a broken nose for his trouble. Now his brother had jilted number three and Grant wanted to wipe his hands clean of the whole matrimonial farce. What was wrong with being a bachelor, with playing the field? It was his preference.
Like a pipe organ’s chords silence resonated in the foyer of the church as Grant waited for a volunteer. The heat of the west Texas sun filtered through the stained-glass windows. Red, blue and green sunspots dotted the marble floor like confetti. Eager guests were filing into the chapel. Grant had called the three groomsmen over to a secluded corner for a huddle. A decision had to be made. Soon, before the wedding march began.
John Cummings shuffled his feet and scratched his receding hairline. “I wouldn’t know what the hell to say.”
Peter Rawlins ducked his head and mumbled, “Me, neither.”
Eric Simmons crossed his arms over his chest. “The groom’s your brother, Grant. Don’t you think you should handle it?”
“Diplomatically, of course,” John offered, nodding his agreement.
“Cut right to the point and get it over with quick.” Peter clapped Grant on the shoulder.
“Remind her she can keep the ring. That should alleviate some of the pain—” Eric cleared his throat “—and humiliation.”
That had never worked before. Maybe Eric’s perm had fried his brain. Grant clearly remembered the scar Griffin’s last fiancée had pinned on the bridge of his nose with the engagement ring she’d kept.
He ground his teeth in anger. He wanted to wring his brother’s neck for running out on his bride-to-be…again. Part of him understood. He had the same affliction—ice-cold feet—when it came to saying I do. But why did Griffin have to get himself in this predicament? Why couldn’t he tell a woman on the first date that he wasn’t interested in marriage?
“What are you? Chicken?” he asked the three groomsmen.
“Hell, yes,” they responded in unison.
“You haven’t met the bride.” Peter’s gaze cut toward the door at the end of the hallway. “She’s a knockout, but a…a…”
John combed his fingers through the memory of his hair as if searching for the right description of the bride. “A real pistol.”
Eric nodded. “She’s something to look at, all right. But I wouldn’t want to set her off.”
Grant’s forehead creased. Maybe that’s why Griffin had run back to Dallas like a bull was chasing him.
Squaring his shoulders, Grant prepared to burst the bride’s blissful bubble. He would simply handle her the way he dealt with clients whose investments had plummeted on Wall Street. He’d say it straight out. No beating around the bush. If that didn’t work then he’d treat her the way he once handled green fillies on his folks’ Oklahoma ranch—very carefully. Rotating his neck from side to side, he felt the bow tie tighten its hold on him.
“You’ll do fine.” John gave a fingertip salute.
“Better than Griffin could.” Peter flashed a relieved grin. “He’d probably end up with a black eye or worse.”
“You’re more diplomatic.” Eric rubbed the nape of his neck, as if removing the burden of being the deliverer of bad news. Slowly, he shook his head. “Doesn’t seem possible, you and Griffin being brothers. Even though you two look identical, you’re like night and day.”
“We don’t look like each other,” Grant growled, but his protest fell on deaf ears.
All of his thirty-five years others had confused him with his twin. And he was damn tired of it. They weren’t alike—in looks or deeds. That’s why he’d settled down in New York, established a career, built something with his life, and Griffin traveled the countryside selling fertilizer, playing footloose and single, then skipping from woman to woman, fiancée to fiancée, wedding to wedding and town to town. Once again, Grant would prove the difference by cleaning up another one of Griffin’s messes.
He walked swiftly to the bride’s room. No need to postpone the inevitable. Not when there was only half an hour until the wedding was scheduled to begin. The pristine white-painted wooden door, however, put a halt to his determination. The glistening crystal knob unnerved him. He imagined the room decorated for bridal fantasies. Didn’t all women daydream about their weddings? Griffin’s fiancée probably stood beyond the entrance donning her veil, smiling into a mirror with tears of joy sparkling in her eyes. God help me.
He wondered what kind of a woman Annie Baxter was. A real looker? Of course. Griffin wouldn’t have agreed to marry someone who looked like a farm animal on one of the nearby ranches. A pistol, eh? Grant rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. Maybe that was the kind of woman his irresponsible brother needed. Griffin liked his women to be seen and not heard. Again, that’s where he and his brother differed. Grant preferred a woman with spunk. If he was looking. Which he wasn’t. Then he wondered if Annie had a hard right hook.
Cursing under his breath he gave a swift rap on the door and waited until he heard a muffled, “Come on in.”
With a deep breath he turned the crystal knob and entered the room. A slight gasp stopped him cold.
An older woman who looked as if she was trying her best to hold back time with a truckload of makeup wagged her finger at him. “You shouldn’t be in here.” Wearing a hot-pink dress, she looked like a tidal wave of Pepto-Bismol coming toward him. “Don’t you know it’s bad luck for you to see the bride?”
Hell, the bride’s luck couldn’t get much worse. Grant scowled at her. “I need to talk to Annie. Give us a few minutes alone.”
“You’ll have plenty of time after the wedding.”
“Thank God.” Another voice drew his attention. “You were right, Aunt Maudie. He’s here.” Excitement lilted the husky voice to a fever pitch.
The bride-not-to-be sat on a velveteen chair, her silk-covered legs propped on a table. His gaze traveled up those long, shapely legs to an equally shapely, scantily clad body that had his mouth watering as though he was a teenager gawking at his first centerfold. A lacy garter embraced her hips and thighs like an intimate caress. A matching bra covered her pert breasts. Barely.
Heaven help me!
“It’s okay.” The half-naked bride waved to her aunt. “Give us a few minutes alone.” Her seductive drawl had Grant wishing the older woman would stay and chaperone.
With a huff, Aunt Maudie clomped in her high heels around Grant and ducked out the door while muttering, “You’re just asking for trouble.”
He barely heard the click of the door as it closed behind him. He couldn’t concentrate on anything or anyone but Annie.
She lazily swirled a French fry through a ketchup puddle. The hunger in her eyes as she stared at him stirred an automatic, inappropriate response inside him. Slowly, erotically, she tilted back her head and wrapped the French fry around the tip of her tongue. With a half smile, her gaze still holding his, she licked a dollop of ketchup off her bottom lip. With deliberate, self-assured confidence, she uncrossed her legs and stood. He heard the whisper of her stockings as if they were calling to him, inviting him closer.
“I
