First Dance - [Bridesmaid's Chronicles 03] Page 3

  "Vivien," Belky began pompously, without waiting for her to get off the phone. "I need you to appear in court for me tomorrow on the Bleckner case."

  Her ire rose. "One moment, Ms. Spinelli," she said crisply to Sydney. "Howard, I can't do that. I have a conflict."

  A tic began in his left eye. "Please reschedule so that you don't."

  His arrogance and calm certainty that she'd leap to accommodate him were the final straw. Honestly, her decision had nothing to do with her subconscious remembering what J.B. looked likeand felt like naked.

  Viv's chin went up. "I'm afraid that's not possible, Howard. I'll be out of the state, on an urgent personal matter. A relative of mine isn't well."

  They locked gazes. Vivien knew it was just a matter of time before they'd lock horns for good, and as senior partner with his name on the shingle, Belky wasn't the one going anywhere.

  "Very well, Ms. Shelton." His fingers twitched and a few more flakes of the little lizard's skin fell on her carpet. He was very displeased.

  She couldn't care less. She wasn't his lackey. Viv raised a brow, looked pointedly from him to the phone, and resumed her conversation with Sydney. "Fourish, did you say?"

  Belky and his peeling skin retreated under her glare, and Viv's lip curled. "So, Syd, you just upped and got me a ticket. You're not shy, are you, hon?"

  "Nope."

  Viv chuckled. It was classic stubborn Syd. "You're leaving me with an hour to get home and pack a bag, and I'm going to have to skip a luncheon. Not to mention the fact that I just dissed my boss."

  "You enjoyed it, though. I could tell by the tone of your voice. See, I gifted you with the opportunity."

  "Nice, Sydney. Very nice. You owe me a drink when I get there."

  "I don't owe you a thing." Sydney laughed. "You're traveling on my frequent-flier miles."

  "First class?" asked Viv hopefully.

  "Sorry, darling. You're in steerage with the common folk. Suck it up."

  FIRST DANCE

  * * *

  J.B. Anglin placed his booted feet on the corner of his desk, leaned back in his worn, comfy leather chair, and folded his hands behind his neck.

  "So do you think I have a case?" asked the very pretty blonde in his visitor's chair.

  J.B. smiled at her, and she smiled backbut she wore a disturbingly covetous expression. And what she coveted had nothing to do with his legal expertise.

  "No, darlin', I don't. Yes, Ted Kimball's emu flock should be penned. And it ismost of the time. He can't help it that somebody's cutting his fence just to watch the featherworks."

  "He's still liable for those stupid giant chickens."

  "Well, yes. But, bottom line, that curve you skidded around is marked by a big yellow sign: slippery

  WHEN WET."

  Her eyes widened and she licked her small, pink lips.

  J.B. groaned inwardly. Mindy Baker would take a road sign as a sexual come-on. "And so, whether or not there was an emu pile on the tarmac, you should not have been traveling at the rate of sixty miles an hour on that portion of road. Know what I mean? In fact, the speed limit there is thirty-five."

  "I wasn't going sixty!" she exclaimed indignantly.

  "Wes said you had to have been, judging by the state of the Blazer."

  "Wes can't judge anything but a pie."

  In spite of his friendship for their local law enforcement, J.B.'s lips twitched. "How fast do you estimate you were goin'?"

  "No more than fifty miles an hour."

  J.B. rubbed a hand over his jaw. "Sweetheart, that's still a good fifteen miles per hour over the speed limit. You don't have a case, emu poop or not."

  "Jeffrey is sooooooo mad at me for totaling the Blazer. I just wanted to see"

  if you could pawn off your mess on somebody else. Someone like my friend Alex's uncle . J.B. refrained from saying that Jeffrey would be a whole lot madder at her if he found out how she was spending her time. She seemed unable to choose a stained glass pattern for her front door, and had been "consulting" with Denny Stoltz for hours and hours when her husband was away.

  Now it looked like she was bored with Denny and exploring her options with J.B.

  She didn't have any.

  Since his divorce, J.B. hadn't been a big fan of women in general, but he thought cheating women were lower than, well, emu poop. As for women who made serial cheating a hobby, he didn't even have a word bad enough to describe them. He wanted Mindy Baker out of his office.

  Instead of obliging him, she crossed one long, tan leg over the other, managing to hike her short skirt up even more. She dabbed at an eye with a tissue, careful not to smudge her turquoise eyeliner. "My insurance company is going to non-renew me," she whined. "Isn't there anything we can do?"

  Yeah. Stop driving double the speed limit . But J.B. didn't say it aloud. "I can look into a defensive driving class for you."

  FIRST DANCE

  "I've already taken two."

  J.B. sighed inwardly. "I didn't realize that, Mindy."

  "I'm soooooo stressed out right now."

  Maintaining a brand-new house with a three-car garage and a pool will do that to you. Especially when you have no kids and no job. Must be exhausting . "I'm sorry to hear that."

  "I need to relax." She leaned forward and placed a hand on the tip of his boot.

  J.B. wanted to kick it off. "You should talk to your doctor, Mindy. Maybe get a prescription for Xanax or something." He glanced at his watch. "Would you look at the time. I've got just enough of a window to grab something for lunch and then get back here for a twelve-thirty appointment." He swung his feet off the desk, and she had to let go of him. He stood up and moved to his office door.

  "Oh. Well. I'll come with you!" she said brightly. "I'm starved."

  Great . It'd be all over town that he was nailing Jeffrey's wife. He really could do without that. J.B. opened the door for her without enthusiasm, and whistled for Harley, his black Lab.

  Harley bounded to his feet, leading as usual with his tongue. He gave a great big canine yawn and shook himself awake.

  Lick her, boy. Lick her. She'll hate it . "Harley, meet Mindy. Mindy, Harley."

  "Nice doggie. Eeeeeuuuuwwwww!" Mindy squealed, as Harley slurped her. She stepped away from the dog. Harley just extended his tongue and followed. "Nicenice doggie. Stop that!"

  Mindy's golden drumsticks were now spackled with dog drool, and J.B. couldn't have been more pleased. "Come 'ere, boy. Stop that." But he scratched Harley's head and ears with approval.

  J.B. aimed a subtle eye-roll at his receptionist, who also happened to be his widowed mama. Still handsome and trim in her late fifties, she had ash-blond hair the same color as his own and wore it clasped at her nape in a large barrette. Though she owed a little bit to L'Oreal these days, they were unmistakably mother and son.

  She raised her brows, asking telepathically if he needed help extricating himself. He shook his head with an evil grin, and she narrowed her eyes as if to say What are you up to ?

  "Bye-bye, Mrs. Anglin. Soooo nice to see you!" gushed Mindy. "You take care, now."

  "You, too." His mama was a plainspoken Texas woman, and though she was unfailingly polite, she didn't believe in false enthusiasm.

  J.B. led the way out to his pickup truck, went around to the passenger seat, and opened the door. He whistled. Harley bounded up, almost knocking Mindy over, and sprang into the vehicle, where he turned around three times before sprawling all over the passenger seat.

  Mindy blinked. She looked from his black, shedding body to her white silk skirt and knit top.

  Harley gazed right back at her, letting a big dollop of drool plunk between his paws.

  Keeping an utterly straight face, J.B. said, "I need you in the seat belt, but Harley needs to hang his

  TO

  head out the window, otherwise he gets carsick. So unfortunately you may end up somewhat trampled."

  Mindy ran her fingers through her heat-set curls. "I, uh, just remembere
d that I have a manicure appointment. And I'm already five minutes late! I guess I'll have to take a rain check. But thanks for inviting me."

  / didn't .

  She flashed him a toothy white smile and an eyeful of cleavage. Waggling her fingers at him, she made full use of her hips as she walked toward her own car. "Bye-bye!"

  You got that right, lady . J.B. shut the door on Harley and turned on the ignition and air for him. Then he walked back into his office. "Ham and cheese on rye with a pickle?" he said to his mother.

  "Perfect. That girl is bad news. How did you get rid of her?"

  "Harley was happy to do his part. She's not a dog person."

  "Phew. For a minute there I thought you'd lost your judgment to her legs."

  "You know me better than that."

  "Speaking of legs, Corinne called. Wanted to know if you'd swing by after work and hang a replacement door for her. She says the back one's rotted." Mama kept her face completely devoid of expression.

  Corinne was his ex-wife, now divorced a second time. "I'm not her handyman."

  His mother just looked at him.

  "I'll think about it. I don't know if I have time I'm meeting Alex and Roman at Cuvee after work."

  "Okay. I'll pass that on when she calls back."

  "Thanks."

  As J.B. drove to get their sandwiches, his jaw tightened and his stomach clenched. Corinne had a nerve. She also had half of his earnings from his short-lived pro ball career, thanks to a shark of a divorce attorney and J.B.'s inability to care about the money at the time.

  He'd been too shell-shocked at her departure. J.B. was the only person in his entire family, past and present, to have gotten divorced. When Anglins married, they did it for keeps.

  They didn't just walk away when things got tough and the magical fairy dust of romance got vacuumed into some void. Every Anglin he knew prided him-or herself on keeping the family together. They believed in unity, problem-solving and respect.

  Not that they were squabble-free, or that there hadn't been two or three Anglin couples who'd had separate bedrooms and even, in one case, a separate house. And J.B. had heard about a great-aunt who really did bash her husband's skull with an iron skillet. He went deaf on the side she hit, and she had to nurse him out of a bad concussion, but they stayed married.

  Even J.B.'s second cousin, whose wife bore him two sons by another man, had stayed married to her. While he'd gone and beat the tar out of the other guy once he found out, the cousin had raised the children as his own. After all, it wasn't their fault.

  J.B. didn't want to think about Corinne. He didn't even know what he felt for her anymore. He'd been almost celibate since the divorce four years ago. Almost. Only one woman had tempted him, gotten under his skinor at least on top of it. And he was damned if he knew why.

  Vivien Shelton. Long, lean, graceful and fierce. She'd reminded him of a Doberman in court, as opposing counsel during Kiki Douglas's divorce. Out of court, and out of her clothes, she was something else.

  He'd never see her again. But in the unlikely event that he did, he had a score to settle with that woman.

  * * *

  Chapter Three

  Vivien made her flight with only minutes to spare and reluctantly slid into a middle seat about halfway back in the plane. She was squashed between an enormous man with a bag of unshelled peanuts and a ten-year-old boy with more gadgets and beeping gizmos than she could count.

  When Viv traveled for business, she normally went first class, since the firm had a seemingly limitless supply of frequent-flier miles on the corporate AmEx card. She told herself that she was not a snob, but she looked longingly toward the curtained-off area at the front of the plane, thinking of the wide, plush leather seats and the solicitous service.

  Her traveling companion cracked another shell, and particles scattered again over the brief she was trying to read. Again, she brushed them off while he crunched and munched.

  Bleep! Blip, blip, blip. Bleeeep ! On the other side of her, the little boy was killing something violently on a minivideo screen.

  Behind her, a baby awoke and began to cry, probably feeling pressure in her ears.

  Viv ordered a glass of Chardonnay and slipped off her pumps. Maybe it wasn't first class, but it was still better than dodging Belky and insane clients in the office. And though this was to be somewhat a working vacation, at least it was a vacation.

  She wondered just what Fredericksburg, Texas, was like. She wondered what Roman Sonntag was like. She wondered how she was going to bring up the subject of a prenuptial agreement with Julia. And she couldn't help but consider the possibility of seeing J.B. Anglin.

  If she did, what the hell would she say to him?

  Hi, remember me? The woman who Viv closed her eyes and swallowed half the glass of Chardonnay in her hand. The woman you unnerved so much that

  The woman who, to all appearances, used you for sex and immediately kicked you out when she was done?

  How could he not remember her? She still recalled the shock and disgust on his face as she shut the door, leaving him standing shirtless in the hotel hall.

  It had not been her proudest moment. Even though, in theory, it should have been. All she'd done, really, was even out the score between the sexes. How many men kicked women out of their beds, once they were done?

  Viv told herself she should be proud. Stand tall. Shake her fist for womankind. Instead she had a horrible feeling that J.B. hadn't deserved that kind of treatment.

  Oh, BS! Pretty much all men deserved it. Even her maternal grandfather and her own father had been pigs, cheating on their wives and then disappearing. In her father's case, he'd returned to town long enough to take her mother, a certified Park Avenue Princess, for half what she was worth. Half had been a very sizable sum, since Mummy was a toothpaste heiress.

  Viv's mother had brought her up to be defensive and wary of men. Anna Shelton spent a third of her life desperately in love with one unsuitable man or other, and two-thirds of it crying, cursing the latest man, or constructing voodoo dolls of him.

  The voodoo, in particular, gave Vivien the creeps. Mummy was a matched-pearls-and-gray-cashmere-twinset person, not really the voodoo type, but she'd had a Haitian housekeeper as a girl and had observed her more intriguing habits.

  Viv drank the rest of the icky Chardonnay from the plastic airline cup, and managed to drift off to sleep. When she awoke, her papers were covered with peanut shell particles, and the plane was landing at the Dallas airport. From there she had only a short hop to Austin, where Sydney would pick her up and take her to Fredericksburg. Being a born-and-bred city girl, Viv had never learned to drive. Having your own car in Manhattan was just an expensive headache. Garaging it alone cost almost as much as rent.

  The lack of a driver's license never bothered her until she left the Big Apple for somewhere like Los Angeles, where there was no public transportation to speak of. At those times, she had to hire a car and driver, but since the firm picked up the tab it didn't concern her much.

  When she got off the second flight in Austin, Syd rushed her in baggage claim. "Vivver! I wasn't sure you'd actually get on the plane. How are you!"

  They hugged and stepped away from each other for a brief inventoryneither had seen the other in over three years. Syd looked radiant. Her hair was loose and flowing over her shoulders, her eyes sparkled and she carried herself in a more open, confident stance. "You look beautiful," Viv told her. "And I like the Western wear." Sydney had become a new womana new woman sporting some very mod, hand-tooled cowboy boots.

  "So do you! Check out the designer suit and the three-inch heels on you. If I hadn't seen your Snoopy nightshirt and bedhead at school, I'd be petrified of you!"

  "Why does everyone say that? I'm frightening. I'm intimidating. I'm scary-in-a-good-way. I dress professionally, that's all. I am a professional."

  Sydney laughed. "Viv, it's the way you walk. And talk. You just reek of Park Avenue and private schools and the be
st of the best. There's nothing wrong with ityou're no poseur. It's just you. But some people don't know how to take it."

  Viv shrugged. "Whatever. To me, I'm just me. Non-scary, very human, have-to-pee-like-everyone-else. Now my mothershe's a scary woman. But me?"

  "Come on, let's grab your bag and hit the road."

  As the two waited for the luggage to tumble off the carousel, Viv had to ask. "So what do these bridesmaids' dresses look like? How ugly are we going to be? Will we look like little floral upholstered sofas? Or are we doomed to be torrid in taffeta? If she's got us in peach tulle, I'll be sick."

  Sydney threw up her hands. "Beats me. All I know is that I'm sick to death of tasting white cake. Julia's veered from floor-length black satin to white tailored tuxedo tops with bell skirts and cummerbunds. From floral cotton to peacock blue silk minis. From tea-length, buttercream yellow linen to Pepto-Bismol pink shantung sheaths."

  Viv shuddered at the idea of a pink sheath. They'd all look like oversized tulip buds. Her bag appeared before the nightmare could grow to horrific proportions in her mind: little green pillbox hats with stems on top, and matching green kid gloves and shoes.

  The airport, well-air-conditioned, did not prepare Vivien for the heat, which slapped her face and knocked the breath out of her. She stood in shock for a moment, trying to suck some oxygen from the sticky air.

  Sydney cast her a look of sympathy while she set down her things and stripped off her summer-weight Escada jacket. Any weight at all was too much for August in Texas. It was brutal.

  New York in the summer, with its acres of black macadam and walls of concrete, was no picnic. But Texas made the City seem cool by comparison.

  Syd was driving a car about the size of a soda can,

  FIRST DANCE

  but Vivien managed to cram her small suitcase into the trunk and wedged herself and her computer bag into the passenger seat, fumbling for a way to move it back so that her forehead didn't press against the windshield. She was afraid that, like a leaf under a magnifying glass, she'd spontaneously combust.

  Besides the heat, though, nothing in particular had announced her arrival to the Wild West. Viv didn't know what she'd expected. Not a gigantic yellow wall of roses, or a public building shaped like a Stetson. But something. Oversized Remington bronzes?