Venna had come after him again, still hell-bent on roping him into matrimony. He couldn’t decide if she was incredibly determined or just delusional. The last thing he wanted was a woman looking for husband number three.
Then there was Mimi.
Mimi. Ever since he’d caught her in his hayloft, she’d been like a sandbur under his skin. Only she didn’t cause him any pain. Far from it. She made him remember how damn long it had been since he’d held a woman in his arms. How soft and warm and wonderful women could be.
If only they weren’t so damn much trouble.
He’d tried ignoring her, insulting her and intimidating her, but she hadn’t taken the hint. He wanted her off his ranch and out of his life. If she wouldn’t go willingly, then he’d fling her over his shoulder and haul her to Austin himself.
“Come on, Hubert,” Garrett said, turning to the house. “Time to take Mimi back where she belongs.”
He marched to the house and through the front door, ready to meet any resistance. But his resolve faded when he saw her curled up on the sofa, her eyes closed and her mouth slightly open. He pushed the door shut behind him, a little louder than necessary, but she didn’t even stir.
Her wedding dress was in a heap on the floor. He moved closer to the sofa, noticing the shadows under her eyes. Then his gaze flicked to her bare feet, peeking out beneath the hem of her long silk slip. The raw scratches and livid welts on the soles of her feet looked even worse than before.
The fire popped in the hearth, shooting a spray of orange sparks and making shadows dance on the walls. Watching her sleep, Garrett wondered why he’d let her upset him so much. Mimi was no threat to him. She was some other man’s problem. She was also in obviously desperate straits if she’d trust a total stranger not to take advantage of her. He doubted either of his sisters would ever end up in such a crazy situation, but if they did, he hoped no one would kick them out into the cold night.
Picking up the lonestar quilt off the back of the sofa, he gently draped it over her sleeping form, then he switched off the living room light.
“First thing in the morning,” he vowed to himself. “She’s outta here.”
Austin American Statesman
WEDDING BELLE BLUES
Mimi Casville, daughter of prominent Austin industrialist Rupert Casville, ran out of St. Mary’s Cathedral in Austin yesterday, just moments before she was to exchange vows with local attorney Paul Renquist.
The runaway bride wore a stunning gown of oyster silk with a sweetheart-style bodice and delicate spaghetti straps. Hand-sewn pearls accented the box-pleated skirt and cathedral train.
The groom, resplendent in a black cutaway coat and tails designed by the incomparable Oscar de la Renta, refused to comment. The champagne reception went on as scheduled, absent the unwedded couple. All four hundred guests dined on Rockefeller oysters, Russian caviar and juicy rumors regarding the fractured nuptials.
Official word is that the bride succumbed to a sudden illness and that the wedding will be rescheduled in the near future. Unofficially, sources say that the bride fled the scene in her red convertible and hasn’t been seen since.
Destination of Ms. Casville unknown. Stay tuned to this column for further updates.
—Bettina Collingsworth
“DID YOU SEE this crap?”
Paul Renquist looked up from his breakfast plate as Rupert Casville marched into the formal dining room, waving a newspaper in his hand. Paul had spent the night at the Casville mansion, hoping to talk some sense into Mimi when she returned home.
Only she hadn’t come home.
“It’s in the society section, Rupert. Nobody who matters reads that.”
“I sure as hell read it.” Rupert slapped the newspaper on the polished oak table. “Who is this Bettina Collingsworth woman, anyway?”
“She reports all the high-profile weddings in Austin.”
“Obviously, she missed her calling. She should be writing UFO reports for the tabloids.” Rupert pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. “I can’t believe a newspaper like the Austin American Statesman would print such melodramatic tripe. I’m tempted to buy the damn newspaper myself just so I can fire this dingbat.”
Paul picked up his fork. “I called Mrs. Collingsworth this morning and asked her to print a retraction.”
“And?”
“And she refused.” Paul hesitated as a maid brought in Rupert’s breakfast. Maria only spoke a few words of English, or at least that’s what she claimed. Paul didn’t believe in taking chances, so he kept his mouth shut.
“This looks wonderful, Maria,” Rupert said, unfolding his napkin. “Thank you.”
She nodded, then, with a dismissive glance at Paul, walked out of the room.
A hot flush crept up his neck. He hated the way the servants looked at him, as if he’d crawled into the Casville mansion on his belly. He’d put his foot down when Mimi had wanted to invite them to the wedding.
Was that why she’d left him at the altar?
He shook his head, still baffled by her behavior. For the last six months, he’d bent over backward to accommodate her every need, grant her every wish. He’d even agreed to her outrageous request not to consummate their relationship until the wedding night.
What more did she want?
Rupert reached for the salt and pepper, liberally sprinkling his plate with both. He ate the same breakfast every morning. Three eggs over easy, a rasher of bacon, hominy grits and a big glass of tomato juice. “So what else did she say?”
Paul looked at him. “Who?”
“That Collingsworth dame.”
Paul picked up a spoon and returned his attention to his grapefruit. “She told me she witnessed Mimi running out of the church herself. So she didn’t buy our story about the bride suddenly taking ill.”
“Damn.” Rupert reached into his suitcoat and pulled out a small silver flask. He unscrewed the lid, then poured a generous shot of vodka into his tomato juice.
Paul swallowed hard, his throat suddenly very dry. “I’ll take one of those.”
Rupert raised a grizzled brow. “I thought you gave up the booze.”
“Hell, Rupert, my bride’s run out on me! I can’t think of a better occasion to fall off the wagon, can you?”
Rupert set the flask on the table and pushed it toward him. “There you go, Paul. Enjoy. Of course, you take one drink, and you can forget about ever marrying my daughter.”
Paul froze, his hand already outstretched toward the flask. He glanced at Rupert’s slate-blue eyes and instinctively knew he meant business. But then, Rupert Casville always meant business. And he never let inconsequential
