The Wedding Secret. Janelle Denison
Harlan returned, Garrett expressed his thoughts out loud. “Who in their right mind would drop her off here?”
“Her limousine driver.”
Garrett frowned. “I didn’t see a limo out front.”
Grabbing the bar towel slung over his shoulder, Harlan dried a beer glass and set it in the rack above him. His mouth stretched into a tight line of disgust. “The guy didn’t stick around. He followed her in with a suitcase and told me that she asked him to stop here. The prissy fellow said his contracted time was up, that he wasn’t waiting around, and she was on her own.”
“That’s it?”
“He did mutter something about having to drive all the way back to St. Louis, so I’m assuming that’s where she came from.”
But it explained little else.
Harlan sighed and braced a beefy forearm on the bar surface. “I need you to do me a favor, Blackwell.”
Garrett lifted a brow. “Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like what you have to say?”
“Aw, come on,” Harlan groused. “I just want you to go over there and ask the lady who we can call to pick her up.”
The request was simple, straightforward, and required minimal interaction, but Garrett didn’t do damsels in distress—not anymore. Not when the last woman he’d rescued had taken advantage of his generosity and duped him in a very life-altering way.
His expression must have conveyed his grim thoughts because Harlan was quick with a response. “I’m sure I could get a line of volunteers to do the deed if I asked, but I suspect that most of the men in here would proposition her instead. Considering the frame of mind she’s in…”
Garrett scowled. Harlan’s words didn’t paint a pretty picture. Dammit all, anyway, he thought irritably. He’d come to Leisure Pointe to relax and unwind, have a few beers and shoot the breeze with Harlan and some of the old cronies who’d been his dad’s buddies before he’d died. The same old boring Saturday evening routine—so unlike his brother’s weekend of partying, women, and generally raising hell with his own friends.
Rylan. Seeing a way out of Harlan’s well-meaning intentions, Garrett squinted through the haze of cigarette smoke in the bar, searching for a dark, tousled head of hair and a quick charming grin that belonged to his younger brother.
“Why don’t you find Rylan and get him to do it?” Garrett suggested. Though his brother enjoyed the fairer sex, and they flocked around him like bees to honey, he’d never take advantage of a woman. The honor and respect their mother had instilled in her boys was deeply ingrained, but Garrett doubted Charlotte Blackwell would ever have anticipated the steep price her eldest son had paid for being so chivalrous.
His eight-year-old daughter was a constant reminder of just how honorable he’d been. Too bad Chelsea’s mom hadn’t been equally responsible, or faithful—to him, or the little girl she’d never truly cared about.
“Your brother left with Emma Gentry over an hour ago,” Harlan said. “And he didn’t look like he was going to be back any time soon.”
Garrett wasn’t surprised. He and his brother shared the same house, which Garrett had inherited from his mother when she’d moved to Iowa to live with her sister four years ago. But at twenty-six, Ry came and went as he pleased. More often than not, Friday and Saturday nights were spent elsewhere. Garrett didn’t care with whom, as long as Ry stayed out of trouble.
“How about Otis?” Garrett eyed the man sitting at the far end of the bar. “He’s pretty harmless and can do the job just as well as I can.”
“Otis is a randy old fart.” Harlan glanced at the other man, then back at Garrett, a dark frown bunching his bushy brows. “Just look at him. He’s gawking at her, his mouth is hanging open, and he’s all but drooling! Do you honestly think he’d be able to put together a coherent sentence when he’s so obviously tongue-tied?”
Garrett couldn’t help but laugh, and as his gaze scanned the males sitting at nearby tables, he realized that Otis wasn’t the only one lusting over the voluptuous bride. Amazing that one woman could have such an effect on so many men.
“For crying out loud, Blackwell, I’m not asking you to marry the girl.” Harlan was back to arguing, and his brand of good-natured harassment, all the while mixing drink orders on the pad in front of him. “It’s getting late, and if she lives in St. Louis, it’s going to take someone a good hour to come and get her.”
“Fine,” Garrett said, feeling duly chastised for resisting such a quick and simple task for a friend. “You owe me, Harlan.”
“Yeah, yeah.” A sudden twinkle entered Harlan’s eyes, one that matched the slow, satisfied grin on his face. “Go on. I’ll have a cold one waiting for you when you get back.”
Garrett grumbled one last complaint that did nothing to change Harlan’s mind. Sliding off his bar stool, he headed toward the corner booth. The sooner he got this awkward errand over with, the sooner he could resume his mundane Saturday night activities.
Many curious eyes watched Garrett’s progress across the room, making him uncomfortably aware of how conversations stalled as he passed by tables. This was a first…Garrett Blackwell approaching a woman in Leisure Pointe. It was a known fact that he didn’t consort with the females in Danby beyond a polite nod or greeting. The few bolder, wilder ones that had attempted to pursue him he’d turned down as tactfully as possible, no matter how enticing the offer.
He’d never been one for gratuitous sex, but he wasn’t a monk, either. Far from it. The few women whom he’d had affairs with over the years lived in other towns where gossip and speculation couldn’t touch them, or his family. The women he chose to date also knew and accepted up front that he wasn’t looking for anything serious. He had no intention of letting any woman manipulate his emotions again.
Blowing out a deep breath, Garrett severed those thoughts and opted to slide into the booth opposite where the bride sat, instead of standing at the edge of the table to conduct his business. The cozy corner table afforded him and the woman a modicum of privacy, away from most prying eyes and ears. The last thing he wanted to do was embarrass her, or provide entertainment for the masses.
She’d been staring into the depths of the dark liquid swirling in her snifter, looking so lost and dejected. Confused even. As soon as his jeans-clad legs tangled with the froth of satin beneath the table she glanced up, startled by his sudden appearance.
He opened his mouth to speak, and found himself broad-sided by the color of her eyes. At a distance, he’d been able to detect that they were blue, but up close and personal, they were incredibly striking—a soft shade of periwinkle, rimmed in a darker sapphire with the tiniest threads of gold shot through the middle. Her lashes were long and thick, her brows delicately, perfectly arched. A natural beauty mark just above her lip on the left side drew his gaze to her full, soft mouth. A mouth that inspired a dozen provocative thoughts.
Despite the symbol of purity and innocence her wedding gown implied, there was a natural, subtle air of sensuality about her. A contradiction of guilelessness and allure that aroused a man’s basic interest. Yet he got the distinct impression that she wasn’t aware of her appeal, didn’t know the mesmerizing effect she had on men. She didn’t flaunt herself, didn’t tease or flirt to attract attention. She didn’t need to. Mother Nature had blessed her—or cursed her, depending on how she viewed the situation—with a perfect face and body and a vibrancy that seemed to naturally radiate outward.
And then she wet her bottom lip with her tongue. Nothing sly or calculated about the gesture, but it certainly grabbed his attention and caused an unmistakable heat to thrum through his veins.
He suddenly felt ridiculously tongue-tied.
A sweet smile lifted her enticing mouth, but it didn’t erase the haunting shadows in her eyes. Blinking slumberously, she slouched onto the table and propped her chin in her