worry,” she said, her voice muffled. “The cameras and tripods are already in the chapels and they’re top of the line.” She looked back with a grin. “If I can take decent pictures with them, then they’re almost foolproof.”
“So you don’t need a great photographer.”
“Well, the video camera is a little more tricky,” she offered over her right shoulder, drawing attention to the tattoo of a four-leaf clover there. He’d never been fond of tattoos, but against Gracie’s smooth skin, it seemed more like…jewelry. Nice. And a bit eerie, considering he carried a four-leaf-clover key chain.
“Of course, the most important thing is the suit.”
He nodded, and it was a few seconds before her words sank in. “Pardon me?”
“The suit,” she said, turning and holding in front of her a large white jumpsuit with a wide pointed collar and jeweled studs down the rather low-cut front. She sighed. “It’s going to be a little big for you—Roach has been filling in since our last guy left—but it’ll do until I can take it in.”
Steve stared at the jumpsuit, realization dawning with horror. “Me…wear that getup?” He laughed. “No way.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
He backed up, shaking his head. “I mean I’m not wearing that.”
“But the customers want the Vegas Elvis package, and this is the suit.”
He waved his hands. “Oh, no. I’m not dressing up.”
She frowned harder. “Cordelia said you understood that this was part of the job. In fact—” she stepped over the dog and extended the vile suit toward him “—it is the job. You’re our Elvis.”
CHAPTER TWO
GRACIE SERGEANT watched emotions play over Steve Mulcahy’s handsome face: shock gave way to denial, and denial gave way to controlled annoyance. His cobalt-blue eyes went from icy to molten in a blink as he straightened.
“I’m not an Elvis impersonator.”
Gracie inspected his lean physique again—broad shoulders, narrow hips, long legs…the man was perfect—er, for the job. Top that with his blue-black hair, piercing eyes and—she swallowed—sensuous mouth, and she had a feeling she was experiencing a little of what women must have felt when standing next to the real Elvis. The man was knee-weakening gorgeous.
It was a good thing she’d recently sworn off sex…not that Steve Mulcahy, confirmed bachelor, would be interested, but still. She’d had enough of fly-by-night affairs with transients who lost their mind and promised the moon (and their heart) in the crazy Vegas environment. The next time she fell in love, she wanted forever and a ring. When she’d said as much to Cordelia, who had never married, her boss had looked sad and declared that Gracie had listened to “Can’t Help Falling in Love” one too many times.
Ignoring the sexy vibes rolling off the man in front of her, Gracie tried to appeal to his ego. “You’re the closest thing we’ve had to Elvis in the ten years I’ve been working here. We’ve had a Korean Elvis, a dwarf Elvis, two black Elvises, several obese versions, one bone-rack, one guy who was eighty-nine years old—even a female Elvis for a while.”
He was still shaking his head. “I came to take pictures—and that’s all.”
Worried that she’d lose their best prospect in ages, Gracie decided to turn on the charm—and lie. She gave him a coy smile. “All you have to do is wear the suit, and if you’re afraid someone will recognize you, we have sunglasses and a wig.”
He opened his mouth, then stopped and seemed to mull her words.
“It’s really easy,” she added quickly. “You greet the customers, walk the bride down the aisle and give her away, then run the video camera for the rest of the ceremony. The pictures come afterward.”
He squinted, apparently considering it. “I’d walk the bride down the aisle? Every bride?”
Gracie tried not to frown—obviously her womanly charms weren’t as persuasive as the idea of mixing with every female who came through the door. “Sure—it’s part of the wedding package.”
He covered his mouth with his hand, then nodded curtly. “Okay.”
She grinned, her disappointment about his motivation vanishing in the wake of his agreeing to be their Elvis. If he were good, word would spread quickly. She stepped closer to him, holding the extra large suit against his shoulders. The movement displaced the air between them, sending the male scent of him into her nostrils, igniting little firestorms all over her celibate body. Shocked at her reaction, she lifted her gaze to his—a mistake, she realized instantly, because a woman could fall headlong into those deep baby blues with their long, black lashes. But when his eyes became hooded, she saw a flash of danger there—danger to her resolution to hold out for commitment.
Worse, her nearness seemed to have affected him as well. Beneath her fingers, his chest rose and fell more rapidly, then his mouth parted slightly. She had the surreal sensation that he might kiss her and felt her lips part, her breath whisk over her tongue. He wet his lips and she unwittingly mimicked him. “Can’t Help Falling in Love” played over the central stereo—her weakness.
“Some things…are meant to be…”
Her throat tightened with the desire to swallow, but she was afraid to move a muscle, afraid she would rise on her toes and press her mouth to his just to knock him as off balance as she felt. But when she felt his warm lips against hers, she realized that in her mind, she might have restrained herself, but in reality, she had gone for the gold.
And while Steve Mulcahy might have been as surprised as she for a split second, he seemed to warm up to the idea of kissing her rather quickly. He opened his mouth and slanted his lips over hers, flicking his tongue over her teeth. He tasted like mint and coffee, and smelled like grass and sandalwood. While Gracie’s breasts and shoulders tingled, a small part of her panicked, driven to keep the kiss going so she wouldn’t have to face him when it ended. She’d never done anything like this in her life.
H.D.’s forceful bark broke their kiss like a sledgehammer against glass. She started and swung her gaze down, then realized that H.D. wasn’t barking at them, but rather at the black-robed woman who stood in the doorway looking, well…shocked.
Under her boss’s gaze, mortification bled through Gracie. Stepping back, she murmured, “Cordelia…hi. This is, um…um—”
“Steve Mulcahy, the new photographer,” he supplied.
Beneath the pouf of fire engine-red hair, Cordelia’s expression changed, and she studied Steve intently. Gracie was surprised to see something akin to disapproval in the woman’s kohl-lined eyes before Cordelia schooled her well-preserved features into a smile. “Ah, yes. Welcome to TCB, Steve.”
He nodded politely, but looked uncomfortable. If he knew that pink lipstick smeared his mouth, he would probably feel even worse, Gracie decided. He gestured to the air between them. “Gracie was just…showing me the ropes.”
Cordelia lifted one drawn-on eyebrow. “Gracie keeps
