Stop the Wedding! (5 page)

Annabelle tried not to wince at the sight of the diamond solitaire on her mother’s ring finger as Belle grasped her hands. “Sweetheart, this might be my only chance to interact with Clayton before he returns to Paris. Then you and I will spend every moment of the week before the wedding together.” She surveyed Annabelle’s overalls with a worried smile. “Perhaps we can look for you some clothes tomorrow.”

Annabelle smiled—
here
was the mother she remembered. “Hopefully the airline will find my luggage by tomorrow.”

Belle reached up and freed Annabelle’s hair from its clip. “He’s rather attractive, don’t you think?”

She frowned. “Who?”

“Clayton.”

Her frown deepened. “I didn’t notice.”
I was too busy counting his bribe and fighting off his advances.

“He reminds me of the way Martin looked in
Streetwise
.” Her mother adopted a faraway expression. “Martin was so dashing—I must have seen that movie a dozen times when it premiered.”

“Wasn’t he a philandering con-man in that movie?”
Well, okay, maybe I didn’t exactly fight the man off, but I certainly didn’t enjoy that kiss.

“He redeemed himself in the end.” Belle sighed. “Life is a bit astonishing, isn’t it? Imagine, me marrying a movie star.”

The beginnings of a headache needled Annabelle’s temple. Her mother seemed almost giddy. Granted, the grandeur of Martin’s house—or rather, his
son’s
house if Clay was telling the truth—was impressive, but surely her mother wasn’t flattered to the point of blindness. “Has Mr. Movie Star asked you to sign a prenuptial agreement?”

Belle’s brightly-colored mouth turned down. “No. I offered, but he refused.” She turned to flip through the handful of colorful swimsuits hanging in the closet, then removed a sleek green one-piece and held it up to Annabelle. “Try this one.”

“Mom,” Annabelle said carefully, “what kind of man maintains a closet full of women’s bathing suits?”

Belle simply laughed. “Don’t hold it against him, dear. He’s used to a great deal of female attention.”

She stared at her mother, then wet her lips. “I see. And do you expect this behavior to continue after the marriage?”

Her mother shrugged. “It’s really none of my business.”

This was the same woman who advised her to drop Billy Hardigan in sixth grade because he gave a Valentine to Jill Normandy?

“Don’t look so surprised, dear. He’s a grown man, and I’ve become more liberal in my middle age.”

She gulped air, wanting to jam her fingers into her ears to block her mother’s words. “Mom, we need to talk—”

“Please, darling.” Belle held up one hand. “Let’s spend the afternoon relaxing by the pool, and tonight we’ll have a nice, long talk, okay?”

One look into Belle’s velvety eyes and Annabelle crumbled. Her mother had never asked anything of her in her life. Besides, she wasn’t looking forward to the disagreement she was sure would result from their ‘talk.’ And she didn’t want to be accused of not giving Martin a chance. Remembering her earlier vow to respond with reserved enthusiasm, she nodded. “Just for you.”

Her mother beamed and kissed her cheek. “Thank you, sweetheart. I’ll fix us some iced tea and meet you poolside.”

Annabelle watched her mother slip through the door and squelched the childish urge to run after her and hug her around the knees. Fighting sudden and panicky tears, she dropped to the soft creme-colored chaise, and covered her face with her hands. For the first time she realized how much her mother had probably worried about her over the years. Was there anything worse than watching someone you love make a huge mistake? A lesson learned, she thought ruefully—caring about a person led to inevitable anguish.

After a few moments, she inhaled deeply and lifted her head. Sitting here feeling sorry for herself wasn’t helping to fulfill her promise to her father. She slowly disrobed and pulled on the green bathing suit after inspecting it carefully. Adjusting straps and rearranging extra fabric, she noted wryly that Martin was obviously used to entertaining busty women. Having spent countless hours of her youth in full-coverage regulation swimwear, she felt naked in the high- and low-cut shiny emerald suit that seemed more suitable for posing than for swimming. How could her mother overlook Martin’s tendencies? Did she honestly think the man had changed?

Her mind raced like a treadmill, spinning the circumstances in hopes that some solution would fall out of the mess. She hadn’t counted on Clay Castleberry’s presence, and although he too seemed intent on preventing their parents’ marriage, she resented his inference that she or her mother was the kind of woman who could be bought off. She half-smiled at the case of mistaken identity, but the memory of his insistent kiss rose up to remind her the joke had been on her. No man had dared to kiss her with such authority, and her wilting response had shocked her. The playboy had simply taken her by surprise, she reasoned. Now that she knew what kind of man she was dealing with, she would be on guard.

She hadn’t yet divulged to her mother his attempt to pay her off. To dissuade her mother from this marriage, she needed something on the senior Castleberry, not the son.

The son.

Annabelle pursed her mouth in irritation. The man upset her equilibrium, and her instincts told her to sit on the incident for now in the event she needed leverage against him later. Just a few minutes in his company reinforced her belief that most men and women in this day and age were better adapted for single life—especially the Castleberry men and the Coakley women. In her opinion, the institution of marriage had been diminished to the level of a feast for those who were gluttons for punishment.

Annabelle tugged at the skinny bottom of the swimsuit and frowned. She wasn’t about to allow her mother be taken in by a smooth-talking womanizer, and Clay Castleberry’s meddling would only complicate matters. She ground her teeth in frustration—if only she could snap her fingers and make the infuriating man disappear.

Along with the memory of his pilfered kiss.

*****

Clay brushed his fingers against the slick painted wall of the pool, then tucked into a somersault. With a leisurely but powerful kick, he pushed off to swim back to the shallow end, enjoying the mindless roar of the water rushing past his ears and the stretch of his shoulder muscles. When he reached the opposite wall, he slung the water from his eyes and leaned his head back.

The sky reigned clear and blue, the afternoon temperature had climbed to the mid-eighties, and a southerly breeze stirred the needles of the soaring pines bordering the house. A perfect day…and a perfect mess.

Annabelle Coakley had arrived to ensure her mother milked his father for as much money as possible, and he had obliged by extending an offer as soon as she landed. The only thing worse than a gold digger, was a gold digger who had a divorce attorney for a daughter.

The sound of a sliding glass door opening captured his attention, and the object of his consternation stepped out, curvy and leggy and unaware she was being observed. Feeling stubbornly entitled after the way she’d duped him, he regarded every inch of her lithe figure and the way she moved. Her dark hair hung loose past her shoulders, thick and straight. The woman was a beauty, but seemed a bit self-conscious. She pulled at the leg openings of a vaguely familiar bathing suit in a futile attempt to cover more skin, giving him choking glimpses of private areas beneath. The pool water wasn’t cool enough by far to stifle his body’s natural response.

Her eyes were shielded by yellow-lensed sunglasses, but she lifted her face toward the sun. His father had said she now lived in Michigan, so she probably appreciated the warm weather. She lifted her arms overhead and stretched tall, rising on the balls on her feet and arching her back. Her breasts rode high and her stomach went concave, emphasizing the hills and valleys of her toned body. Unadulterated appreciation pumped through his loins. At another time, in another place, he might have entertained the idea of enticing her into his bed, but this woman represented more complications than a dozen of the start-up ventures he’d organized.

She turned and scanned the patio and landscaping—sizing up their worth, no doubt. When her gaze landed on him relaxing silently in the water, she stiffened.

He inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“You might have let me know you were here.” Her accusing voice carried across the water.

“Funny,” he said, squinting up at her. “I thought
you
were the guest. I sort of own this place.”

She walked to the edge of the pool and crossed her arms. “That’s the strangest apology I ever heard.”

Clay lifted one eyebrow. “Apology?”

Her smile was deceptively sweet. “Does senility run in your family? An apology for
in
sulting and
a
ssaulting me.”

He lifted the other eyebrow. “You’ve never been kissed?”

Emotions played over her face, ending in fury, which added a pleasing color to her cheeks. “Yes. But not against my will and with brute force.”

“Brute force?” He laughed. “Drop the debutante act, counselor. You weren’t rushing to clear up the misunderstanding.”

She looked around as if to assess how she might dispose of his body if she drowned him, then glared. “With your disposition, you must work with machines.”

“Venture capitalists.”
Her mouth quirked to one side. “Same thing. You don’t have anything to say for your earlier behavior?”

To keep from focusing on her legs, which, at his angle, seemed to go on for days, Clay closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “Yes. You’re overreacting.”

She was silent for so long, he was tempted to look again, but didn’t. Not that he needed to since her silhouette was branded on his mind. Finally she spoke.

“Mr. Castleberry, aren’t you afraid I’ll say something to your father or my mother about your little bribe?”

Without the distraction of looking at her, he detected the remnants of a southern accent when she pronounced his name. She was being formal, was she? He smiled, eyes still closed. “Ms. Coakley, if I know my father, he’s probably
expecting
me to help him get off the hook, and I suspect you’ve already spoken to your mother.” He rolled stiff shoulders and exhaled when a pain shot through his neck—a fitting ailment for the moment, he acknowledged. “That said, I assure you, twenty-five thousand is my final offer.”

A terrific splash preceded the wave that washed over his face. Clayton swallowed a mouthful of chlorinated water, but managed to keep it out of his lungs. When his vision cleared, he watched her swim away from him, her overhand crawl flawless, her kicks perfectly executed, her direction arrow-straight.

When she reached the other side, she bobbed to the surface and leaned back, directly opposite him. Her expression was one of pure irreverence. With her dark hair slicked back from her face, her sculpted features stood out in relief, her eyebrows, dark wings above golden eyes. God, she was glorious-looking. Thirty feet of azure water separated them, but his senses were as rapt as if her body were wedged against his.

“Since you’re a venture capitalist,” she said, just loud enough to carry to his buzzing ears, “you know where you can
venture
to put your twenty-five thousand.”

Clay clenched his jaw. He hadn’t learned to negotiate multi-million dollar deals by wearing his emotions on his sleeve. Time for a different tact. He flashed his most charming smile. “You’re an excellent swimmer.”

She shrugged, the movement emphasizing her toned upper arms. “Swimming meant the difference between a good college and a great one. And it helps to unclutter my mind—I like the discipline.”

Shrewd, resourceful…dangerous. “From your mother’s reaction earlier, I assume your visit was unexpected.” Perhaps she’d arrived to ensure the Coakley’s future stake in the Castleberry fortune without her mother’s knowledge…or perhaps her mother was simply a good actress.

“From your father’s reaction, I assume the same thing about your visit.”

No answer—just as he expected. He floated away from the wall, in no particular direction. “I felt compelled to return. My father has a history of making bad decisions.”

She moved her arms back and forth to propel herself in lazy circles, but her voice sliced the air razor sharp. “That’s strange—my mother started making bad decisions only after she met your father.”

“Am I supposed to believe that you’re against this marriage?”

“You may believe what you want, Mr. Castleberry.”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Are you this evasive in the courtroom?”

Her little square chin raised a notch. “Yes, I’m against this marriage. My mother is a decent, trusting woman, and I don’t want to see her taken advantage of.”

She had drawn close enough for him to see the light freckles across her nose, and her delicate ears. He searched her face for signs of duplicity. Was she simply setting him up—again? “My father is also very trusting, and I don’t want to see
him
taken advantage of.”

Her laugh was quick and dry. She swam closer, leaning forward. “But your father is the one who has a reputation for jumping from marriage to marriage—philandering is practically synonymous with the name Castleberry.”

Her words burned a trail to the pit of his stomach.
Casanova Castleberry.
He’d always hated the nickname the trade rags had given to his father. While the whole snickering world had placed bets on how long his father’s current relationship would last, Clay had been relegated to the care of house staff, and rarely saw his father. He resented her casual reference to a subject that had so affected his childhood.

“And for all I know,” he said quietly, “the Coakley women could have a reputation for attaching themselves to wealthy men.”

Her scoff seemed convincing. “My father wasn’t exactly a wealthy man, Mr. Castleberry.”

“But well-off?”

Annabelle frowned. “We were comfortable.”

They now floated only a few feet from each other in the water. Her legs were slim columns, the blue polish on her toes, splotches of bright drifting color. “So maybe your mother wants to be more than comfortable.”