“Let me explain.”
She shook her head. He wasn’t getting married? She didn’t want to believe him. The possibility of making more money in four months than she had netted in the last five years vanished. She turned and escaped downstairs to the kitchen. She pressed her back against the cool wall above the air conditioner vent in the floor, her head swimming.
He descended the stairs at a more civilized pace. “Anne?” He reached for her hands. “Anne, we need to talk.”
She loved the way he said her name: Ahhnne. No. She wasn’t supposed to find any pleasure in this situation. She needed to be professional. To express her condolences and cut off all communication with him in the future. But never to talk to or see him again… ?
She pulled away. As she yanked, though, he let go and the momentum threw her off balance. She reached for the wall to steady herself.
Lord, what do I say to him? I don’t know what to do. Help me, please. She took as deep a breath as her constricted chest would allow and turned to face him.
His eyes were soft, like melted milk chocolate. “Are you all right?”
She nodded but looked away. Why couldn’t she resist this attraction?
“Until yesterday, I’ve been bound by a contract my employer asked me to sign.”
My employer. When would he just be forthright and honest with her? She tried to speak, but her voice came out as a squeak. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you. I’ll call all of the vendors we’ve already signed this afternoon and let them know to cancel the contracts.”
He frowned. “No, no. You don’t understand. I’m not the groom. I never was. The groom is my employer. He wants to remain anonymous—to keep the wedding plans out of the media. He sent me here as his stand-in—to plan his wedding by proxy.”
Stand-in… Anne’s knees buckled, and the ivy-stenciled walls started to go dark in her peripheral vision. She felt an arm around her waist, and suddenly she was sitting on a hard chair with her head being pushed down.
She waved her arms above her head and knocked his hand away. “I can’t breathe.” She sat up and wished she had done it slower, pressed her hands against her temples, and closed her eyes.
“Can I get you a glass of water or something?”
She opened her eyes. George knelt in front of her. George. She’d wished for this all along. He wasn’t getting married. “I think I’m having a nervous breakdown and hallucinating all at the same time.”
Chuckling, he reached for her hands, folded them atop each other, then held them between his. “You’re not hallucinating. Nervous breakdown, maybe. I didn’t mean for it to happen this way, but now you know.”
Anne’s heart connected with the imploring look in his eyes. “Let me make sure I’m clear on this. Everything we’ve discussed—the vendors we’ve booked, food we’ve tasted, venues we’ve visited— none of that was for you?”
The skin around his eyes crinkled in the way she loved as his smile grew. “Correct.”
Concentration on the subject at hand was hard when he looked at her that way, but she persevered. “The contract you signed with me isn’t for you but for someone else?”
“Yes.” He leaned forward.
Anne shifted to her right a bit so her knees didn’t impede him from getting closer. “And you couldn’t tell me before, but now you can?”
He shrugged. “I should have found a way to tell you from the beginning. But my—”
“I know. Your employer.” She tried to ignore the tingles that climbed up her arms from the way he rubbed his thumbs against the backs of her hands. If George was here on behalf of his employer, and George and Forbes had been working on something together— this wasn’t just a case of George withholding his identity from her. Both of them had been lying to her for nearly three weeks.
She pulled away from him and crossed the kitchen to lean over the sink, just in case her churning stomach decided to give up its contents.
“Anne?”
“Forbes has known all along, hasn’t he?”
“Known? Yes. He is the one who presented me with the contract.” George’s voice faded out as if he realized he was revealing too much.
She backed away, holding her hands out in front of her, palms out. “I don’t believe this.” She closed her eyes. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
She should have known better. She’d forgotten the only thing Cliff had ever taught her—never trust anyone.
George moved closer. Anne’s Wedgwood blue eyes turned a stormy gray, her cheeks went pale, and she wouldn’t make eye contact with him. “Anne, it’s not what you’re thinking.”
“You have no idea what I’m thinking.” Anger, quiet but potent, laced her words.
He should have known it wouldn’t go well. “I’m sorry. Can we sit down and talk?”
“No. I just need you to leave.” Her smooth alto voice was emotionless, flat. She gave him a wide berth and opened the back door.
Fear—deep down and abiding—took root in George. Only once before had he ever fancied himself in love. That had been a mistake. Looking at Anne, he now knew the true nature of love. He couldn’t risk losing her.
“Anne—” His cell phone interrupted him with Courtney’s ring. He ignored it. He had to talk to Anne. To explain. To apologize. To beg her forgiveness. To have her look at him again with the longing in her eyes even her best expression of professionalism hadn’t been able to mask.
“Please leave.” Tears escaped onto her porcelain cheeks.
His heart ached. He’d caused this pain. “Anne, I’m so sorry.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “Please. I’ll do anything to make this up to you.”
She wouldn’t look at him, just turned her flooded eyes toward the floor.
Rather than stay and cause more damage, he opened the glass storm door and trudged down the steps. The door clicked shut behind him with a crack that ripped through his heart like a bullet.
God, what am I going to do? No immediate answer came.
The carriage house–style lights lining Main Street flickered past as he drove down the wide, tree-canopied boulevard. How happy he could have been here! Even with the nearly unbearable heat and humidity, Bonneterre was the first place in more than twenty years that had truly felt like home.
For the second time in his life, he’d taken someone else’s advice on how to tell a woman he had feelings for her. The first time, he’d merely been embarrassed by the outcome. He could only pray this time he hadn’t ruined the chance for future happiness for both of them.
He couldn’t leave things like this. He grabbed his PDA and scrolled down to Anne’s number. He was immediately connected to her voice mail.
“This is Anne Hawthorne. I am sorry I cannot take your call at the moment. Please leave me a message, and I’ll get back with you as soon as I can. Thanks!” Her cheerful recorded voice twisted his innards with guilt.
“Anne, George here. Please call me back. I desperately need to speak with you. Words cannot express how terrible I feel about what transpired this afternoon. I know you’re angry and have every right to be so. But please, you must let me explain—”
A tone sounded and the connection cut off. He quickly dialed her number again. “Please, Anne, call me. It doesn’t matter what time. We need to talk.”
Later that evening, although he prepared for bed and turned off the lights, George couldn’t sleep. He stared at the small black phone on his nightstand, praying it would ring and he’d hear Anne’s voice.
He jumped out of bed and paced, chewing on the tip of his thumb. Why didn’t she call? The grandfather clock in the upstairs entry hall chimed twice. They’d parted more than ten hours ago.
The rattle of plastic against wood startled him. His phone vibrated, then started to play “I Can’t Give You Anything but Love.”