Enlisted by Love (10 page)

Then Belinda's hand crept up to take her own and she looked down to smile at her niece, who looked nearly as radiant as the bride.

“We're marrying Michael today,” Belinda whispered, pushing her curls out of her eyes. Greta's smile deepened and she whispered back, “You're a pair of lucky girls.” And Michael was a very lucky man. Fortunately, he knew it.

Straightening, Greta glanced at Ian across the aisle, surprised to see his warm, affectionate gaze on the couple. He really was happy for them, too. She supposed he didn't have the slightest bit of envy for them, nor the tiniest desire to be standing there with a bride of his own. A few months ago, she would have scoffed at the very idea herself. Yet seeing how happy Tess and Michael were made her wonder —

The minister began the familiar service. Greta had stood next to her fiancé like that, tall and straight in his uniform, and listened, believing while he made promises he never meant to keep.

When she'd left Paul, she'd vowed that she would always take care of herself first. She would not get into another relationship until she was sure she had grown enough, understood enough, not to fall for another wrong man. She had promised herself she would give herself all the time she needed to heal from her old relationship. She'd sworn she'd become a new woman — strong, independent, able to take care of herself — before she would give herself fully to a new relationship. At the time, the promises she'd made herself were intended to mean she'd never get into another abusive relationship. But. The unwelcome thought intruded: was she using the ghost of the past to escape having any relationship at all?

She took a deep breath and gave Belinda's hand a squeeze. Tess's first marriage had been an unhappy one, too, though in some ways less devastating than Greta's. Still, it took faith to take another chance, to give your heart and body and soul over to another person on the promise that he would treasure it.

Just because it was frightening did not mean it was impossible, or not worthwhile. Just because Tess's judgment had been imperfect before did not mean it was unreliable now. Tess couldn't have found a better life's companion than Michael.

If only there were another Michael in the world.

Greta kept her gaze deliberately averted from Ian and focused on what the minister was saying. Then Michael was kissing Tess and then, well, Tess was kissing him, and then Belinda dropped Greta's hand and ran to join the two and they reached down to embrace her.

Tears pricked in Greta's eyes as she watched the family walk down the aisle, Belinda skipping between Tess and Michael, chattering the entire time. The effort of keeping quiet during the ceremony had obviously taxed her. It seemed a long time ago since Greta had last been joyful, full of hope for the future, not regretting the past and worrying over the present. A long time ago. How had Tess learned to believe that a man's love could be real? Of course, Tess had always had a romantic soul, and Greta a practical one. But that didn't mean Greta didn't harbor a hope, somewhere, buried very deep —

When Ian took her arm, she started, then she shook herself and let him lead her down the aisle.

“And so they lived happily ever after,” he said, leaning down to whisper in her ear as if he had read her thoughts. The remark was so like him — good humored yet teasing — that she let out a strangled breath, half laugh, half growl, then recovered herself enough to say, “Fairy tales, Ian?” She discreetly wiped a tear from her cheek.

“You're not the fairy tale type,” he agreed, patting her hand.

As if she didn't have any hope of finding what Tess had found, and that she wouldn't have enough sense to treasure it if she did. “You are the most infuriating man,” she said, snatching her hand away. Fortunately, they were in the vestibule and not the church itself, so she was able to manage a creditable flounce that only he witnessed as she turned to congratulate Tess and Michael (and Belinda).

Ian stared in surprise at her outburst. “Me?” His brow furrowed. Then he said, again, “
Me
?”

• • •

Ian sipped his glass of punch, watching the guests mingle, telling himself how relieved he was that it was Michael who had gotten himself hog-tied and thrown, not Ian himself. Considering it was a wedding reception, there would be plenty of susceptible women in the building, any of whom might agree to a date with him if he played his cards right, despite the fact that Greta thought he was an infuriating man. He did not think she was one of the susceptible women he could charm into agreeing to a date. Therefore, the wise thing to do was ignore her and focus on a more likely candidate.

Out of deference to Michael and Tess, he had been on his best behavior and even so Greta had accused him of being infuriating. Talk about infuriating! It absolutely wasn't fair. But it was entirely possible that there was a woman in this room, not Greta, who would recognize at least some of Ian's finer qualities. Such as the way he looked in this suit, even if he did say so himself.

The reception was being held at the Eldridge Hotel, an historical landmark of undisputed elegance located in downtown Lawrence. Ian felt sure Greta — not to mention Michael's mother — had been instrumental in choosing the site. Left to her own devices, Tess would have chosen someplace whimsical, like the annual Renaissance Festival or the county fairgrounds. Michael, having no more sense than any man showed after being hog-tied and thrown, wouldn't have made any objection to such an arrangement. Though — a smile quirked his lips — Ian could just imagine Mrs. M's face if she'd been told to arrive at Barn 3 at 10
A.M.
on a Saturday morning.

Scanning the crowd, he caught sight of Greta, who was laughing over a remark made by a distinguished looking gentleman. Apparently the distinguished looking man was not infuriating. Ian's eyes narrowed. He'd paid her the compliment of believing she was a sophisticated, level-headed adult, and this was the result? He liked Tess well enough, and he could see why Michael had snatched her up, but you couldn't call Tess a sophisticated level-headed adult, could you? He would have thought Greta would appreciate that he was able to tell the difference — and to admire it.

What was infuriating about someone noticing you'd outgrown the need for fairy tales? That was what he wanted to know. There were plenty of people who should know better than to believe in fantasies, who lived with their heads in the clouds, and when reality overtook them — wham! They seemed surprised and unable to cope. That was something he admired about Greta. She would never be surprised and unable to cope.

He swallowed more punch. When had he developed a fondness for sophisticated, level-headed adults? Hadn't he always liked women who could make him forget the grim and gritty details of his work in a violent and unforgiving world? Nothing wrong with a good time girl to lift a man's spirits. Right? So he traded his uniform for a suit and tie and suddenly good time girls bored him. What was wrong with him?

He sighed, wishing Tess had provided something stronger than punch. His new-found preference was a depressing development. Just when he thought he knew himself, he went and complicated matters. What was it about Greta that changed everything he knew about himself and women?
It's just the challenge
, he told himself, intensely disliking the man who was making Greta laugh. It was probably too much to hope that she was laughing
at
him instead of
with
him.

The minute she lets me catch her, I'll be over her
, he reassured himself, shrugging philosophically. She looked elegant and cool in that dress … made from a length of fabric he'd brought back from India. A brilliant decision on his part, not that he would have guessed it at the time. He felt a little possessive about that dress. That was
his
.

That was also the kind of thought that was going to get him into trouble. She shimmered, radiant in the soft light of the room. He turned his back on her and found the refreshment table. Taking another cup of punch, he surveyed the reception area. He'd come here with a plan, and the plan was to chat up a couple of lovely ladies and see what happened. So here he was. All he needed to do was go in search of said ladies.

Now Greta was talking to a tall blonde man dressed a little too elegantly in a charcoal suit, a foppish handkerchief in the breast pocket of his jacket. Probably wearing French cuffs and a pair of jeweled cuff links his mama gave him.
No competition,
Ian told himself firmly. As he watched, Greta laughed again. What was with all the laughing? When had Greta turned into such a carefree, laughing woman? He took a slug of punch. And she called
him
infuriating. She didn't have to look so happy to see other men, did she? As he glared, the blonde man said something and stepped away from Greta. She nodded, the smile staying on her lips as she sipped from her glass.

All right. So he wasn't interested in flirting with any of the other ladies. That was fine. Nothing wrong with admitting you had an incorrect objective as long as you identified the correct one before it was too late. He was going to show Greta that he was not infuriating, and see what happened then.

Of course, if Ian wanted her attention, he needed to do something more proactive than glowering at the men who approached her. What was wrong with him? He knew how to handle women.

He made his way determinedly across the room, keeping his objective in view at all times and letting no challenge — waiters with trays of glasses, other wedding guests — imperil his progress. Who said all those years of Army training would go to waste in civilian life? Arriving at her side, he touched her elbow and was outraged when the smile left her lips the moment she turned and saw who it was.

“You,” she said with a lack of enthusiasm that might have stopped a lesser man and probably would have stopped him, but people were watching and he couldn't let any witnesses see him retreat, suitably crushed by her setdown.

“Would you care to dance?” he asked, just as if she'd been laughing with him and not with the foppish blonde man.

“You can two step?” she asked, raising a brow.

“I — what?”

Greta inclined her head toward the dance floor. “It's a country band.”

Ian stopped and listened to the music, which had not previously penetrated his awareness. Then he laughed and shook his head. “But the wedding was so elegant.” He imagined what Michael's mother would make of this.

“Tess is whimsical,” Greta said, sipping her punch and looking over the rim of her glass at him. “She and Michael share a special fondness for George Strait.”

“Apparently,” he said, looking at the dance floor where the two danced together, eyes only on each other, as if they were the only people in the room. Then Belinda cut in and Tess and Michael drew her into the dance and Ian had to look away. What would his daughter would look like, if he had one? Which he didn't. He'd never spent much time thinking about the possibility because of his military career, which had taken him to countless hotspots all over the world. He hadn't wanted to be like his own father, just a photo in a child's scrapbook. Now he was a civilian, though, and there was nothing keeping him from having six kids if he wanted. Well, except for not having a wife.

He thought of Greta buttoning a miniature version of herself into a carefully tailored coat. The thought made him grin like the fool he so very obviously was.

He quaffed the rest of his punch and turned back to Greta only to discover that the blonde-haired man had reappeared at her side and was whispering something in her ear. Ian stiffened. If anyone should be whispering anything in Greta's ear, it was Ian. Before he could act, the intruder was leading her out onto the dance floor.

Ian's mouth dropped in outrage. How had she been lifted from right out in front of him? The moment his attention was distracted, the competition had cut in and left him standing on the edge of the dance floor, alone. He could see the civilian world was shaping up to be more cutthroat than the military.

He was staring at Greta. That would never do. He wasn't a loser or a stalker; he had merely not won a round, so he would retire to his corner until the next round started. He caught sight of Mrs. M sitting at a table, perfectly erect, her posture radiating her disapproval of everything around her.

I know exactly how you feel
, he thought.

His stomach clenched. He was having empathy for Michael's mother. Apparently hell had frozen over.

He walked over to where she sat, correct and proper, and extended a hand. “Would you care to dance?” he asked. He nodded toward the band, cowboy boots and all. “We're clever. I'm sure we can figure out the steps as we go along.”

“I know perfectly well how to two step, young man,” she said, rising to her feet and taking his hand, her fingers as cool as the rest of her.

“Then you can lead.”

“You are hopelessly impertinent,” she said, walking with him to the dance floor and positioning her hands — and his — just so. “You always have been. Now, pay attention and don't step on my toes.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“You are a very good dancer when you try,” Mrs. M said, and he tried not to stagger from the unexpectedness of the praise.

“Where'd you learn to do this?” he asked, as she led them — despite her dismissal of his suggestion — through the steps.

“Mr. Manning enjoyed dancing. If you recall, we went dancing every Saturday night without fail.”

He did remember. He'd been in charge of house-sitting on those nights, and he and Michael, younger by a few years, played video games in the basement and ordered pizza and talked about football. Pizza was a food group not otherwise allowed in the Manning household, and Mrs. M had cautioned him about speaking too freely on the subject of women, which was why he had concentrated on football.