murmured into her ear.

She didn’t say a word.

“I’m glad Chelsea’s finally found someone.”

Johnny turned to see one of Chelsea’s brothers standing next to him. No eyeglasses. It was Troy.

He looked more like Chelsea than the other brother did. He was blond and slender with a more masculine but no less elegant face.

“So has my little sister told you all the nasty family gossip?” he asked. “All of our dark secrets?”

Johnny shrugged. “We haven’t had time to talk about much of anything besides the wedding plans.”

“Oh, good, that means I can fill you in.”

“I’m not sure I want to be filled in—”

“Yes, you do. You’re part of the family now. You deserve to get a look at the skeletons in the closets. See the guy over there, about fifty years old, dark suit, bald spot, heading toward the bar?”