Home for a Soldier (7 page)

Rory listened with amusement as Doug
appeared to be warming up. “Okay, and once she promised that she’d come out to a
concert with me because Debbie can’t stand country and western, and this cute
guy she’d been lusting after for ages asked her out, but she blew him off
because she’d promised to go out with me, and—”

“That’s enough,” Grace interrupted. A
pink flush covered her cheeks at the mention of the guy she’d been lusting
after.

Suddenly Rory found himself annoyed
with the entire conversation, although he couldn’t quite pinpoint the reason for
his irritation. He waited in silence as Grace exchanged a few more words with
her sister and ended the call.

“Satisfied?” she asked, whirling to
him.

Rory stared at her. Her eyes sparkled
with determination, and a pulse throbbed at her throat. An urge seized him to
leap to his feet, haul her close, and kiss the hell out of her. He shook his
head, as if the action would clear his confused thoughts. He rolled off the far
side of the bed and trudged into the bathroom, with an odd feeling that his life
was about to careen out of control.

Grace glanced at her watch and turned
a page in the hotel services directory. She couldn’t go to the gym because she
hadn’t packed workout clothes or a bathing suit. She had no money for shopping,
and she disapproved of gambling. A statistician by profession, she was only too
aware of how the odds favored the casinos.

She had already steamed out her
dress. Rory would probably wear jeans, but she preferred to be married in white.
The only suitable dress she owned was a silk sheath from Saks. She’d bought the
garment in a consignment store, assuming it was a nightgown, but Debbie had
explained that the slinky number was eveningwear. It would have to do, because
buying a new outfit for the occasion was beyond her means.

An advertisement for the beauty salon
caught her attention. She’d hurried the last time she cut her hair, and the left
side hung a little longer, with a slope that never seemed quite right. Slamming
the binder shut, Grace bounced up and reached for her tote bag. If she didn’t go
out, Rory might as well have left her chained to the table leg.

As she entered the lobby, the din of
the slot machines echoed from the casino floor. Grace peeked into the vast
space, where gamblers fed coins into slots with a concentration bordering on
trance. The lack of windows and the stark light dulled any sense of time,
creating a nocturnal atmosphere in the middle of the day.

With a bemused shake of her head,
Grace spun on her sneakers and set out to find the hair salon.

“Do you have any appointments
available today?” she asked the buxom dark girl in a pink shirtwaist dress who
occupied the front desk.

The girl looked up, her kohl-rimmed
eyes skimming over Grace. “We have all afternoon. A wedding party cancelled
their bookings. The bride has chicken pox.”

“Oh?” Grace blinked. Guilt niggled
inside her at the discovery that another woman’s misfortune would be her gain.
“I’d like a trim, please. Straight and shoulder length. The same as now, but a
little shorter.”

The girl guided her to a willowy
redhead dressed in a white smock and pants. After tossing away the remnants of
the apple she’d been eating, the stylist introduced herself as Monica and
settled Grace into a shampoo station.

“Are you on vacation?” Monica asked
as she turned on the water and adjusted the temperature.

“No. Actually…” Grace paused, but
wedding nerves blew the lid from her usual reserve. “I’m getting married. To a
soldier. He’s shipping out to Iraq on Monday.”

“Goodness.” The girl massaged shampoo
into her hair, making Grace feel as if she were a melon tested for ripeness.
“Then you’ll only have Sunday for your honeymoon.”

“That’s right,” Grace murmured,
unwilling to reveal that she was flying home on Sunday and there would be no
honeymoon. She shifted, trying to get her neck more comfortable against the hard
edge of the basin. A tension crept down her limbs at the thought of the
impending ceremony that would legally bind her to a stranger.

“You have nice hair. Very good
condition,” Monica said as she rinsed through the soapy suds. “The color could
do with a lift, though.” She teased a few strands apart. “Highlights here would
do the trick.”

Grace sighed. “I’m afraid a trim is
all I can afford right now.”

The girl nodded. When she finished
with the shampoo and conditioner, she led Grace to a chair in front of a mirror
and vanished into the back. Grace waited. The bright lights and slicked-down
hair gave her a pinched look. A moment later, a middle-aged woman in a black
business suit walked over. She introduced herself as the manager, and offered
Grace complimentary highlights, due to the fact that she was marrying a soldier
on active duty.

An hour later, Grace stared at
herself in the mirror. Golden streaks glinted in the soft waves that bounced
around her face. Monica, responsible for the miracle, inspected Grace, her coral
lips in a thoughtful pout. “You look a little pale. Are you planning to do your
own make-up?”

“Make-up?” Grace wrinkled her nose.
“I’m not really on friendly terms with make-up. Whatever I try ends up looking
terrible. Panda eyes and tangerine skin.”

“Give me a second.” Monica marched to
the telephone at the front desk, spoke a few words to the receptionist, and
punched in a number.

She returned a moment later,
appearing pleased with herself.

“Trudi, the make-up artist who does
the showgirls isn’t busy this afternoon. She’ll do your make-up if you drop by.
I’ll explain how to get backstage.” The girl smiled at Grace through the mirror.
“Your new husband will never forget how you look tonight.”

When Grace left the laughing and
chattering showgirls two hours later, she felt tipsy from three glasses of
champagne. Her tote bag rattled with make-up, given to her during the impromptu
wedding shower the dancers had thrown for her, and underneath the jars and
compacts nestled a black lace bustier, a garter belt, and a pair of silk
stockings, left over from a show no longer in production.

Grace giggled as she admired her
reflection in the mirrored elevator. What had the girl at the beauty shop said?
Her new husband would never forget how she looked tonight?

Heck, he wouldn’t even recognize her.

* * * *

Rory inserted the plastic keycard in
the lock. He flexed his knuckles before he pushed the door open, although the
throbbing in his hands had already eased. His lips twisted into a grim smile.
Whatever had possessed him to fly off the handle like that, getting into a brawl
with Al and Tyrone over a few derogatory words about his bride? Was it just a
means to relieve the tension, or had some odd streak of gallantry somehow
sneaked into his blood?

“Grace,” he called out, so she would
hear his voice and know who had entered. He sauntered through— and froze in his
tracks.

The room was just as he had left it,
the bed on the right, the desk on the left, and the circular table and two
chairs by the window, but in the middle stood a shimmering creature in white.

Bare shoulders rose from a dress that
draped over the contours of a slender body. An enormous pair of clear eyes shone
at him from a flushed face, surrounded by a cloud of glossy hair that reminded
him of sunny spring days. The mirage performed a slow twirl, letting him see her
back, bare except for two narrow straps that crossed over her shoulder blades.
In the front, the dress dipped between her breasts. Two small points marked
where her nipples beaded against the thin fabric.

“Jesus,” Rory muttered. He felt
faint, and realized he’d forgotten to breathe.

A flurry of emotions roared through
his head. Awe. Pride. Ownership. Hunger. Lust. Yearning. Jealousy. Fear.
Suddenly, two years in
Iraq
seemed a terrible idea. Rage flared inside him at any man who’d try to steal her
away. He fisted his right hand and rubbed the fingers of his left hand over the
scraped knuckles. Thank heavens his face remained unmarked, so he wouldn’t ruin
the wedding with an ugly bruised look.

“It’s all right if you want to wear
jeans,” Grace told him, nodding at his casual appearance. “I wanted to wear
white. In case I never get married again.”

You won’t. Not to anyone else.
A strange voice screamed the words inside his head. He tried to shake them off,
but they refused to be silenced.

“Are you all right?” Grace took a
step toward him. “Have you hurt your hand?” She captured his fingers between
hers and inspected his injuries, her touch delicate over the stinging skin.

“It’s nothing.” He pulled his hand
away. “I’ll wear a suit. I’ll take a shower first.” He turned and stalked into
the bathroom. His body shook from top to toe, and he seemed to have lost the
ability to speak in sentences of more than five words.

Rory braced his arms against the
marble counter and stared into the mirror, but he didn’t see himself. He saw the
glowing face of another young woman, her long dark hair blowing in the wind.

Laura
.

He had loved her, had nearly broken
when he lost her. The emotions Grace stirred up inside him tore the scab from
the old wounds, exposing the raw pain beneath.

With a determined shove, Rory jerked
his body away from the mirror and forced himself to get ready for the wedding.
He’d shower and dress, and then he’d go out and marry the girl who stood on the
other side of the door in her shimmering white gown.

* * * *

The nervous anticipation that had
gathered inside Grace all day ratcheted up another notch while she watched Rory
dress in his evening clothes. White shirt, black suit, a black bowtie with
crimson flecks.

Appearing terse, he barely spoke
while he got ready, except to tell her that he had turned down the courtesy
limo, and they would travel in the jeeps.

After collecting his wallet and cell
phone from the desk and slipping them in the inside pocket of his jacket, he
paused in front of the mirror to rake his fingers through his hair. Then he
unlocked the door and motioned her to follow.

In silence, they waited for the
elevator.

If only I’d drunk more champagne
.

Grace bit her lip, made an effort to
draw calming breaths. The cheerful glow of her impromptu wedding shower faded,
replaced by a feeling of hurtling at alarming speed toward an unknown
destination.

She stole a look at Rory, felt her
chest tighten at the handsome picture he made in his formal clothing. “I didn’t
expect you to have a suit if you were here on R&R,” she said to break the
tension.

“I’m not here on R&R. I came down for
a business meeting.” He slanted a puzzled glance at her. “Didn’t Doug tell you?
I’m not in the military any more. I came out three months ago.”

“No. He didn’t.” Grace contemplated
Rory with an uncertain frown. “So, why are you going to Iraq if you’re no longer
in the Army?”

The elevator arrived. Rory took her
hand and didn’t speak until they were inside. “I’ve signed on with a private
security company. If I were still in the Army, the apartment wouldn’t be a
problem. They make an exception for military personnel.”

Grace stared at him, a tight knot of
doubt forming inside her. She was marrying Rory Sullivan, and she knew less
about him than she would have known about a job applicant after having read
their résumé.

She had to be out of her mind.

Rory led Grace across the crowded
lobby, his fingers laced through hers. An impulse he didn’t quite understand
made him turn toward the corridor of upscale stores instead of the main exit.

“We’re thirty minutes early,” he told
her. “Let’s walk this way.”

He inspected the shop windows as they
proceeded through the arcade drenched in sunlight through the domed glass roof.
Unable to keep up with his determined strides, Grace trailed behind him, her
white satin pumps clipping against the marble floor.

Rory slowed his pace, came to a halt
outside a jewelry store. “Let’s get wedding rings.”

“Wedding rings?” Grace stared at him,
her eyes wide with disbelief, as if he had suggested they rob the store. “Why?”
she asked.

Rory gave a shrug of irritation. He’d
be damned if he knew why. It just suddenly seemed to be a good idea to acquire
some external token that Grace belonged to him. She would wear his ring.
Not
negotiable.

“It will help convince the
neighbors,” he told her. “The people who pay market rent resent the hell out of
those who have rent controlled apartments. They’ll rat on anyone who tries to
sublet illegally.”

Grace shifted her elegant shoulders,
left bare by the gown. A gang of thugs in biker jackets slouched by. Their
hungry gazes roamed her length, appearing mesmerized by the way the white silk
hugged the contours of her body when she moved. Rory’s hands clenched into
fists. She ought to have worn a wrap over her dress. He released a sigh, aware
that he was being unreasonable. The way Grace looked tonight she’d need to be
bundled into a blanket to keep men from staring.