never been to Las Vegas.”
He studied her for a moment longer before replying, “It’s not really your style.”
“How can you be so sure?” She found herself a little bothered that, while he seemed such an enigma to her, he should consider her such an open book.
“It’s gaudy, flashy, at times crass and always greedy. You are conservative, traditional, sedate…generous.”
“That’s just how every woman wants to be described by her prospective groom. You might as well be talking about a station wagon,” she said on a nervous laugh, but she wasn’t really insulted.
He only raised one ebony eyebrow, and she found herself lost in those dark eyes. How does he see me?
“Try again,” she said, turning in her seat so that she fully faced him.
“You have style,” he said slowly.
“Hmm. Now I’m a Mercedes.”
But she didn’t laugh this time. She could scarcely breathe when he looked at her like that, his gaze so thorough, as if no detail could escape his notice.
“You’re beautiful, but you know that.”
“It’s often an empty compliment,” she replied.
“Which brings me to smart, but I suspect you know that, too.”
She shrugged. “Well, it’s not something I hear often from men.”
Despite her outward nonchalance, genuine pleasure had her pulse spiking. Men so rarely complimented her on her intelligence. Oh, she was no genius, but neither was she a vapid member of the social elite. She had graduated cum laude from Stanford University, with a dual degree in business and social work. She put both disciplines to work in her job at the shelter. She enjoyed the work immensely, which was why she also volunteered her services at half a dozen other charities. She was a natural at fund-raising and organizing, and it made her feel useful rather than like some pretty ornament.
It also helped ease her guilt. Once upon a time she had been useless. Her best friend had paid the price. She pushed back that painful memory as the driver pulled the car to a stop in front of their hotel.
They had each only brought one small case to spare them from checking luggage, but Stephen insisted on carrying hers. Inside, it seemed ridiculous to request separate rooms when they were in town to be married, but Catherine wondered how she could sleep in the same proximity as Stephen, share a bathroom, when they had never so much as gone on a date. The dilemma was solved to a certain extent when he requested a suite. Their quarters were opulently decorated in navy and gold, and spacious enough with two bedrooms, each with its own bath.
“Which room do you want?” he asked politely as they stood in the living area and eyed one another with growing discomfort.
“Doesn’t matter. I’m so tired I could sleep standing up.” She laughed, hoping to lighten the mood. He didn’t so much as blink.
“You can take that one.” He pointed to the doorway nearest her. He hesitated at the threshold of the other bedroom, carry-on bag in hand. “Thank you, Catherine.”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“Try to get some sleep. We have a big day ahead of us.”
As Catherine settled between the cool sheets of the king-sized bed, she knew “big” was an understatement.
Early the next morning they picked a chapel within walking distance from their hotel, opting for what passed for understated in Las Vegas. Plastic blood-red roses dripped from a white trellis just outside the door, and inside the lobby guests could put a buck in a vending machine to buy a packet of birdseed to toss at the bride and groom.
Of course there were no guests: only Catherine, wearing a simple white A-line dress that flowed nearly to her ankles, and Stephen, dressed in a charcoal suit. She supposed it was silly to wear white for this farce of a wedding, but she believed in tradition.
A Vegas wedding, she soon realized, had traditions of its own, quirkiness being at the top of the list. They managed to bypass the Elvis impersonator, but to Catherine’s horrified amusement, the I Do Chapel’s minister bore a striking resemblance to Liberace.
“The standard wedding package includes your choice of song, a bouquet of white carnations for the bride and a snapshot to remember the happy occasion,” Liberace droned. “For just a little more you can upgrade to the deluxe package and get the pretty little lady a bouquet of roses, three snapshots and these matching T-shirts.”
He pointed to the wall where the shirts were displayed. Emblazoned on the front of each were the words “We did it in Vegas at the I Do Chapel.”
“Oh, my God,” Catherine gasped, swallowing a bubble of hysterical laughter.
To her surprise, Stephen said dryly, “The deluxe package, by all means. We wouldn’t want to miss out on those shirts.”
The entire affair seemed so out of character for both of them, she supposed they would need the T-shirts to convince themselves they’d actually gone through with it. Of course, the marriage certificate would be real enough. That thought was sobering.
After filling out the necessary paperwork, they followed Liberace into the main room of the chapel.
“Are you expecting any guests?”
“No,” Stephen said.
“Then I guess we’ll get down to it.”
Before Catherine could catch a breath, a woman shoved a bouquet of plastic white roses into her hands and snapped a hasty shot of her and Stephen as they stood before a makeshift altar. Liberace nodded to another woman, who cued up the music. “Green-sleeves” filled the room.
“Dearly beloved,” Liberace began, speaking to a room occupied by only five people, including the bride and groom. “We are gathered here today to unite this woman and this man in matrimony. Do you…?” He glanced at the paper before him and then back at Stephen. “I’m sorry. Could you pronounce your name for me, please?”
Stephen nodded, but his gaze never left Catherine’s face as he replied, “Stefano Anastasio Danbury.”
The name rolled from his tongue, a perfect complement to the dark hair and eyes—eyes that now stared in challenge, as if daring her to comment, and so she did.
“I wondered what the A stood for.”
Something like surprise flickered briefly in his expression. Clearly this was not the comment he was expecting.
“My grandparents—paternal grandparents—preferred it that way.”
Catherine had never met the elder Danburys, but she thought she understood what he was saying. Stefano would have been easy enough to Anglicize, but a name like Anastasio would have no English equivalent. She wasn’t one to pay attention to the gossip, but she now recalled that she’d heard her mother talking to a friend once about a scandal of some sort, involving Stephen’s father and the woman he’d married.
“Your
