be faithful.”
“That’s about it.”
“Thought you’d found a deal-breaker, didn’t you?” He grinned. “All right. I promise I won’t fool around.”
“I—I didn’t exactly say I would marry you, even if—and realistically, a promise like that…Luke, have you ever been faithful to any woman for longer than, say, a week?”
“Realistically,” he said gently, “I don’t break promises. And this one is from me to you. Personal, not part of whatever vows we make in order to dissolve the trust.” His quick glance revealed that she’d gone from messing with the zipper to gnawing on her lip. “You’re cute when you’re worried.”
“I’m not worried.”
“You’re cute when you lie, too.”
“And I’m not marrying you.”
“Do you want me to promise that I won’t use you, Maggie? That I won’t take you to bed just because you’re handy and I’m horny?”
Her cheeks flamed. “That sounds awful.”
“It’s what you’re worried about, isn’t it? All right. You have my promise. I won’t cheat on you, and I won’t use you.” It wasn’t a hard promise to give. Keeping it…well, he’d have to, that was all.
She was staring unhappily at her lap, where the fingers of her right hand were rubbing at the hand that was partially encased in that radioactive-green cast. “You’re not used to celibacy, Luke.”
“No.” Time to lighten the mood, he decided, and flashed her a quick grin. “I won’t ask for a reciprocal promise, however. Feel free to use me. If, at any time, you become overwhelmed with lust—”
“Hah!”
“—my body is at your disposal.”
She muttered something under her breath, scowling at her clenched hands.
“I didn’t catch that.”
“Nothing. This just isn’t a good idea, Luke.”
“What’s wrong with it? You get Fine Dandy, I get what I need to take care of Ada and your father will be mad enough to spit nails.” Malcolm Stewart couldn’t stand him. He blamed Luke for everything that had gone wrong in that short, miserable marriage so many years ago.
With some reason, Luke knew.
“Now, there’s a great reason to get married,” she said dryly. “To irritate my father.” But at last her hands stopped tormenting her T-shirt.
“Think of it as a bonus.” This time, he’d be careful with her. He’d find a way to make her feel better about herself, to repair some of the damage he’d done. This time, he wouldn’t hurt her when he left. “Here’s another bonus. You need a trainer.”
“Yes, but—but do you mean you’d do it? You’d be my trainer?”
“Yes.”
“You’re good.” That was said grudgingly. “Almost as good as you think you are.”
He grinned and signaled for the turnoff to the airport. “Better than Walt Hitchcock, anyway.” He glanced at her. “Come on, Maggie. What would Xena do?”
She looked all over the place—at her shirt, her hands, out the window—everywhere but at him. And at last said, “Well…well, hell. I guess I will marry you, Luke.”
6:54 p.m.
Five hours later, they stood side by side in the “Love Me Tender” wedding chapel just off the Strip. Candles burned atop the unused piano. A few minutes ago, a stereo had played the chapel’s theme song while Maggie walked down a short aisle between empty pews.
The room was silent now, except for the words being spoken by the man in front of them.
Her mouth was dry. Her stomach was in revolt. In one hand she held a small bouquet of roses, while the other was clasped firmly in Luke’s. His palm was dry, unlike hers. The scent of the roses blended unhappily with the floral room freshener someone had recently sprayed in the small room.
She was still wearing her purple T-shirt and cargo pants.
The man who was marrying them wore a collarless black shirt that looked vaguely ecclesiastical. His thin black hair was combed back meticulously over the bald spot on top of his head. His tanned skin was stretched so tightly over his cheeks that she was afraid it would split if he smiled.
Face-lift, she thought vaguely. She wondered if it hurt when he went to the dentist and had to “open wide.”
Did ministers get face-lifts? Was he a minister? Panic clutched the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t remember. She remembered picking out the music and the flowers, and discussing what version of the marriage ceremony they wanted. Why couldn’t she remember who was marrying them? It seemed suddenly, vitally important to know. Was she making vows she didn’t intend to keep before a man of God or a civil servant?
He’d stopped talking and was looking at her expectantly. Luke squeezed her hand.
She blinked. “Oh, ah—I do.” What had she just promised?
She was losing it. She was truly losing it. What kind of woman didn’t even hear the words of her wedding service?
A terrified woman.
Maggie made herself listen carefully as the man who might or might not be a minister went through his spiel again with Luke. It sounded pretty standard…and awfully final.
Luke’s voice came out clear and strong. “I do.”
Then there were the rings, one for each of them, and more words to repeat. The double-ring ceremony had been Luke’s idea. She’d teased him about trying to buy a 24-carat bodyguard to protect him from all those man-and-money-hungry women who would soon be after him. She’d pointed out that even after they divorced, he could wear the ring sometimes to deter predators.
That had to have been one of the best performances of her life.
Her hand was shaking when she held it out so he could slip one of those rings on her finger. It stuck at the knuckle. “Uh-oh. My fingers are swollen from the cast.”
“No problem.” He grabbed her right hand. “You can switch it later.”
So he slid her ring onto the wrong finger. It doesn’t mean anything, she told herself. The ring meant nothing, just as the wedding meant nothing. And she was not going to throw up. She was definitely not going to throw up.
His ring, at least, fit perfectly.
The minister—if that’s what he was—managed to smile without splitting his skin. “You may kiss the bride.”
Luke’s hands moved to her shoulders, and he turned her to face him. There was a smile on his lips, but his eyes looked old and sad. Apparently this mockery of marriage didn’t scare him
