With This Ring

She squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to block out the image of the two of them in the back of the coat room at the church.

A big, fat tear rolled down her cheek. You will not cry, she told herself. Gerald Bedford III and Candice Bentley-Ferguson deserved each other. Not only were they cut from the same bolt, they’d each chosen someone who was bound to cheat on them.

Leslie opened her eyes and reached for a bar of soap. The ring on her left hand sparkled.

Damn it.

It was a gorgeous ring. She’d been the envy of everyone she knew, and probably lots she didn’t. When Gerald had given it to her, it had represented everything that was right about their relationship. They were young successful professionals with brilliant futures. They had everything going for them.

Why wasn’t that enough? Better question. Why wasn’t she good enough for him?

In spite of her best efforts to hold the tears at bay, her eyes filled up and the room blurred. Today she was supposed to cross number five off her Life List. She slid the ring off her finger and tossed it into the soap dish. She’d earned the right to a little self-pity, as long as she got herself under control before Brent came home with her hand-me-downs.

BRENT SLAMMED the gear shift into Reverse and backed out of the driveway as fast as a ton of lumber would allow. Leslie probably thought he was a lunatic for tearing out on her like that, but he’d had a hard-on that would stop a train and there had only been two possible outcomes.

Either he’d do something he’d regret, or he’d get the hell out of there before he did something he’d regret.

The feel of her skin, the scent of her damp, sweet-smelling hair and the sight of her lacy white bra were now branded into his brain, and still had his libido on full alert. Which might account for his uncharacteristically bad driving, although it would make a lousy defense if he crashed into someone. He eased off the accelerator and brought the truck to a stop at a red light, chiding himself for being such an idiot.

She’d always made it abundantly and sometimes scathingly clear she didn’t want to have anything to do with him. In the seventh grade, at Candice Bentley’s birthday party, he’d finagled his way into playing seven minutes in heaven with her. That kiss had lasted somewhere in the neighborhood of four seconds.

Leslie had been a little slip of a girl in those days but she’d packed a mighty wallop.

Undaunted, he’d pursued her through high school. It had actually turned into a game, and he’d always been the loser.

He would ask her out. She’d say no.

He’d call her. She’d hang up.

He’d tuck a note into her locker. She’d scrunch it into a ball and toss it in the trash.

A horn honking behind him told him the light had turned green. He was glad to have an excuse to get away from her for a while. Too bad it meant going to his mother’s place though. She would question his sudden need for women’s clothing, and he’d never been any good at flying under her radar.

Maybe she wouldn’t be home, he thought. He could just help himself to whatever he could find and she’d be none the wiser. He pulled up along the curb and spotted her ancient Dodge station wagon in the driveway. No such luck.

He sprinted through the rain to the back door and let himself in. “Mom? You home?”

“In here, dear. What brings you by this morning?”

He followed his nose into the kitchen. She was making chicken stew. “It’s almost lunchtime. And since when do I need a reason to visit the most gorgeous woman in Collingwood Station?”

“Since you’re blocking the street with a truckload of building materials and trying to use that sweet talk on someone who knows better than to fall for it.”

“We were supposed to start a new job on Monday. I have to deliver that load to the site sometime today, so I won’t be here for long.” He crossed the kitchen and planted a kiss on the top of her head.

“What do you mean by ‘supposed to’?” she asked.

“I might be tied up with something else for a few days.” He reached over her shoulder and snagged a piece of raw carrot from the pile on the chopping block.

“Watch it, young man, or you might lose one of those fingers.”

He laughed. “I’ll take my chances. Are you expecting company?” he asked. If the size of the stewpot was anything to go by, she was cooking for a crowd.

“I thought I’d make enough for a meal or two for myself and take the rest to the shelter. They’re a little short on food this weekend.”

At this rate she’d never be able to retire, but talking to her about it was a losing battle. She’d carry the weight of the whole world on her shoulders if anyone asked her to. His mother was younger than most of the mothers of his friends, but she often looked tired and older than she actually was. Today was one of those days.

She’d become a single parent at sixteen and had struggled through a lot of hardship. He remembered her helping him with homework while she studied and worked to put herself through college. Nothing had changed when she became a social worker. In spite of an ample salary, she still lived in the little old house she’d purchased twenty years ago, and somehow she managed to keep her geriatric Dodge running. Every spare penny went to help those who were less fortunate than she was.

She tossed handfuls of diced carrots and celery into the pot and started on the potatoes. “So, you haven’t told me what brings you by.”

He might as well cut to the chase. “I need to borrow a few things.”

“What would you like? And don’t tell me it’s take-out chicken stew. If you want any of that, you’ll have to come back and have dinner with me.”

“Sorry. No can do.”

“Your loss.” She gave him one of her big, warm smiles. “So if it’s not food, what are you after?”

“I need some women’s clothing. Enough for a few days. Size four,” he said. “If you have anything.”

She set her knife on the butcher block and wiped her hands on a towel as she turned to face him.

“That’s an odd request.”

“Not really. A friend of mine is in kind of a jam and she needs a few things. Just temporarily, until…”

His explanation trailed off as his mother’s scrutiny intensified.

“Please tell me this friend of yours isn’t Leslie Durrance.”

Damn, she was good.

Chapter Two

“Why would you ask that?” As soon as he said it, he knew his evasiveness sounded like a yes.

And his mother’s eagle eye never missed a trick. “I stopped by Donaldson’s Deli to pick up the day-old bread that Mr. Donaldson donates to the shelter. The place was buzzing. Apparently she bolted and left Gerald whatshis-name at the altar.”

“Man, what is it with this town and gossip?”

“You haven’t answered my question, and that usually means—”

“Okay, fine. She’s at my place,” he confessed. Yes, at that very moment Leslie Durrance was in his bathtub. Naked and single. “And she has nothing to wear but a soaking-wet wedding dress and a pair of high-heeled shoes.”

“Do I even dare ask how she ended up with you?”

“I was driving by the church—”

“Oh, Brent. You can’t be serious.”

“What do you mean?”

“You might be able to fool yourself, but you can’t fool me. I thought you were over her years ago but even if you’re not, why torture yourself by driving by the church on her wedding day?”

He hated it when she looked at him like he was one of her homeless people. He didn’t want her to be concerned about him. He should be taking care of her for a change. “Under the circumstances it’s a good thing I showed up when I did.”

“Because?”

“She needed help.”

His mother let out a long sigh. “She’s a millionaire, Brent. She can buy anything she wants, when she wants it, without asking how much it costs. Why would she need your help?”

The sparkle of that enormous diamond ring flashed in his memory. “Well, she didn’t have her purse with her.”

His mother burst out laughing. “You dear, sweet boy. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that my Prince Charming would race to her rescue.”

“It’s not like that, Mom. She hasn’t told me what happened, but I know Leslie. She wouldn’t run out on her wedding unless something really bad had happened. I get the feeling she wants to lie low for a couple of days and there’s no way she can do that in Collingwood Station, money or no money, without a little help from someone.”

She rested her hand against the side of his face. “And that someone had to be you. At the very least, I hope she appreciates this. And who knows, maybe she’ll come to her senses and realize she couldn’t possibly do any better.”

Yeah, that should happen right around the time money started to grow on trees. He covered her hand with his. “I wouldn’t count on that. Besides, like I said, that’s not what this is about. She’s in a tight spot and I was there to help.”

“Still, I can’t help wondering if your timing was good or bad.”

When he didn’t respond, she sighed again. “There’s always a first time for everything and this is definitely the first time I’ve had to provide clothing for a homeless millionaire, but you’re in luck. I just finished cleaning and mending all the clothes that were donated this month. I was going to take them into the shelter on Monday.”

“She said she’ll have everything cleaned and return it.”

“How generous.”

“Come on, Mom. It’s not her fault that people are homeless.”

“Whose fault is it?”

Here we go, he thought. Once she climbed on her soapbox, he knew better than to argue. “If I ask, I’m sure she’ll make a donation, too.”

“Too bad you have to ask.”

All righty then. “She’s not a bad person, Mom.”

“She is if she breaks your heart again.” She turned back to her food preparation. “The clothes are on the bed in your old room. I sorted them into piles by size, so you shouldn’t have any trouble finding something that’ll fit her.”

“Thanks. I really appreciate this. So does Leslie.”

He didn’t get a response, so he headed up the stairs.

This old house held a lot of memories. Good ones. The door to his old room creaked when he opened it. He’d been on his own for a lot of years so it surprised him that his mother had never reclaimed this space. His baseball trophies were still lined up on the dresser and an old Reggie Jackson poster was tacked to the closet door.

The clothing for the homeless shelter had been carefully arranged in piles on the bed. He picked through the small-sized women’s clothing and chose a pair of jeans that looked as though they should fit her, a pair of faded yellow shorts and a couple of T-shirts. The pink one looked great, actually. In high school she’d had an undetermined number of sweaters in every shade of pink imaginable, and every single one of them had suited her perfectly. He hadn’t thought of it in years but if anyone had a signature color, Leslie did. And it was pink.

He’d never forgotten how beautiful she’d looked the night of his senior prom. Had she been wearing pink that night? Probably. Technically it hadn’t been her prom, since she’d been in her junior year, but she was on the student council, which apparently meant she was on the prom committee, too. He’d asked her to be his date and of course she’d said no, so he’d gone solo in a futile attempt to prove a point. Undaunted, he’d waited and watched until finally, near the end of the night, she’d been sitting alone at her table and the band was playing a slow song. He’d asked her to dance and in a moment of apparent weakness, she’d accepted.

Aside from that stolen adolescent kiss in her friend’s closet, that dance had been the only other time he’d ever touched her, and he’d never forgotten it. That time their kiss had lasted significantly longer and had been a whole lot sweeter. The instant the song ended she’d pulled herself away and marched off the dance floor, but at least that time she hadn’t slugged him.

He gave his head a shake in an attempt to dispel the memories and surveyed the rest of the clothing piled on the bed. There was an assortment of undergarments, which he quickly ruled out as being way too personal, but he added a nightgown to the things he’d already chosen. He unfolded a sleeveless red dress that looked like something a hooker might wear and quickly put it back.

After bundling the clothes under his arm, he took one last look around. A pile of stuffed animals on the desk caught his eye. They must be for the shelter, too, because he didn’t recognize any of them. He picked up a toy dog and put it down, then examined a small brown teddy bear.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. The clothes he’d chosen were the best he could find, but they weren’t good enough for Leslie. Not because she was a millionaire, but because she was special. She deserved the best. Like his mother did.

He closed the door and clattered down the narrow staircase.

“Find what you need?” his mother asked, apparently back to her usual good-natured self.

The mouthwatering aroma of his favorite dinner filled the room. “Yeah, thanks. This should be fine.” He hoped.

His mother gave the pot a stir, then set her wooden spoon on a spoon rest next to the stove. “Let me find a bag for those things.”

She returned from the back porch with a canvas shopping bag and held it open for him. Her eyebrows arched into a silent question when she spied the bear.

He responded with a silent challenge of his own.

“Those toys are for the shelter, too. We do get children from time to time.”

“I thought it might make her feel better.” No, that wasn’t true. He had no idea how she would react to it, but he’d feel better if it distracted her attention from the shabby clothing he’d found for her. He handed the toy to his mother. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

She set the bear on the kitchen table. “Does she need shoes?”

He dumped the clothes into the bag and tucked it under his arm. Geez, he hadn’t thought about shoes, but of course she needed some. Those crazy high heels she’d been carrying were completely impractical. “What have you got?”

“Not much. Do you know what size?”

He shook his head.

“I bought myself some new sandals the other day and haven’t worn them yet. Take those and see if they fit.”

“Mom, you don’t have to—”

“I have other shoes, and I’m sure she’ll replace them.”

“I’m sure she will. Thanks.”

“What about toiletries?”

“What?”

“Toothbrush, deodorant, moisturizer, makeup.” Mischief glimmered in her eyes. “Feminine hygiene.”

He felt his face go red. “Geez, I don’t know. She never said anything about that kind of stuff.”

She laughed. “If you really want to be a hero, you should make a stop at the drugstore on your way home.”

He stared at her. Was she serious?

“At least buy her a toothbrush.”

FREDERICK’S PHARMACY seemed unusually busy. He wandered up one aisle and down the next, trying to figure out what Leslie might need. In the end he settled on a toothbrush—a bright pink one that would not get confused with his blue one—and headed for the checkout.

The guy in line ahead of him glanced over his shoulder and nodded.

John Fontaine. Allison Fontaine’s husband. Allison would have been a maid of honor today, if there had been a wedding. Judging by John’s boutonniered tuxedo, he’d been in the wedding party, too.

Brent nodded back. “How’s it going?”

“I’ve had better days.”

“Is that right?” It sounded lame, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“You can probably tell I’m supposed to be at a wedding reception right now,” he said, as if trying to explain the monkey suit.

“I kind of figured. Who’s getting married?”

“A friend of mine. Gerald Bedford. Maybe you know him?”

Brent had always known Leslie would never settle for a guy like him, but when he’d heard that she planned to marry Gerald Bedford III, it had been like a knife in the gut. “I know who he is. Who’s he marrying?”

John looked confused. “Leslie Durrance. I assumed you’d know. You still work for her brother, Nick, don’t you?”

“Oh, right,” he said. “I think he mentioned something about a wedding.”

“I might as well tell you, since you’ll hear about it from Nick anyway. There was no wedding because Leslie took off. Literally left the groom standing at the altar.”

“You’re kidding.” Brent opened his eyes wide and hoped that passed for surprise. “You don’t hear about that happening very often, except maybe in the movies.”

“It was quite a scene.”

“I can imagine. What happened? She get cold feet or something?”

John gave an expansive shrug. “She just took off. No one seems to know why, and no one knows where she went.”

“Humph. Go figure.” Did anyone think to ask the groom what he’d done to her? Brent wished he could think of a way to fish for more information without raising suspicion. On the other hand, much as he’d like to know what the hell Gerald Bedford had done to hurt Leslie, he’d rather hear her side of the story first.

“Nick’s out looking for her, and her mother’s not handling it very well.”

The cashier started ringing up John’s purchases—an assortment of things that could only be described as toiletries, right down to the dreaded box of “feminine hygiene.” John folded his list and stuck it in his pocket. “Picking up a few things for my wife. She’s pretty upset, not knowing where Leslie is.”

“Understandable.” He should have had the sense to ask Leslie if she needed anything besides clothes. Still, he was just as happy to not be standing here with a basketful of women’s toiletries. He tossed the pink toothbrush on the counter, then met John’s questioning gaze. “I have to clean the grout in the bathroom,” he said.

“That’ll be eighteen dollars and ninety-seven cents,” the cashier said.

John opened his wallet and handed her a hundred-dollar bill.

“Yep,” Brent said. “Toothbrushes are great on grout.”

“I’ll remember that.” John pocketed his wallet and picked up the bag. “Guess I’ll see you around.”

“You bet.”

John started to walk away, then stopped. “You know, most guys wouldn’t be telling people they were buying a spare toothbrush to clean grout.”

Brent pulled a couple of loose bills out of his pocket and smiled. Guess I’m not your average guy, he thought to himself as he watched John cross the parking lot.

“Will that be everything?” the cashier asked.

“No, I’ll take one of these, too.” From a bin near the checkout he chose a small brown teddy bear with a pink ribbon tied around its neck and placed it on the counter beside the toothbrush.

LESLIE STEPPED out of the bath, feeling a little calmer and a lot warmer, and toweled herself dry. She picked up her bra and panties and dropped them again. After that wonderful warm bath, there was no way she could wear cold, wet underwear. She pulled Brent’s T-shirt over her head, breathing in the clean, fresh-but-still-masculine scent, and reached for his sweat pants.

She’d never worn a man’s clothing before and the whisper of the fleecy fabric was unexpectedly intimate, especially against the part of her that should have been wearing underwear. After she adjusted the drawstring and tied it, the pants settled comfortably onto her hips. The legs were way too long so she rolled them up, then slipped her feet into the socks.

Her beautiful wedding gown was a crumpled heap on the floor. She set the jewelry on the edge of the vanity and shook out the dress over the tub. It was an absolute dream of a dress. Or at least it had been until she’d run through the rain in it. It had been the first and only dress she’d tried on and even Allison, who never bought anything until she’d tried on half the things in the store, had agreed it was perfect.

Everything about this day was supposed to be perfect. But she had been so preoccupied with planning the perfect wedding that she’d missed seeing that the perfect groom was cheating on her.

She hung the dress on a hook on the back of the bathroom door, next to Brent’s jacket. After she’d neatly draped her wet towels over the towel bar, she gathered up her bra and panties. “Brent, I really hope you have a clothes dryer here.”

She opened the bathroom door and Max, who must have been sprawled on the floor outside, leaped to his feet.

“Were you guarding the door?”

His tail wagged in response.

“Good boy. Is Brent home yet?”

The dog cocked his head to one side.

“I take it that means no.” Besides, the house was small enough that she would have heard him come in. “Is it okay if I have a look around?”

The tiny hallway was lined with doors. Aside from the bathroom, there were two closets and two bedrooms. Both bedroom doors were open. The one with the huge four-poster bed and chest of drawers must be Brent’s. The other had a desk, a small bookcase crammed with books and magazines, and a neatly made single bed. Until now she hadn’t given any thought to where she might spend the night, but found herself hoping it would be here. Too bad there was no way to let Gerald know she’d be spending the night with another man.

Except Brent hadn’t offered to keep her overnight.

And even if he did, she wouldn’t technically be spending the night with him. But then Gerald wouldn’t need to know that.

Max disappeared into Brent’s bedroom, but she decided not to follow. Instead she went through to the living room.

Max loped into the room behind her, carrying a gray teddy bear in his mouth.

“How adorable are you? Is that your favorite toy?”

He set the bear on the floor between them.

“Are you giving it to me?”

He wagged his back end.

She reached for the bear but he grabbed it and dashed out of reach.

“So that’s how it’s going to be.” She clapped her hands and Max trotted ahead of her into the kitchen. Leslie followed. No doubt he expected her to chase him, but first she had to dry her underwear and there was no laundry equipment in here.

Surely he had a washer and dryer? She returned to the hallway by the bathroom and opened a pair of folding doors. Sure enough, there was a washer and dryer. She took a quick look at the care tag sewn into her bra. It wasn’t supposed to go in the dryer but desperate times…

“As if ruined lingerie is the worst thing that could happen today.” She tossed both garments into the dryer and closed the door. Five minutes on low should do it, she decided. With any luck she’d be wearing them by the time Brent returned.

She went back to the kitchen. She loved well-equipped kitchens, and Brent had done an amazing job of fixing up this one. It even had an old wood-burning cookstove that appeared to have been converted to gas. She was impressed.

Max dropped his bear on the floor next to an empty bowl and gazed up at her. As if she wasn’t already falling for the silly mutt, his pleading look was completely irresistible.

“Your dish is empty. Would you like something to eat?”

His tongue rolled out the side of his mouth.

“Poor Max. Where does Brent keep your food?”

She looked at him for a moment, then shook her head. “It’s one thing to talk to a dog. Waiting for an answer is a good indication that you’re losing your mind.”

She opened the fridge. Three bottles of beer, an empty pizza box and an assortment of individual-sized condiments. In spite of the impressive kitchen, it appeared that Brent ate out a lot. And there was no dog food. She opened the cupboard nearest the dog’s empty dish.

Max leaped to his feet, nearly knocking her over in the process, and raced back and forth across the kitchen.

Inside the cupboard was an enormous bag of doggie kibble. She peered into the bag and saw a red plastic scoop. “How much am I supposed to give you?”

For heaven’s sake, Leslie, stop asking him questions. She hauled the bag out of the cupboard and read the daily portions, which were broken down by weight.