Gorgeous Grooms: Her Stand-In Groom / Her Wish-List Bridegroom / Ordinary Girl, Society Groom

“Oh, no! Stop!” Catherine cried, bringing up her hands to shield her face.

Stephen’s exclamation was far more graphic. And from his murderous expression she thought he might hop back onto the deck and dump the guy in Lake Michigan, camera and all.

“Get below,” he called, pushing her in the direction of the cabin.

The man snapped off several more frames before Stephen managed to shove off from the dock. But Catherine had a feeling the first shot, the one of Stephen smiling as his hands spanned her waist, would be the one that graced the cover of whatever publication the guy worked for. She could only imagine what the accompanying copy would say, especially if the camera angle had also caught her smiling back.

Stephen might prefer sailing, but he used the boat’s motor to take them out to open waters. Lake Michigan’s vastness was the perfect place to hide in plain sight from the paparazzi. They could hear and see any approaching watercraft long before anyone aboard could click their picture.

She came above deck when she was sure they were safely out of range of even a telephoto lens, and settled onto one of the white padded benches near the wheel where Stephen stood. Just for a moment he reminded her of a pirate. He had shed his suit coat and black tie, and opened the collar of his white shirt, exposing more golden-brown skin. His cuffs were rolled to the forearm. The look on his face was one of relaxed satisfaction. Where he had looked debonair in a tuxedo, now he simply looked dangerous.

Arranging the folds of her gown around her on the bench, she thought it a pity that her own clothing was not so easily converted to casual. She had taken off the veil and tried to bustle her gown without much success. But at least she had finally shed those crippling shoes.

They were still using the boat’s low-horsepower motor, which made their progress relatively slow. The motor was only intended for days when the wind failed to co-operate. That wasn’t a problem on this evening. She had little doubt that if they had hoisted the sails they would have been halfway to Michigan by now. The wind was strong, breaking small white-caps in the water around them. It ruffled Stephen’s dark hair, and it was probably wreaking havoc with the intricate style she’d spent the better part of the morning with a hairdresser to achieve.

“Ever sail before?” he asked.

“Once, as a child, in a small boat my uncle owned. I remember watching the sail tilt almost parallel to the water.”

“Exciting, isn’t it?”

She recalled only terror and an upset stomach. “I thought I was going to die.”

“Well, it’s not for everyone.”

“But it suits you,” she said. And it did. He didn’t look quite so remote with the wind making his hair dance and excitement lighting up his dark eyes.

“I opened the champagne.” He motioned to the small table in front of her. She couldn’t imagine what they had to toast, and she said as much, but he merely shrugged. “There are glasses in the galley, first cupboard on the right, if you wouldn’t mind getting them.”

When she stood to fetch them she stumbled on her dress. Even as her fingers curled around the rail she felt his hands grip her waist, spanning it as he had when he’d helped her board. He turned her slowly and she caught the subtle scent of his aftershave.

“Steady now.”

“If only Vera Wang would make a gown suitable for sailing,” she quipped, suddenly ill at ease.

“If you want to take it off, I have something a little more comfortable you can wear.”

Had the line come from Derek’s mouth it would have been accompanied by a wolfish grin. Stephen merely waited patiently for her reply, no ulterior motive seeming to lurk in his steady gaze. Yet none of her discomfort left.

“That’s probably a good idea.”

He cut the motor and lowered the anchor before following her below deck, where he gave her the grand tour in under a minute. The cabin had two sleeping quarters, a tiny stall of a bathroom, and a main area that functioned as both kitchen and living room.

“It’s small, but efficient,” he said as if reading her mind. “And, unlike Derek, I don’t need an entire crew to take her out.”

That distinction would be important to him, she decided.

He opened the door to the bathroom and pulled a white terry-cloth robe from a hook on the wall. Handing it to her, he said, “I don’t think my clothes will fit you. But this should do, even though it’s bound to be too big, too.”

When he started to leave, she cleared her throat. “Stephen. I…need your help.”

He turned slowly, and her breath caught. Limned in the light that streamed from above deck, he seemed otherworldly. And she was about to ask him to help her out of her clothes.

“The buttons.” She motioned over her shoulder. “I can’t undo them by myself.” With a rueful laugh that she hoped would lighten the mood, she admitted, “It took the assistance of two of my bridesmaids to get into this thing.”

He said nothing, merely nodded. She turned as he approached, glad to present him with her back, since she felt suddenly awkward and shy. Perhaps that was because her groom should have been the one to help her out of the dress. Indeed, the exercise could have been considered foreplay.

Stephen obviously didn’t consider it to be any such thing. He worked in silence, and swiftly, considering his hands were large and the pearls small and slippery.

At the base of her spine, however, he paused, lingered. And she thought she understood why.

“It’s a birthmark.” The words were barely above a whisper. With a self-conscious laugh, she admitted, “And the reason I’ve never worn a bikini in my life.”

She could have sworn she felt a fingertip gently trace the large heart-shaped freckle that marred her lower back. But then he was handing her the robe.

“Come up when you’re ready.”

He stopped to retrieve two wineglasses from one of the cupboards in the small galley and then he was gone. Alone, Catherine expelled a breath and tried to find a rational explanation for her shaking hands and pounding heart.

He was sipping champagne when she came above deck, wearing his robe. As he had predicted, it was much too large for her. At five-seven, she hardly considered herself petite, but it dwarfed her frame, hanging nearly to her ankles. Beneath its hem, her bare feet peeked out.

“I poured you a glass.” He motioned to a seat across from his. On the small table between them sat the champagne bottle and an amber-filled flute. He raised his own and sipped again. She sat as well, pulling the robe tightly around her knees, and did the same.

“This can’t be how you intended to spend your evening.”

He shrugged. “The same could be said for you.”

“No.” She smiled sadly. “I thought I’d be Mrs. Derek Danbury by this time, listening to the musicians my mother hired slaughter ‘We’ve Only Just Begun.’ I can only imagine how upset she and my father are right now.”

“I’ll apologize for my cousin’s poor behavior.”

She sipped her champagne, enjoying the warmth it spread through her system. “Why should you? It’s not your fault.”

“No,” he agreed. “But he’s a fool. You made a beautiful bride, Catherine.”

The compliment came as a surprise, as he didn’t seem the sort to issue one easily. And so it warmed her, or perhaps that was just the champagne.

“Thank you. It was the dress. Who wouldn’t look good wearing Vera Wang?”

“It was more than the dress,” she thought he said, but the wind stole his words. Or maybe that was just what her bruised ego needed to hear.

The waves lapped against the boat’s hull, rocking them gently. The rhythm and the wine made her sleepy, but she kept up her end of the conversation, even when he steered it to politics, business practices and current events. They were safe topics, and far more interesting than the usual polite small talk she’d encountered from men, who apparently thought because she wore a bra it meant she couldn’t read a newspaper.

It was growing dark, and nearly half of the champagne was gone, but she held out her glass when he presented her with the bottle. After he’d filled it halfway, she said, “If we were at the reception you’d offer a toast.”

He shook his head. “I wasn’t the best man.”

For some reason she wanted to dispute his words. In the end she said, “But as a Danbury surely you would have been expected to speak? What would you have said? I’d like to know.”

“I would have wished you every happiness,” he replied solemnly, dutifully. And she believed him.

“And now? What is there to toast now?”

She’d asked the question before, but this time Stephen had an answer. Holding up his glass, he said, “La Libertad.”

The word rolled slowly from his tongue, the R a seductive purr that raised gooseflesh on her arms and left her to wonder whether he meant the sailboat that had spirited her away from reality or her near-brush with matrimony.

“La Libertad,” she repeated, her accent not nearly as perfected. She swallowed the last of her champagne and settled her head back against the cushions. Closing her eyes, she said, “I like the sound of that.”

Chapter Two

FROM the window of his office, high in the Danbury Building, Stephen watched a sailboat slice through the choppy waves on Lake Michigan. He envied those on board, wishing he could be out there as well, harnessing the wind, outrunning old demons. Soon, too soon, August would give way to September, and then summer to autumn. Not long after that the world would become dormant, La Libertad would be put into storage, and ice would make Stephen’s favorite place inaccessible for the next several months.

Unbidden came the memory of Catherine Canton, and the way she had looked wearing his bathrobe on that sultry July evening when they had hidden from the paparazzi aboard La Libertad.

They’d talked for a few hours, before he’d sailed the boat to port and taken her home. In that time they’d finished the bottle of champagne, and he’d glimpsed the woman beneath all the polish and panache. In addition to her dry sense of humor she possessed a quick wit. She was far smarter, far deeper, far more interesting than he had given her credit for being.

Debutante. The label no longer fit quite so neatly. Or perhaps his admittedly biased definition had changed. Before that night he’d written her off as beautiful, but shallow. But a shallow woman did not keep up on current events, or follow politics. Nor was she merely a fashionable woman, more interested in weekly manicures and facials than substantive issues. She knew designers and followed the latest clothing trends, he was sure, but she also understood branding, and in a brief conversation aboard a sailboat, relaxed by sparkling wine, she’d shown more insight into why Danbury’s was losing customers to its competitors than many of the people in his own marketing department did.

He’d found himself on the verge of calling her more than once during the past several weeks, to pick that finely tuned brain. In the end he hadn’t needed to. She’d called him.

Stephen glanced at his watch. Eleven-fifteen. He would be meeting her in less than an hour for lunch. The invitation had surprised him and left him intrigued. Business, she’d said. What exactly did she want? He shrugged into his suit coat. He would find out soon enough.

Catherine discreetly flipped open her compact and checked her appearance again as she waited in the restaurant for Stephen to arrive. Why she should be nervous about seeing him, she didn’t know. This was business, after all. And yet she’d chosen a flowered silk dress rather than a conservatively cut suit. Okay, so maybe she had a little crush on her fiancé’s—ex-fiancé’s—cousin. It would never amount to anything, of course. They were too different. And yet, after spending that time with him aboard La Libertad, she couldn’t help but wonder if, beneath it all, they might be very alike.

She dismissed that thought immediately as she watched him enter the restaurant. Stephen Danbury didn’t walk so much as stalk, like a big black panther taking stock of his surroundings as he followed the hostess through the crowded dining room. Confident, powerful, in full command. He was a force to be reckoned with. His dark gaze panned the room before settling on her, and Catherine sucked in a breath which she held until he reached their table.

“Your waiter will be with you in a moment,” the hostess said. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Coffee, black.”

When they were alone, he said, “Hello, Catherine.”

She held out a hand that was swallowed up in his and offered a smile.

“It’s good to see you again, Stephen. And thank you for meeting with me. I know your schedule is very busy.”

“I always have time for an intriguing offer.”

He seemed to hold her hand a moment longer than was necessary, before finally releasing it and settling into the chair opposite hers.

“What is this business you’d like to discuss?”

No idle chit-chat for him. She’d counted on small talk and pleasantries to carry them through at least the appetizer. By then she’d hoped to have sufficiently screwed up her courage. She pleated the linen napkin in her lap, a show of nerves she was grateful he could not see.

“Well, as you know, I am the executive director of the Safe Haven Women’s Shelter. Our facility houses abused women and their children, helping them get back on their feet emotionally and financially once they’ve left an abusive relationship.”

“A noble effort,” he replied, but she couldn’t tell from his expression if he meant the words or if he was just being polite.

“We can accommodate up to fifty women and their children. That might seem like a lot, but in a city the size of Chicago it’s just a drop in the bucket. In fact, we’re full at the moment and we have a waiting list.”

“I’m familiar with the shelter and its work,” he said.

“Oh.” Catherine took a sip of water before continuing. “Then perhaps you are aware that the building we call home is old and in need of substantial repair. I’ve implemented a fund-raising plan that has helped tremendously. We encourage companies to ‘adopt’ different apartments in the facility and then refurbish them. Sometimes it’s as simple as a fresh coat of paint, carpeting and new bedding. Other rooms need furniture, window treatments, plumbing repairs, light fixtures, rewiring, et cetera. It’s a write-off for the companies that participate, and I try to make sure their efforts get adequate coverage in the local media.”

“That’s a clever plan.”

“I can’t take credit for it. Other communities are doing it with great success. I heard about it at a conference I attended.”

“It’s still a good idea. And you were smart enough to recognize that.”

She smiled, ridiculously pleased with the compliment. “Thank you.”

The waiter arrived with Stephen’s coffee and took their lunch orders, giving Catherine time to mentally prepare the rest of her pitch.

“Recently we received a grant that will cover most of the repair costs for the boiler, so now the roof is our number one priority. It began leaking in the spring, and we had some patching done, but the contractor told us the entire thing should be replaced.”

“Roofs can be very expensive.”

Catherine cleared her throat and took a sip of her ice water. “Yes, very. Especially on an old building whose structural integrity could be compromised if repairs aren’t made soon.”

“Which brings us to the point of our lunch meeting, I presume?” He smiled, but his eyes remained unreadable.

“We’re hoping Danbury’s can help us with a monetary donation that will cover part or all of the roof repairs. I’ll personally make sure press releases are sent to the Tribune and Sun-Times, as well as local televisions stations. I’ve received three estimates from reputable contractors.” She pulled papers from her slim leather case and handed them to him.

“You’ve done your homework.”

“I try to be prepared.”

He glanced up, his gaze steady. “I enjoy a woman who’s prepared.”

Nothing in his inscrutable expression revealed whether the double entendre was intentional, but Catherine felt her face grow warm.

“May I keep these?”

When she nodded, he folded the papers and tucked them into his breast pocket without another word.

“You don’t need to make a decision right now,” she said.

“I didn’t plan to.” He shifted forward in his seat, leaning over the small table. “Can I ask you something personal, Catherine?”

Her pulse hitched. “Yes.”

She realized that she had leaned forward as well when she felt his warm breath on her face as he said, “Why didn’t you ever ask Derek about this? He was your fiancé, after all. Talk about a trump card.”

She leaned back. “I did. Twice.”

Stephen’s dark eyebrows shot up. “He never mentioned it to me.”

“He kept saying he’d get back to me.” She gazed at the linen napkin that lay in twisted heap in her lap. “I don’t think he took my work seriously.”

“Tonto,” he muttered.

“If I’m remembering correctly from my high school Spanish class, you just called Derek a fool.”

His use of the word surprised Catherine. Not many people resorted to a foreign language to issue an insult. Nonetheless, she enjoyed her first relaxed smile in more than an hour. Stephen, however, didn’t smile. There was nothing teasing or relaxed about his dark gaze when it connected with hers.

“You’re a woman to be taken seriously.”

They were simple words, issued as a simple statement, and they left her simply staggered.

Late on Friday afternoon, Stephen studied the estimates Catherine had given him as he waited for his cousin to arrive. It was ten to five, and he planned to spend the weekend on his sailboat, so he hoped Derek wouldn’t be late.

It surprised him that Derek had formally requested a meeting, and at this time of day besides. His cousin’s weekend generally started on Thursday and lasted till Tuesday. And if he wanted to see Stephen he usually just barged into his office unannounced, flattering his way around his secretary if Stephen had asked not to be disturbed. But this time he’d sent word a day in advance, neatly typed on company stationary, no less, that he would like to meet in Stephen’s office at five o’clock Friday. He had ensured Stephen’s attendance by dangling this intriguing little carrot: he wanted to discuss the future of the company.

Stephen hadn’t thought his cousin cared about the department store chain their grandfather’s father had founded as much as he cared about the trust fund that kept him in designer suits and Swiss Alps ski vacations. When their grandfather had died two years earlier, he’d left Stephen at the helm of the faltering chain, with Derek second in command. Derek’s title was officially vice president, but he generally left the day-to-day operations and all of the crucial decisionmaking to Stephen and the rest of the management team. He was no intellectual lightweight, but he’d made it clear he wanted the Danbury lifestyle far more than the burden of the legacy.

Stephen closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to ward off the headache that was already threatening. The truth was that the struggling department store chain might not be able to ensure Derek’s lavish spending much longer without a major turnaround. Marguerite had been making noise about selling in recent months. So far Stephen had been able to block the move. Admittedly, it went beyond pure business for him. He was not about to give up the birthright he was still striving to prove to his dead grandfather he was entitled to.

He figured this meeting would probably be an attempt by Derek to wheedle him around to a sale, so he wasn’t surprised when his cousin walked through the door followed by Marguerite. What did surprise him, though, was that they had brought with them the Danburys’ longtime family attorney, Lyle Moore.

Stephen sent his aunt a polite smile and motioned toward the small conference table tucked into the corner of his office. Turning to Lyle, he said, “This is unexpected. I didn’t know you were coming by today.”

The man who had handled everything from Derek’s prenuptial agreement to the cousins’ trust funds barely spared him a glance. He seemed uncomfortable, nervous, even, and when he finally offered a hand its palm was damp and clammy.

“Can I get anyone a drink?” Stephen asked.

The attorney shook his balding head, and Marguerite declined as well, but Derek flashed a cocky grin. “I’ll take one. To celebrate.”

Warning bells were going off in Stephen’s head, though he couldn’t figure out why. But the malicious amusement in Derek’s light eyes made him wary.

“You know where it is.”

Derek poured himself a brandy at the bar discreetly tucked behind a door in the paneled wall. When he was lounging in his seat, swirling amber liquid in a snifter, Lyle unsnapped the flaps of the overstuffed leather case balanced on his knees and pulled out a document.

He cleared his throat and began, “You’ve seen this before, of course.”

“Grandfather’s will.” Stephen’s stomach knotted.

“Then you know what Sunday is.”

“Sunday?”

“It’s your birthday,” Derek supplied, his grin reminiscent of a shark’s. “I never forget it because it comes just one day before mine.”

The attorney cleared his throat a second time, and flipped through the papers he’d laid on the table before him.

“Um, as you know, since you are the oldest, your grandfather left you the controlling interest in Danbury’s when he died two years ago, with Derek and his mother’s portion totaling forty-nine percent of the assets.”

“I believe we covered this at the time, Lyle.”

“Yes, but the terms of the…um…codicil have not been met.”

“Codicil? There was no codicil.”

The lawyer ignored him and went on. “Your grandfather felt since you boys were born only one day apart—and you had come a few weeks premature, Stephen—he should make things a little more fair for Derek.”

Stephen almost laughed aloud. Fair? His grandfather had always shown a preference for Derek, who looked so much like a Danbury should look, with his golden hair and sky-colored eyes. Stephen favored his mother, a sticking point with the old man, which was why Stephen had been surprised—shocked, even—when the will had been read two years earlier. Despite his obvious bias toward Derek, Maxwell had followed family tradition by giving the oldest Danbury heir control of the family empire. Stephen hadn’t been the only one caught off guard. As he recalled his aunt had all but swooned at the time. Derek, however, had seemed to take it all in his stride.

“Your grandfather saw Danbury’s as a family business, and he was troubled that neither of his grandsons was married and starting the next generation.”

Stephen nearly smiled, remembering the arguments that had often occurred after Sunday dinner, at which some dreamy-eyed debutante or another would have turned up at the table.

“Yes, he believed it should remain a family enterprise, passed from one generation of Danburys to the next,” Stephen agreed. Shooting Derek a look, he added, “He didn’t want to see the company sold.”

The lawyer pulled a pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket and settled them on his nose.

“Yes, well, your grandfather wanted to ensure its future through your and Derek’s children. Unfortunately, neither of you has married and produced legitimate heirs at this point.”

“So?”

Lyle glanced up nervously, but didn’t maintain eye contact. “Well, you know how Maxwell could be. He thought perhaps a little incentive would move things along.”

“Just cut to the chase, Lyle,” Stephen said impatiently.

Derek’s grin broadened. “Yes, Lyle, get to the good part.”

“Well, as per the terms of the codicil, if by your thirty-fifth birthdays one of you was legally married, and hopefully but not necessarily on the way to fatherhood, he would inherit not just the controlling interest in Danbury’s but all of it, with the exception of the five percent already willed to Marguerite.”