Rags To Riches: A Desire To Serve

The reality of it hit home when they walked across a rain-washed plaza to the Bexar County Courthouse. The building was listed on the National Register of Historic Places. Unfortunately the recent storm and still ominous thunderclouds hanging low in an angry sky tinted its sandstone turrets to prison-gray. The edifice looked both drab and foreboding as Blake escorted Grace up its granite steps.

The frosted window on the door of the county clerk’s office welcomed walk-ins, but the bored counter attendant showed little interest in their application. He cracked a jaw-popping yawn when the prospective bride and groom filled out the application. Five minutes and thirty-five dollars later, they entered the chambers of Judge Victor Honeywell. His clerk, at least, seemed to feel some sense of the occasion.

The beaming, well-endowed matron hurried around her desk to shake their hands. “I can’t remember the last time we got to perform a spur-of-the-moment wedding. Brides today seem to take a year just to decide on their gown.”

Unlike Grace, who had slithered out of her cutoffs and into the white linen sundress she’d picked up on sale a few weeks ago.

Blake, on the other hand, had come prepared for every eventuality, a wedding included. While she’d packed, he’d retrieved a suit bag from the Lincoln. Dark worsted wool now molded his wide shoulders. An Italian silk tie that probably cost more than Grace had earned in a week was tied in a neat Windsor. The clerk’s admiring gaze lingered on both shoulders and tie for noticeable moments before she turned to the bride.

“These just came for you.”

She ducked behind a side counter and popped up again with a cellophane-wrapped cascade of white roses. Silver lace and sprays of white baby’s breath framed the bouquet. A two-inch-wide strip of blue was looped into a floppy bow around the stems.

“The ribbon—such as it is—is the belt from my raincoat,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “You know, something borrowed, something blue.”

A lump blocked Grace’s throat. She had to push air past it as she folded back the cellophane and traced a finger over the petals. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. And this is for you.” Still beaming, the clerk pinned a white rose to Blake’s lapel. “There! Now I’ll take you to Judge Honeywell.”

She ushered them into a set of chambers groaning with oak panels and red damask drapes. The flags of the United States and the state of Texas flanked a desk the size of a soccer field. A set of steer horns stretched across an eight-foot swath of wall behind the desk.

“It’s Ms. Templeton and Mr. Dalton, Your Honor.”

The man ensconced on what Grace could only term a leather throne jumped up. His black robe flapped as he rounded his desk, displaying a pair of hand-tooled cowboy boots. He was at least six-three or four and as whiskery as he was tall. When he thrust out a thorny palm, Blake had to tilt back to keep from getting stabbed by the exaggerated point of his stiff-as-a-spear handlebar mustache.

“Well, damn! So you’re Big Jake Dalton’s boy.”

“One of them,” Blake replied with a smile.

“He ever tell you ’bout the time the two of us busted up a saloon down to Nogales?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Good. Some tales are best left untold.” Honeywell shifted his squinty gaze to Grace. “I’d warn you against marrying up with any son of Big Jake if they didn’t have the prettiest, smartest female in all fifty states for their mama.” His nose twitched above the bushy mustache. “Speaking of Delilah, is she comin’ to witness the ceremony?”

“No, but my brother is.”

That was the first Grace had heard of it! She glanced at him in surprise while he confirmed the startling news.

“Alex should be here any moment. He was on final approach when we left the condo. In fact…”

He cocked his head. Grace followed suit and picked up the sound of footsteps in the tiled hallway. A moment later the judge’s clerk reappeared with another couple in tow. The tall, tawny-haired male who entered the chambers was a mirror image of Blake. The copper-haired female with him elicited a joyous cry from Grace.

“Julie!”

She took an instinctive step toward the woman she’d grown so close to during her sojourn in Oklahoma. Guilt brought her to a dead stop. Grace hadn’t lied to Julie or the Daltons, but she hadn’t told the truth, either. Alex and his new wife had to be feeling the same anger Blake had when he’d first discovered her deception.

It wasn’t anger she saw in her friend’s distinctive green-brown eyes, however, but regret and exasperation.

“Grace, you idiot!” Brushing past Blake, Julie folded Grace into a fierce hug, roses and all. “You didn’t need to go through what you did alone. You could have told me. I would’ve kept your secret.”

Limp with relief, Grace gulped back a near sob. “The secret isn’t mine to tell.”

Her gaze slid to Blake’s brother. Alex didn’t appear quite as forgiving as his bride. She didn’t blame him. She’d watched him interact with Molly these past months, knew he loved the baby every bit as much as Blake did. It had to hurt to transition so abruptly from possible father to uncle. Grace could offer only a soft apology.

“I’m sorry, Alex. I didn’t know which of you was Molly’s father. Honestly. Not until I’d been in Oklahoma City for a while, and by then you and Julie were, ah, working a separate set of issues.”

The hard set to his jaw relaxed a fraction. “That’s one way to describe the hell this stubborn woman put me through.”

He stood for a moment, studying Grace’s face. She braced herself, but his next words didn’t carry either the condemnation or the sting she expected.

“Everyone, me included, will tell you that my brother is the better man. But once he sets his mind to something, he can be as ruthless as I am and as hardheaded as our mother. Blake’s convinced us this marriage is what he wants. Is it what you want?”

Her fingers tightened on the stem of the roses. Their white velvet scent drifted upward as she turned to her groom. Blake stood tall and seemingly at ease, but his blue eyes were locked on hers.

“Yes,” she said after only a minuscule hesitation. “I’m sure.”

Was that satisfaction or relief or a brief flash of panic that rippled across his face? Grace was still trying to decide when the judge boomed out instructions.

“All right, folks. Y’all gather round so we can get these two hitched.”

Blake held out a hand. Grace laid her palm in his, hoping he couldn’t hear the violent thump of her heart against her ribs. As they faced the judge, she reminded herself she was doing this for Molly.

Mostly.

Five

It was actually happening. It was for real. Grace had to fight the urge to pinch herself as Blake slid a band of channel-cut diamonds onto her ring finger. Dazed, she heard the judge’s prompt.

“With this ring…”

Her groom followed the cues in a deep, sure voice. “With this ring…”

“I thee wed.”

“I thee wed.”

The diamonds caught the light from the overhead lighting. Brilliant, multicolored sparks danced and dazzled. Grace couldn’t begin to guess how many carats banded her finger. Four? Five? And she couldn’t reciprocate with so much as a plain gold band.

“By the authority vested in me by the state of Texas,” Judge Honeywell intoned, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

He waited a beat before issuing another prompt. “Go ahead, Dalton. Kiss your bride.”

For the second time that afternoon, Blake slipped an arm around her waist. Grace’s pulse skittered. A shiver raced down her spine. Apprehension? Anticipation?

She knew which even before he bent toward her. Her whole body quivered in expectation. He was gentle this time, though. Too gentle! She ached to lean into him, but the deal they’d struck kept her rigid. Their marriage was first and foremost a business arrangement, a legal partnership with Molly as the focus. Grace might eventually accept Blake’s oh-so-casual offer of sex, but she’d damned well better keep a close watch on her heart.

With that resolve firm in her mind, she accepted the hearty congratulations of Judge Honeywell, another fierce hug from Julie and a kiss on the cheek from her new brother-in-law. At that point Alex produced an envelope from his inside suit coat pocket.

“Mother wanted to be here, but Molly’s cutting a tooth and was too fussy to fly. She sent this instead.”

Grace took the envelope with some trepidation. Inside was a folded sheet of notepaper embossed with Delilah’s raised monogram. Before unfolding the note, she looked a question at Blake. His small shrug told her this was as much a surprise to him as it was to her. Nervously, Grace skimmed the almost indecipherable scrawl.

I can’t say I’m happy with the way you decided to do this. We’ll discuss it when you get back from France. DI’s corporate jet will fly you to Marseille. Contact Madame LeBlanc when you arrive. Blake has her number. Julie, Alex and I will take care of Molly.

For a wild moment Grace thought she was being hustled out of the country so Delilah could hammer some sense into Blake. Then the last line sank in. Julie, Alex and Delilah would care for Molly. She and her groom, apparently, were jetting off to France.

Wordlessly, she handed the note to Blake. After a quick read, he speared a glance at this twin. “Were you in on this?”

“I figured something was up when Mother had me ferry the Gulfstream V down to San Antonio. Where’s she proposing it take you?”

“The south of France.”

That produced a quick grin. “You get no sympathy from me, Bubba. She sent Julie and me to Tuscany on our wedding night. Good thing we’re both pilots and know how to beat jet lag.” He winked at his wife before addressing Grace. “Hope you have a passport.”

“I do, but…”

But what? She’d decided in a scant few moments to turn her whole world upside down by accepting Blake’s proposition. What possible objection could she have to capping an unreal marriage with a fake honeymoon?

“But Blake probably didn’t bring his,” she finished helplessly.

“He didn’t,” Julie interjected, fishing in her purse. “I did, however. Delilah had me race over and pick it up from your executive assistant,” she explained as she slapped the passport into her brother-in-law’s palm. “I forgot I had it until this moment.”

He fingered the gold lettering for several moments, then shrugged. “Good thing you’re packed,” he said to Grace. “I can pick up whatever extras I need when we get to France.”

* * *

They said their goodbyes at the airport. Then Alex and Julie boarded the smaller Dalton International jet that had flown Blake to San Antonio and the newlyweds crossed the tarmac to the larger, twin-engine Gulfstream V.

The captain met them at planeside and tendered his sincere best wishes. “Congratulations, Mrs. Dalton.”

“I…uh… Thank you.”

Blake stepped in to cover his wife’s surprise at hearing herself addressed by her new title. “I understand you just got back from Tuscany, Joe. Sorry you had to make such a quick turnaround.”

“Not a problem. Alex and Julie were at the controls for most of the flight back, so the crew is rested and ready to go. We’ll top off our gas in New York and have you basking in the sun a mere seven hours after that.”

Blake made the swift mental calculation. Three hours to New York. Seven hours to cross the Atlantic. Another hour or more to contact Madame LeBlanc and travel to the villa DI maintained in Provence. Eight hours’ time difference.

He was used to transatlantic flights, but he suspected Grace would be dead by the time they arrived at their final destination. Just as well. She could use the next few days to rest and get used to the idea of marriage.

So could he, for that matter. He’d lined up all his arguments, pro and con, before he’d flown down to San Antonio. Then Grace had opened the door in those cutoffs and he’d damned near forgotten every one. Only now could he admit that the hunger she stirred had him twisted in as many knots as her refusal to trust him with the truth. Helluva foundation to build a marriage on, he conceded grimly as he put a hand to the small of her back to guide her up the stairs.

A Filipino steward in a white jacket met them at the hatch, his seamed face creased into a smile. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Blake. I sure wouldn’t have bet we’d be flying both you and Mr. Alex on honeymoons in almost the same month.”

“I wouldn’t have bet on it, either, Eualdo. This is my wife, Grace.”

He bowed over her hand with a dignity that matched his years. “It’s an honor to meet you, Ms. Grace.”

“Thank you.”

“If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your seats.”

Blake had spent so many in-flight hours aboard the Gulfstream he’d long since come to regard it more as a necessity than a luxury. Grace’s gasp when she entered the cabin reminded him not everyone would view it that way.

The interior was normally configured with high-backed, lumbar-support seats and generous workstations in addition to the galley, head and sleeping quarters. For personal or pleasure trips like this, however, the workstations were moved together to form an elegant dining area and the seats repositioned into a comfortable sitting area.

“Good grief.” She gazed wide-eyed at the gleaming teak paneling and dove-gray leather. “I hope Dalton International isn’t paying for all this.”

“You’re married to DI’s chief financial officer,” Blake replied dryly. “You can trust me to maintain our personal expenses separate and distinct from corporate accounts.”

She flushed a little, either at the reminder that they’d just merged or at the unspoken reminder that she wouldn’t trust him with other, more important matters.

The pink in her cheeks deepened when they passed the open door to the sleeping quarters. A quick glance inside showed the twin beds had been repositioned into a queen-size sleeper complete with down pillows, satiny sheets and a duvet with DI’s logo embroidered in gold thread. Blake didn’t have the least doubt that Julie and Alex had put those sheets to good use every moment they weren’t in the cockpit.

Different couple, completely different circumstances. Blake and his bride wouldn’t share that wide bed. The reality of the situation didn’t block his thought of it, though. Swearing under his breath, Blake was hit with a sudden and all-too-vivid mental image of Grace stretched out with her arms raised languidly above her head, her breasts bare, her nipples turgid from his tongue and his teeth.

“I’ve got a bottle of Cristal on ice, Mr. Blake.”

He blinked away the searing image and focused on Eualdo’s weathered face.

“Shall I pour you and Ms. Grace a glass now or wait until after takeoff?”

A glance at his bride provided the answer. She had the slightly wild-eyed look of someone who was wondering just what kind of quicksand she’d stumbled into. She needed a drink or two to loosen her up. So did he. This looked to be a long flight.

* * *

It wound up lasting even longer than either Blake or the captain had anticipated. When they put down at a small commercial airstrip outside New York City to refuel, a thick, soupy fog rolled in off the Atlantic and delayed their departure for another two hours. The same front that produced the fog necessitated a more northerly route than originally planned.

By the time they gained enough altitude for Eualdo to serve dinner, Grace’s shoulders were drooping. The steward’s honey-crusted squab on a bed of wild rice and a bottle of perfectly chilled Riesling revived her enough for dessert. When darkness dropped like a stone outside the cabin windows, however, she dropped with it.

The first time her chin hit her chest, she jerked her head up and protested she was wide-awake. The second time, she gave up all attempt at pretense.

“I’m sorry.” She dragged the back of her hand across her eyes. “I shouldn’t have piled wine on top of champagne. I’m feeling the kick.”

“Altitude probably has something to do with that.”

Blake’s calm reply gave no hint of his thoughts. He’d never seduced a tipsy female, but the idea was pretty damned tempting at the moment.

“It’s been a long day. Why don’t you go to bed?”

Her glance zinged to the rear of the cabin, shot back. “Aren’t you tired?”

“Some.” He put the last of his willpower into another smile. “But Eualdo’s used to me working my way across the Atlantic.”

“On your wedding night?”

He had no trouble interpreting the question behind the question. “He’s been with Dalton International for more than a decade,” he said calmly. “You don’t need to worry about what he’ll think. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

Her glance dropped to her hands. She played with the band of diamonds, and he added getting the ring resized to his mental list of tasks to be accomplished when they returned to Oklahoma City.

“Go to bed, Grace.”

Nodding, she unhooked her seat belt. Blake’s hooded gaze followed her progress. When she disappeared inside the stateroom, he downed the dregs of his Riesling and reclined his seat back.

* * *

Well, Grace thought as she crawled between the sheets fifteen minutes later, she could imagine worse wedding nights. The social studies teacher in her had read enough ancient history to shudder at some of the barbaric marriage rites and rituals practiced in previous times.

In contrast, this night epitomized the ultimate in comfort and luxury. She was being whisked across an ocean in a private jet. She’d found every amenity she’d needed in the surprisingly spacious bathroom. The cotton sheets were so smooth and soft they felt like whipped cream against her skin. Two million stars winked outside the curved windows built into the bulwark. The only thing she needed to perfect the scene was a groom.

With a vengeance, all those play-wedding scenes she and her cousin had enacted as girls came back to haunt her. Hope’s marriage had brought her nothing but heartache and fear. Grace’s…

Oh, hell! Disgusted by her twinge of poor-me self-pity, she rolled over and thumped the pillow. She’d made her bed. She’d damned well lie in it.

Now if only she could stop with the nasty urge to march back into the main cabin and reopen negotiations. As Blake had so bluntly suggested, the sex was certainly doable. More than doable. The mere thought of his hard, muscled body stretched out beside her, his hands on her breasts, his mouth hot against hers, made the muscles low in Grace’s belly tighten.

She clenched her legs, felt the swift pull between her thighs. Need, fierce and raw, curled through her. Her breath got shorter, faster.

This was stupid! Blake was sitting just a few yards away! Two steps to the stateroom door, one signal, silent or otherwise, and he’d join her.

Sex could be enough for now, she told herself savagely. She didn’t need the shared laughter, the private smiles, the silly jokes married couples added to their storehouse of memories.

And it wasn’t as though she’d arrived at this point unprepared. Teaching high school kids repeatedly reinforced basic truths, including the fact that each individual had to take responsibility for his or her protection during sex. Grace had seen too many bright, talented students’ lives derailed by their biological urges. She wasn’t into one-night stands and hadn’t had a serious relationship in longer than she cared to admit, but she’d remained prepared, just in case.

So why not ease out of bed and take those two steps to the door? Why not give the signal? She and Blake were married, for God’s sake!

She kicked off the sheet. Rolled onto a hip. Stopped. The problem was she wanted the shared smiles and silly jokes. Needed more than casual sex.

“Dammit!”

Disgusted, she flopped down and hammered the pillow again. She was a throwback. An anachronism. And thoroughly, completely frustrated.

* * *

She didn’t remember drifting off, but the wine and champagne must indeed have gotten to her. She went completely out and woke to a knock on the stateroom door and blinding sunlight pouring through the window she’d forgotten to shade. She squinted owlishly at her watch, saw it was the middle of the night Texas time, and had to stifle a groan when another knock sounded.

“It’s Eualdo, Ms. Grace. Mr. Blake said to let you know we’re ninety minutes out.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“I’ll serve breakfast in the main cabin when you’re ready.”

She emerged from the stateroom a short time later, showered and dressed in a pair of white crops and a gauzy, off-one-shoulder top in a flowery print. A chunky white bracelet added a touch of panache. She figured she would need that touch to get through her first morning-after meeting with her groom.

Blake unbuckled his seat belt and rose when she approached. Except for the discarded tie and open shirt collar, he didn’t look like a man who’d sat up all night. Only when she got closer did she spot the gold bristles on his cheeks and chin.

“’Morning.”

“Good morning,” he answered with a smile. “Did you get any sleep?”

“I did.” God! Could this be any more awkward? “How about you?”

“All I need is a shower and shave and I’ll be good to go. Eualdo just brewed a fresh pot of coffee. I’ll join you for breakfast as soon as I get out of the shower.”

He started past her, then stopped. A rueful gleam lighting his eyes, he brushed a knuckle across her cheek.

“We’ll figure this out, Grace. We just need to give it time.”

* * *

Time, she repeated silently as the Gulfstream swooped low over a dazzling turquoise sea in preparation for landing. Despite her inner agitation, the sweeping view of the Mediterranean enchanted her.

So did the balmy tropical climate that greeted them. Grace had watched several movies and travel specials featuring the south of France. She’d also read a good number of books with the same setting, most recently a Dan Brown–type thriller that had the protagonists searching for a long-lost fragment of the Jesus’s cross at the popes’ sprawling palace in Avignon. None of the books or movies or travelogues prepared her for Provence’s cloudless skies and brilliant sunshine, however. She held up a hand to block the rays as she deplaned, breathing in the briny tang of the sea that surrounded the Marseille airport.

A driver was waiting at the small aircraft terminal with a sporty red convertible. After he’d stashed their bags in the trunk, he made a polite inquiry in French. Blake responded with a smile and a nod.

“Oui.”

“C’est bien. Bon voyage.”

Grace glanced at him curiously as he slid behind the wheel. “You speak French?”

“Not according to Cecile.”

Right. Cecile. The chef who owned the restaurant where Alex and Julie had hosted their rehearsal dinner. The gorgeous, long-legged chef who’d draped herself all over Blake. That display of Gallic exuberance hadn’t bothered Grace at the time. Much. It did now. With some effort, she squashed the memory and settled into the convertible.

Blake got behind the wheel. He’d changed into khakis and a fresh shirt and hooked a pair of aviator sunglasses on his shirt pocket.

“Just out of curiosity,” she commented as he slipped on the glasses, “where are we going?”

“Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. It’s a small town about an hour north of here.” A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “A nationwide transportation strike stranded Mother there during one of her antique-hunting trips about five years ago. She used the downtime to buy a crumbling villa and turn it into a vacation resort for top-performing DI employees and their families.”

Grace had to grin. That sounded just like her employer. Correction, her mother-in-law. Delilah Dalton possessed more energy and drive than any six people her age.

“The place was occupied most recently by DI’s top three welding teams and their families,” he added casually. “But Madame LeBlanc indicated we’ll have it to ourselves for the next two weeks.”