“At least tell me what’s in the backpack?” he requested.
“My wedding dress,” she replied.
Chase’s eyebrows rose in response. He stared at the bulging bag that was full of satin and crinoline that the flight attendant was storing in a nearby compartment across from them. “Your Vera Wang original is in that thing?” he asked with a chuckle.
“Don’t laugh. I’ve got one your tuxes crammed in there, too. Lena handed it over to me while you were in the shower. Don’t be mad at her, I held her at finger-point, too,” Amanda fibbed. Chase’s loyal housekeeper was the only other person she’d told of her intentions. Because Lena possessed a romantic heart and had noticed the gradual buildup of agitation taking place in her boss’s demeanor, she was more than willing to help.
A picture came together in his mind of Amanda’s plan, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about it. He didn’t care about their destination, he certainly didn’t give a tinker’s damn about his wedding, and at least this time she wasn’t running away without him, but concern started overshadowing his face.
“Baby,” he said quietly, “you’re not losing it on me, are you?”
“Of course not,” Amanda reassured him. “I can’t remember ever feeling saner.”
“I think maybe it’s time you explain to me what’s going on,” he said with all the benevolent authority she had come to love.
Amanda took a deep breath, could feel herself relax in response to it. They were minutes away from being in the air. The most difficult phase of her mission was already accomplished. She had him all to herself, at least for the next three days.
“I don’t know,” she began on a sigh. “Suddenly it just all seemed so ludicrous. I think it may have started around the time World War Three broke out over the bridesmaids’ dresses. Just because Nicki thinks she looks good in everything doesn’t mean the rest of the girls do. Off-the-shoulder, sleeves or no sleeves, gowns versus short dresses—do you know how hard it is to get six women to agree on a dress? Just thinking about picking out shoes gave me a headache.”
Chase grinned, more in amusement than actual sympathy. “I can imagine.”
“Then the photographer, who I know doubled his price because it’s you, called to pitch a hissy fit because there may be other photographers there.”
“Who knew a guy could be such a diva?” he asked in commiseration, his smile widening.
“I’m opening responses to our wedding invitation from people I’ve never even heard of!” she exclaimed.
“I hear you there,” he readily agreed.
“I hate my condo now,” she continued miserably. “I only went back there because my mother sort of pressured me into it. Every night she’s calling me with some sort of lame excuse, like I don’t know she’s really doing a bed check. I think marrying off her only child is secretly making her crazy.”
Chase could see her eyes begin to well up and her voice shake. “And while I’m glad I’m making it easier on her, I don’t quite know how to tell her that waking up without you is starting every day off gloomy and depressing, no matter how wonderful the end result is supposed to be.”
Chase could feel his insides turning to mush. He was so focused on his own stranded libido, he’d never taken into account that his bride might be feeling the same way. He squeezed her hand in unspoken apology.
“Our cranky conversation this morning was the capper. I went for what felt like the umpteenth fitting of my dress. I thought it looked fine. But when the seamstress began clucking about how I’m going to need at least one more fitting because ‘most brides want to shed those extra fifteen pounds,’ something in me snapped. I couldn’t take any more.”
Chase said nothing, just slightly nodded his head and listened, waiting for her to succumb to a full crying jag. Yet he wasn’t surprised when Amanda instead straightened in her seat and shrugged. “I just thought, if I have to deny myself a decent meal for the next three weeks to fit into a dress my husband can’t wait to tear off, I’m going to blow a gasket. I told her to give me my dress right now, walked out, and, well, you know the rest.”
His laughter filled the plane’s cabin. In less than four hours, she had managed to raid his closet, charter a jet, kidnap him, and who knew what else. He pulled her in for a sound kiss, the only thing he could remedy on the spot. “That’s my girl.
“You still haven’t told me where we’re headed,” he said after their lips finally unlocked.
“Vegas, baby,” she proclaimed.
AMANDA HAD THOUGHT OF EVERYTHING. A stretch limousine was waiting their arrival when they landed and would be at their disposal for the duration of their stay. She secured the penthouse suite at the Bellagio, with a magnificent view of the legendary fountain below. She’d instructed the hotel’s concierge to obtain all the toiletries they would need, including his favorite cologne, her perfume, and lingerie. She saw to it that their clothes were made wrinkle-free after being intricately and strategically folded into the backpack, a feat he considered amazing in and of itself.
If anyone else had told him he was about to be married by Elvis, Chase might have been skeptical.
Instead Chase found himself standing in front of the gold-lamé-suited, pompadour-sporting, hip-swinging impersonator. Next to him was James Dean, his impersonating and impromptu best man, wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, and worn leather jacket with its collar up. Apparently, his appointed groomsman had no interest in baseball or seemed to fully embrace his rebel role. He was only slightly more enthusiastic than the real James Dean, which meant he basically acted as lively as a corpse.
The same could not be said for the maid of honor, Marilyn Monroe. She couldn’t stop giggling and sashaying in her form-fitting black dress or batting her false eyelashes. In his mind, it wouldn’t have mattered if she was the real Marilyn; there was only one woman on the planet that would ever captivate him again. And while Chase indulged her in one of his rakish smiles, as soon as he caught that first glimpse of white strapless gown at the back of the small chapel waiting for “Love Me Tender” to start playing, the blond bombshell became invisible.
He wasn’t interested in making small talk, even though both Elvis and Marilyn had tried to engage him in their shtick. All he saw was his bride. Her makeup was minimal, her ebony hair cascading in its natural state of unblown waves, just like that fateful night when he’d met her, only now it rested on her bare shoulders. After all this time, she still took his breath away.
Amanda couldn’t recall a time Chase ever looked more handsome, although she’d seen him in a tux a hundred times before. His eyes were iridescent, his smile so dazzling, it was like a magnetic force field pulling at her from where she stood. The recorded music started playing, the Elvis started singing, and she began the short walk to join the man who was minutes away from becoming her husband.
And per her explicit instruction, there wasn’t a photographer in sight. However, there was a single unmanned stationary video camera set up in the back. Thanks to a written and signed confidentiality agreement, it would have its content turned over to Amanda in exchange for a hefty sum. The next fifteen minutes she intended to selfishly keep for them alone.
Amanda stepped down the small aisle, past the several rows of empty chairs, forcing herself to keep from racing, her gaze locked on Chase. When she reached, then joined him, they still were made to wait. Elvis had a chorus to go, despite the fact there were only two anxious people the performance was for. Apparently, they were going to get the full treatment. Marilyn swayed and James Dean jammed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and slightly bobbed his head to the music.
“When does he stop?” Chase whispered in her ear as Elvis continued gyrating all around his stagelike platform.