A Bride To Honor Page 3

  If only he had explained in detail to his grandfather the reasons for and extent of the affair, as well as his objections to Betina herself as a wife, he might have spared himself and the whole family their concerns. But he had played the gentleman—after playing the stud—and now he would pay for the privilege. He had no choice. The family depended on him, and Betina had revealed an alarming desire to meddle in business affairs. Worse, when thwarted, she had threatened to involve the family in the fight, and that Paul could not allow. He had pledged, literally, to protect the family from any unwanted involvement in the affairs of the company when he had ascended to the position of CEO, and this sort of drama was just what they feared most. And Betina had to know it. So, despite months of looking for a way out, he was now resigned to what he had to do. The problem was that he had to do it before Betina’s new marketing scheme could be put into effect.

  Disaster loomed on the horizon, especially as Betina had chosen this particular moment, when Barclay Bakeries was poised to expand into a national market, to bully him into adopting the most ludicrous marketing gambit ever devised. She wanted every slice of Barclay bread to be “embossed” with the image of Barclay’s logo, the portrait of the fictional Mrs. Barclay stamped in bread dough. The expense would be exorbitant and the result ridiculous, but he had agreed, while throwing up every roadblock to implementation imaginable, to keep the family from being drawn into the fight. And he had, reluctantly, proposed marriage.

  But Betina wanted her pound of flesh. She seemed determined to lead him a merry chase, to make him appear the besotted fool in front of the family. That was what this stupid costume party was really about. It had nothing to do, as she claimed, with keeping the business in the news. It was all an exercise in bringing him to heel. Well, he had a few tricks up his sleeve himself. And that was where Cassidy Penno came into the picture.

  Which in no way explained why he’d felt compelled to make a date out of what should have been a bothersome business appointment. Now was not the time to be taking interest in another female. Nothing whatsoever could come of it. On the other hand, why shouldn’t he enjoy himself if he could? Why should he give Betina the power to make him miserable? He would just make sure that Cassidy understood the situation. They were business associates who had the potential to become casual friends. That being the case, they were allowed to enjoy each other’s company as long as they didn’t get too personal. He could use a friend, and something told him that Cassidy could, too. But then, who couldn’t?

  So lunch was going to be a fun thing, nothing more, and he’d come up with a fun menu for it. He was enjoying himself just considering the possibilities. Almost-engaged men deserved to enjoy themselves. Even married men were allowed a bit of fun. Even men married to Betina Lincoln. Especially men married to Betina Lincoln, unless he missed his guess. And he was very much afraid that he didn’t. Very much afraid.

  Chapter Two

  Cassidy chewed the inside of her cheek as she watched the caterers descend on her shop. They busily arranged a portable table covered by a sparkling white Damask tablecloth. She felt worried, thrilled and nervous all at once. Lunch, he’d said. It looked like a feast: fruit salad, an incredibly delicious-smelling beef Bourguignonne, crusty French bread; brie; wine; and for later, a chocolate gateau and whipped cream; all served by a uniformed waiter with a secretive smile. Cassidy smiled nervously in reply.

  What could Paul Spencer be thinking? She was his costumer, sister to one of his employees, and nothing more. Yet he was treating her like a date, like someone in whom he was interested romantically. She wondered guiltily if William knew, and if not, should she tell him. Before she could come to any conclusion about that, Paul Spencer rushed into the room, speaking into a small cell phone.

  “Yes, Gladys, I understand. Nevertheless, I am turning off the phone now, and I will not turn it on again until—” he checked his wristwatch “—two-oh-five.” With that he punched a button, folded the phone into a palm-sized rectangle and dropped it into his jacket pocket, his gaze searching out Cassidy. When he spotted her, standing across the room beneath an artificial tree outlined with tiny white lights next to a gypsy caravan wagon and a campfire created with colored lights and fake logs, he smiled brightly.

  Cassidy stepped forward, dismayed by the thrill she felt at seeing him again. She was making much too much of this, she told herself sternly. Paul Spencer was just a businessman doing what he deemed necessary to secure the service he needed. After all, it was the busy season for her, and she was doing him a favor because of his connection with William. He probably wined and dined all his business associates this way. She was probably the only one who fervently wished that he didn’t. That in mind, she blurted, “You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.”

  “No trouble,” he said lightly. Then his gaze fell over the small, portable table carried in by the caterer, and he approached, rubbing his hands together with a smack of approval. “Looks good, and it isn’t just because I’m starved.”

  Obviously pleased, the waiter immediately hurried around the table and pulled out a chair, waving Cassidy toward it. Selfconsciously, she stepped over the artificial campfire, knocking only one log out of place. Then she slid into the chair, with only a small bump against the corner of the table, resulting in shaking to the floor only a single salad fork, which the waiter snatched up and polished to cleanliness with a white cloth before carefully and reverently placing it once more next to its neighbor. Cassidy sat red-faced while the waiter performed the same courtesy with the chair for Paul Spencer, but without the slightest mishap. Paul settled himself and smiled across the table at her.

  “I half expected to find you outfitted in green guacamole or some such.”

  The color of her face intensified. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t wear a costume to lunch.”

  “Not even a costume lunch?”

  His teasing relaxed her a bit, and she said, “I’ve never heard of a costume lunch.”

  “Well, we’ll have to introduce it, make it the next big fad. Ought to be quite a boon for business.” A grin quirked around the corners of his mouth, and Cassidy found herself laughing. “That’s better,” he said, leaning both elbows upon the table while the waiter fluttered about, lifting covers and spooning out portions.

  Cassidy felt an acute shyness. No matter what she told herself, it felt as if she was being courted. But what would be the point in that? She had already agreed to help him with his costume. More important, the man was almost engaged to be married. Even if he wasn’t, she couldn’t quite imagine why he’d be interested in her. She was just a costumer and William Penno’s younger, rather plain, sister. That in mind, she fixed her thoughts on business.

  “Would you like to see my designs now?” she asked uncertainly, leaning back in her chair to allow the waiter to spread her napkin.

  Paul waved a hand. “I’m too hungry to do anything just now but eat—and look at you.”

  “Oh.” She resisted the urge to smooth her hair, knowing that it hung straight as a board right to the ends. After a moment she picked up her fork and began to eat her colorful fruit salad.

  “Did you have a difficult time with it?” Paul asked, halfway through his salad already. “The design, I mean.”

  She put down her fork and dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “No, actually, I didn’t. You’re quite easy to imagine in costume.”

  “Is that good?” he asked, sounding hopeful.

  She tried to find the words to explain, seeing in her mind’s eye the way she’d pictured him during the course of her research. “Yes. You see, usually I picture characters in my costumes, and then somehow they don’t look quite right on real people. Not to me, anyway.”

  “And you think I’ll look the part?”

  “Somehow I do.” It was odd, really, but she’d been picturing him in quite a lot of costumes lately, and he’d looked splendid in them all—at least in her mind’s eye. She shook her head.

  “I imagine I will, then
,” he said, and she was aware of a tingling sense of pleasure at the soft words. He trusted her judgment. It shouldn’t have pleased her so. It should have pleased William, though. The thought of anything she might do actually pleasing her rather uptight brother made her laugh, and Paul Spencer put down his fork, smiling as if he enjoyed the sound. “Why is it you lift my spirits?” he asked, parking his chin on his upraised palm.

  “Me?” she heard herself say flirtatiously, and he smiled at her a long moment before picking up his fork again.

  It was the most wonderful lunch of her life, and she told him so afterward.

  “I wanted to do something special,” he confessed, looking deeply into her eyes. She had the feeling that if Tony hadn’t popped in just then, dressed as Charlie Chaplin, Paul would have kissed her, but then she was probably imagining things. They had a table between them, after all, even if it was a small table. The waiter had disappeared with the remains of their meal. Tony didn’t bother with ceremony.

  “Phone call for Mr. Spencer.”

  The intent look disappeared from Paul’s face, replaced in swift sequence by irritation, disappointment and, finally, resignation. “I don’t suppose you got a name?”

  Tony’s smile was somehow galling. “I didn’t ask. It’s a woman, though, if that helps.”

  A muscle ticked in the hollow of Paul’s cheek. He rose to his feet, speaking apologetically to Cassidy. “I’m sorry, but I’d better take it.”

  “Take your time,” she said, getting to her own feet as the waiter returned, ostensibly for the table and folding chairs. “I’ll be in the sewing room. Show him in, please, Tony, when he’s ready.”

  Tony twitched his glued-on mustache and quickly doffed his bowler. Turning on his heel, he waddled away, feet aimed in opposite directions. Paul followed, the stiffness of his manner implying anger. Cassidy wondered at that, but then it really wasn’t any of her business. Her business was costumes, and she’d best remember it. Sighing, she went off to the sewing room and began pinning her designs onto the bulletin board there for that purpose. Paul joined her in a surprisingly brief time, apparently unruffled.

  He made no explanation about the call, but then she expected none. Instead, he looked around thoroughly and then approached the bulletin board, his hands clasped behind his back. He studied the drawings intently, his head turning this way and that. Once in a while he made an inquisitive sound. Otherwise, he betrayed nothing of his thoughts. After some time, he stepped back and looked at her.

  “Do you have a favorite?”

  The question surprised her. “Er, yes, actually I do. This one.” She pointed to the center design. He stepped forward once more and studied that particular drawing. Then he nodded and stepped back again.

  “When can we begin?”

  “Begin?”

  “Yes, I, um, assume fittings will be required.”

  “Of course, but—”

  She had been about to say only one or two. He interrupted with an upraised hand. “Will Saturday work for you then, or would you rather not do it on the weekend? I’ll understand, of course. I simply thought... That is, Saturday would be good for me.”

  She usually worked half days in the shop Saturdays—mornings. For some reason she said, “Saturday afternoon?”

  He smiled, beamed, actually. “Excellent. Would you like to do lunch again?”

  “Oh, no!” she said quickly, thinking of the expense he’d gone to. “I mean, that won’t be necessary.” He seemed a bit crestfallen, so she added, “We could have coffee here, though, if you like.”

  He smiled again. “All right, I’ll see to it.”

  “No, no, let me,” she insisted. “I-it’s just coffee, after all.”

  “All right,” he said. “Will three be suitable?”

  “Three is fine,” she told him, completely forgetting that she’d promised her mother a visit.

  “Three then.” He pointed at the design upon which they’d settled. “Good work. Thank you. I know it’s an imposition for you at this busy time.”

  She shook her head. “I’m happy to do it.”

  He stepped close, one eyebrow arching, gaze intent on hers, saying conspiratorially, “Perhaps you ought to inform young Charlie then. He seems to think you’re much too busy to be indulging in luncheons and extra work just now.”

  Cassidy gasped. Oh, that scamp! She closed her eyes in embarrassment and said shakily, “Young Charlie should learn to mind his own business.” She would have to talk to Tony, again, not that it would do much good.

  Paul chuckled. “I’d say he has a crush on you.”

  Cassidy rolled her eyes, muttering, “I should crush him.”

  “Now, now,” Paul chided gently, his hand curled beneath her chin, tilting it slightly. “A boy’s ego is a tender thing.”

  Cassidy burst out laughing. Only a man such as Paul Spencer could so adeptly put the matter into perspective. A boy, indeed, especially when compared with the man standing before her. “Maybe a good spanking, then.”

  Those blue-gray eyes darkened to the color of smoke. “Let’s not encourage him,” he said huskily, and again Cassidy sensed that he wanted to kiss her. For a moment she could neither breathe nor move, but then it passed, and he stepped away, his smile gone wry and tight, his hand falling to his side. “I have to go,” he said.

  She smiled to cover her disappointment. “You’ll have to press the buzzer on Saturday. I lock the doors at noon.”

  “We’ll be alone then?”

  She had to swallow before she could answer. “Yes, alone.” To her relief, her voice sounded nearly normal.

  He smiled, softly this time, privately. “Saturday, then.”

  “Saturday.”

  She found herself smiling when he’d gone. She might be just a costumer, but he liked her, William Penno’s sister or no, and it was terribly mutual. All too mutual. And it could come to nothing. He was as good as engaged to be married. Her smile faded to wistfulness. Then it occurred to her that she should have something ready for him to try on when Saturday came around—and she hadn’t taken a single measurement! Well, she’d just have to do it on Saturday, which meant this thing was going to require a bit longer than it might have—and she didn’t really mind, despite her full schedule. It was foolish, she knew. But when, she thought with a sigh, had she ever done the sensible thing? She should start, she knew, and she would...as soon as Paul Spencer was out of her life, which he would be all too soon.

  The blustery, wet day was enough reason to stay indoors and cancel previous commitments, but Paul reminded himself that this was important. He told himself sternly it wasn’t just that he wanted to see her. All right, she was interesting—a costumer, for heaven’s sake!—and possessed of a quirky sense of humor. She was gentle, as well, and shy, almost painfully so at times, and pretty, in an unconscious, wholesome way that intrigued him. She seemed utterly without artifice, in itself a good joke, considering her occupation, which was what brought him out on a day like this—her occupation, that was.

  Doggedly determined to keep this meeting brief, to the point and all business, he shook his hands free of his coat pockets and reached toward the buzzer. As if with a will of their own, however, his hands detoured to his head and smoothed back his dark hair. It had a tendency to wave and stick out in wet weather, and he was suddenly aware of an intense desire to look his best. When he realized what he was thinking, he burst out laughing. So much for “business”! He shook his head, wondering what it was about Cassidy Penno that made him feel like a boy with his first crush? His finger at last moved to ring the doorbell.

  Several long moments went by before the shade in the window lifted and Cassidy Penno smiled out at him. The door opened, and she stepped back to let him in, quickly closing and locking the door again behind him.

  . “Hello,” she said, reaching for the coat he was shrugging out of.

  “Hi.” He handed it over and watched as she carried it to the coat tree, standing between the counter and
the door. The overhead lights were off, and the cloudy illumination let in by the big front windows was soft and misty, picking up the golden highlights in her thick hair, which she wore twisted up in back with long tendrils left to frame her face. She looked warm and welcoming in a pale yellow sweater set worn with black, slim-fitting jeans and brown half boots. Paul felt a lurch in his chest, and at the sight of her pale pink lipstick, his mouth went dry. Who was he kidding? This woman drew him like a magnet.

  The old rage filled him, useless, impotent, and she sensed it at once, her sweet face going slack and troubled. “Is something wrong?”

  He forced a grim smile and shook his head. “No.” His hands were shaking and cold. Rubbing them together, he thought of the coffee she’d promised him, and his mood lightened slightly. “I could use a hot drink.”

  She stepped back and swept him an elegant bow, one arm swinging out in invitation. “This way, good sir.”

  He laughed at her antics, feeling warmed just by her manner. He followed her through the darkened shop into the sewing room, smiling at the fanciful decorations along the way. Her mind seemed to teem with ideas and visions, which she obviously translated into actuality. He realized suddenly that he envied her that.

  She had set up a table for them in one corner of the room. It was draped with what looked like an old paisley shawl trimmed with gold fringe and accented with a bouquet of decoratively folded lace handkerchiefs and old, silver teaspoons. In addition to a ceramic pot suspended over the flame of a tiny candle, she had placed on the table a pair of antique-looking cups and saucers, mismatched dessert plates, a creamer, sugar bowl and an intricately cut-crystal platter with a selection of mouth-watering pastries. Not a thing on the table matched another, and yet it all worked together with charming originality. Obviously she had gone to some trouble to indulge her creative bent in his honor, and he felt unaccountably touched.