Love So Tender: Taking Care of Business / Play It Again, Elvis / Good Luck Charm. Joanne Rock
inexplicably, he did. At least he cared what Gracie thought of him. Within a few hours of meeting her, she had gotten under his thick skin.
It was that darned kiss, he thought. And the transparent dress. And the tattoo. And the mole. The woman was a tight little package of sex appeal.
And he was dressed like Elvis.
He took the microphone she handed to him and held it to his dry mouth—he was all shook up, all right. He was shaking.
“Just follow the words on the screen,” Gracie urged.
He did. Somehow. With his face flaming, he talked and hummed his way through the song, thinking the one saving grace was that his partner Karen wasn’t there to watch the humiliating spectacle. Halfway through, howling reverberated through the room. H.D. sat in the doorway, his nose in the air, his eyes closed as he wailed at the offense to his ears.
Steve was in a sweat of degradation. “Forget it,” he snapped, and extended the microphone back to Gracie. A man had his limits.
“Try again, Mr. Mulcahy.”
He looked up and saw Cordelia Conroy crouching in the doorway with her hand clamped around H.D.’s muzzle. Her smile was part mocking, part challenging. “I suspect even Elvis didn’t get it right in the first take.” She walked away and the insolent hound, thank goodness, waddled after her.
Steve felt helpless—the woman had been clear that she expected him to hold up his end of the agreement.
To do whatever Gracie Sergeant told him to do.
He swung his gaze to the platinum-blond pixie and he nearly groaned in frustration—she must think he was a complete loser.
“Shall we try again?” she murmured.
He sighed and nodded, and Lincoln recued the song. Steve wiped the sweat from his forehead and, realizing that he had no pride left to salvage, sang the song again.
When it was over, there was dead silence in the chapel. Lincoln looked as if he’d just witnessed a human sacrifice. Gracie’s eyes were rounded and she looked as if she were trying to think of something to say.
Finally, her mouth curved into a wide, forced smile. “All righty then.” She turned to the front. “Lincoln, cue up the full track—we’ll say he has laryngitis and let him lip-synch. Would you show Steve the break room in case he wants a drink of water before we get started?”
She flashed him another smile, but Steve could see the alarm in her eyes as she turned to leave. She was thinking that right now, a dwarf Korean Elvis was looking pretty darn good.
Lincoln walked up, his mouth pulled back in a wry frown. “Man, you’re really bad.”
Steve glared. “I don’t sing. I’ve been trying to tell everyone.”
Lincoln clapped him on the back. “Well, now we believe you.”
Steve followed him into the hall. “Lincoln Nebraska can’t be your real name.”
Lincoln gave a dramatic sigh. “It is. My parents have a cruel streak.”
Gracie’s light floral scent lingered on the air. Involuntarily, Steve glanced toward the front of the building and caught sight of her silhouetted by the afternoon sun just before she disappeared around the corner.
“She’s something, isn’t she?” Lincoln asked.
Steve jerked his head back so quickly, he dislodged his wig. “Who?”
Lincoln laughed. “Yeah. Listen, man, you have six weddings to get through tonight. You can’t afford to be distracted.”
Steve frowned. Then someone should tell Gracie Sergeant to wear civilized underwear. He turned away, marveling over how he’d gotten himself into this bizarre situation. He, of all people, who was allergic to weddings. This had been the longest day of his life, and it wasn’t even close to being over.
Lincoln led him into a room with a table, chairs and a small kitchen connected to the office he’d seen earlier. “Thirsty?”
Steve shrugged, past caring. “Sure.”
Lincoln opened a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses.
Steve straightened. “Should we be doing this?”
“Absolutely,” Lincoln said, pouring the shots, then handing one to Steve. “This should loosen you up a little. Unless you want to perform six weddings stone cold sober.”
Steve hesitated a split second, then downed the fiery liquid. Surely the King would forgive him.
“So, Steve—what brings you to TCB?” Lincoln asked casually.
A warning flag went up in Steve’s brain. He set down the glass and gave a little laugh. “I was under the obviously false impression that I was hired to take photographs. I wasn’t aware of the full job description.”
“So quit,” the man said mildly.
FBI agents were taught to exhibit honor and dignity in their personal lives, but when put on the spot undercover, they were expected to be pathological liars. Steve decided the best way to get the man off his back was to enlist him as an ally. “I need this job, man. That’s why I’m trying so hard.” He scoffed and gestured to his costume. “Look at me—why would I do this unless I had to?”
Lincoln pursed his mouth, then made a rueful noise. “Good point.” Then his eyes narrowed. “But if you’re in some kind of trouble, don’t drag Gracie into it. That girl is looking for happily ever after. Capiche?”
Steve nodded. “Don’t worry—I’m not a happily ever after kind of guy.”
“Good,” Lincoln said. “Then we understand each other.”
Steve bristled, but before he could respond, a chime sounded overhead.
Lincoln smiled. “That must be the happy couple. Let’s go have a wedding.”
Steve touched his hand to his roiling stomach. Just the words made him feel queasy…or was it the news that sexy Gracie Sergeant was off-limits?
CHAPTER FIVE
GRACIE RESISTED the urge to park her green Volkswagen Rabbit next to Steve Mulcahy’s dark SUV and instead wheeled into a space a few feet away in the pay parking lot across from TCB and cut the engine. She hated being late, but that’s what she got for staying up until 2:00 a.m. listening to “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” on continuous play on her phonograph and trying to pinpoint what exactly about Steve Mulcahy made her want to marinate in the music of old 45s?
It wasn’t his impersonation skills, although she had to admit that he’d performed much better than she’d expected. What he lacked in lip-synching skills, he made up for in easygoing charm—the customers loved him, and he appeared eager to interact with them, asking questions and feigning interest, all in a southern bass that he seemed to have pulled out of thin air. Without prompting, he’d stayed “in character” until the clients left and he’d changed back into his regular clothes. Then it was as if a mask had been lowered back into place. He’d been cordial, had even walked Gracie to her car, but she could sense his distance—had he been afraid she was going to kiss him again?
The bad thing was that his fears would have been well founded—their too-short kiss had dominated her thoughts for most of the day, reinforced each time the couples had kissed when pronounced husband and wife. There had been a few seconds last night standing next to her car when she’d thought he was remembering the kiss, too. But his cell phone had rung and he had said an abrupt good-night.
“Karen” had impeccable timing.
Gracie swung out of her car and jogged across the street. A rental car sat in the chapel drive-through, which meant Cordelia was busy at this early hour. A pang of guilt struck Gracie—Cordelia