The Stand-In Page 4

  She stared. Obscure details tumbled into place in her head. She’d seen him before, but never in color. Only in a tiny, black-and-white photo on a newspaper byline. Oh. My. God. Patrick Lincoln. How had she not made the connection earlier? She used to read his column in the Torontonian. He’d exposed several city councillors last year for their misuse of municipal funds. The year before, he’d been a thorn in the mayor’s side, demanding answers about trip expenses on the public’s dime. When politicians saw this man coming, they shit their pants.

  And now he wrote about professional bridesmaids. If she recalled correctly, there had been some sort of scandal recently surrounding him and his boss’s wife. Hadn’t he seduced the married woman right out of her husband’s arms?

  Great. Her feelings for the male species were already lukewarm at best, considering her history. However, cheaters had a special place on her list of losers. They pretty much topped it.

  Why didn’t Margie mention exactly who he was? Could it be she had no concerns, or did her boss not read political columns?

  He leaned back in his chair and sucked back his black coffee. “I see you just connected the dots. Okay, full disclosure. I am that Patrick Lincoln.”

  “Um…”

  “Listen…”

  “Who do you work for now?”

  “I’m freelancing and the story is for a, um, well-read periodical.”

  “Which well-read periodical?”

  His eyes flashed as he stared her down. He must have figured it was better to own up to the truth. “Player Magazine.”

  “Are you kidding me?” She lowered her voice as she stood up. “Your magazine is written by men who think women are pieces of meat. I’m outta here.”

  He stood and put a hand on her arm. “Winn, please sit down. Let me explain.”

  She glanced at his hand and he pulled away. “I’m not interested in your explanations. Although I must say I’m curious as to why your readers would even care about a stand-in bridesmaid.”

  He dropped into his chair with a sigh. “Well, my boss suspects Margie is actually running a whorehouse.”

  Despite wanting to hate this man, a ripple of amusement bubbled through her. She followed his lead and sat back down. She bit back a grin. “Okay, I’ll admit I wondered the same thing when I answered the ad.”

  They stared at each other over their coffees and little by little, Patrick’s face eased into a smile. “So you’re not a high-class hooker?”

  “Jesus, no. Not even a low-class one. In fact, I’m pretty sure men have paid to get rid of me.”

  His face scrunched up as if he didn’t understand, but he shook it off. “Look, Winn. I know the reputation of Player, but I assure you, I just want to learn the truth about your profession and do justice to your story.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  He ran a hand through his thick hair. “I don’t expect you will, but that doesn’t mean I’m being dishonest. Despite what my former boss would have you believe, I’ve always been respected for telling the truth. Unfortunately others don’t share the same values. I know a lot’s been said about me. Even more has been fabricated. The rags will tell you I’m a shark, that I seduced Gloria Dietrich, that I ripped her bodice asunder and plundered her modesty…”

  “It’s none of my business what you did with that woman.”

  He stared at her, lines of disappointment wrinkling his brow. “I’m not like the walking cocks who read Player.”

  “Walking cocks. Funny.” Oh, yeah, her sarcastic inner voice warned. He’s cute, but he’s also the object of a major smear campaign. Maybe some of it had been fabricated, but most rumors had their basis in fact, didn’t they? She couldn’t be too transparent in front of this man.

  Even as the same inner voice cautioned her not to wear her heart on her sleeve, she couldn’t help wanting to believe him. Still, why on earth would his old boss have fired him if he was innocent? Perhaps he hadn’t gone whole hog with the Dietrich woman, but he had still crossed a line. Perhaps they’d flirted, maybe even a little too much. God only knew, he possessed an innate flirting ability. She’d known him all of five minutes and he’d already used his powers of persuasion on her.

  She looked around the coffee shop and noted the female heads turned his way. Oh, yeah. This was the sort of man who could turn regular women into nymphomaniacs with a crook of his eyebrow. Thank God she knew how to keep her wits about her.

  Still, there was something likeable about him…

  Shoot. His dark eyes and sex appeal had clearly already robbed her of her good sense, if only in small measure.

  “Let me learn about your work. I won’t disappoint you.” He sighed and his mantle of charm slipped, making him appear older for a moment. “I need this job, Winn.”

  Just as she’d needed hers when Margie had given it to her.

  She stared at him, taking in every detail from the earnest arch of his eyebrows to the tight set of his jaw. This was a man who seemed to be fighting for his life. She could see it in the dark circles under his eyes. Patrick Lincoln might be a stunning man, but now that she looked closely at him, she could see stress haunted his features. And despite whatever lies might plague his personal history, she didn’t get the sense he was lying about wanting to do a good story. His writing had always been impeccable before. Why would it change?

  “Okay.”

  He angled his ear toward her, as if trying to hear her better. “Okay? So you don’t care the papers called me ‘a lothario’ and compared me to the Marquis de Sade? You don’t want to see my misogynistic head mounted on a pike?”

  “I guess not. We all have stories.” She nibbled her raspberry-cream scone even though she wasn’t hungry.

  “So, we do. And it doesn’t bother you that I’m the one who’s charged with relaying your story?”

  “You’re charged with relaying the story behind my job, not my life. How personal were you planning on getting with me, Mr. Lincoln?”

  He leaned on the small table between them, bringing him far too close for her own comfort. “I might need to get very personal, Ms. Busby.”

  Oh, yeah. Despite his obvious stress, the man enjoyed a good flirt. His gaze dropped to her mouth and his tongue peeked out to wet his bottom lip. Her body responded, her nipples pebbling under her bra, causing the silky fabric to feel of rough burlap.

  She moved her chair back a little to give her more space. “We’ll see about that. You get the details on my job, nothing else.”

  He inclined his head, but his lack of a voiced response put her on guard once again.

  Even still, she handed him the envelope she’d pulled from her purse. “Here’s an invitation for the wedding I’m doing next Saturday. I don’t expect you to come to the church, but feel free. If you’d prefer to meet at the reception hall, I’ll look for you there and introduce you as my plus one. Luckily, the happy couple sent out a million invitations. The bride told me I could still bring an escort if I wanted, but you’ll probably be stuck sitting at the DJ’s table.”

  “I’ll come to the church, too. I want to see the whole thing.” He glanced at the gold-embossed invitation. “Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow? Damn. I haven’t gone to confession since, well, never.”

  Why did she suddenly wonder what sorts of sordid details he might confess? “It’s okay. I’ll put on a good enough show for the two of us.” She couldn’t help grinning as she envisioned the scene. “I hope you like big Italian weddings.”

  He laughed. “I haven’t really been to one. The only weddings I’ve attended were at my parents’ country club. So sedate you want to slit your wrists.”

  “Oh, great. My date’s a country-club brat. Think you can leave the golf clubs at home for the big night?”

  “I promise not to disappoint you in any way.” He stood. “I’ve got to head back to the office. Want to share a cab?”

  “I’m going to finish my coffee. See you at the church, Mr. Lothario.”

  “See you there.” He
shook his head. "Wait, that's it? The wedding's still a few days away. Don't you have anything else you need to do before the big day?"

  "I'm generally only contracted for the day. Most brides explain my absence at showers by saying I live out of town and can only come to the wedding."

  "And is that the case this time?"

  "Not really." She stifled a groan. She'd hoped to fob him off until the weekend but he was persistent. No wonder he excelled at digging up stories.

  "Spill, Busby. You heard the boss. I need to be there."

  She rolled her eyes. "You don't want to join me for this one, trust me."

  "Spill."

  "Fine. Ever heard of the Stallion Club?"

  It took him a moment to process the name, but when he did, his eyes widened so much she almost laughed out loud. "That…that male nudey bar?"

  "Yup. Be there Thursday night at nine p.m. Looks like you're joining me for a stagette party."

  He muttered something. She wasn't sure what it was, but it seemed to be something about wanting to eviscerate someone named Jake Fowler.

  "Still interested?"

  His nostrils flared. "Looks like I have no choice." He turned around and took a step toward the entrance.

  "Oh, Patrick?"

  He spun around, his jaw clenched.

  She grinned. "Wear something revealing and you just might get lucky."

  Muttering, he walked out of the coffee shop. Winn couldn’t help but notice his round butt. Feeling parched, she sucked back her coffee, wincing as it burned her tongue.

  Dammit. She had no business noticing Patrick Lincoln’s butt, especially knowing what she knew about him. He put her on guard the moment she met him, now even more so.

  Player Magazine. Shithead Mike used to stash copies of it under their bed. Even though she’d objected to the images of bikini-clad women inside, Mike had insisted he read it for the articles on computer games and sports. Right. She knew the only articles he’d been interested in were Kate Upton’s jugs.

  So Patrick Lincoln wrote for it now, even though he’d once been a respected political columnist. What a comedown.

  Despite wanting to dislike him, she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  * * * *

  On Thursday morning, Patrick headed out of his townhome, dressed in shorts and his oldest, most precious T-shirt, the one with the faded Aerosmith logo. A basketball tucked under his arm, he unlocked his car and deposited the ball in the back seat. In preparation for his evening at the Stallion Club, he decided it was best to sweat out his nerves on the court, accompanied by his little brother. Not his actual brothers, Daniel and Andrew, but his favorite eleven-year-old and partner-in-crime, Marcus.

  Patrick had been a Big Brother for a few years and had been partnered with Marcus for the last three of them. The kid had no association with his dad and Patrick sympathized. Sure, Patrick’s father had been a part of his own life, but had never been the sort of parent who believed in “quality time” with the kids.

  That would have taken precious time away from his philandering.

  No, Andrew Lincoln Sr. was the kind of father who felt his role consisted of putting food on the table, doling out the odd punishment, and giving expensive baubles to his wife at regular intervals. That was about as touchy feely as he got.

  Giving some time to a kid like Marcus helped Patrick feel he was, if not making up for his own dad’s failings, at least setting a good example. The example he never saw in his own family.

  In forty minutes, he and Marcus were sweaty and trash talking each other on the court. Although Patrick knew he possessed some basketball skills, the kid trounced him every time, despite being half his height.

  As Marcus slam-dunked for the umpteenth time, Patrick gaped at the boy wonder. “Seriously, dude. Were you hoping to publicly shame me on the court, or is it just a happy accident?”

  The boy shrugged. “You always say truth is important. If I take it easy on you, what kind of message am I sending?”

  He grabbed a towel from his gym bag and wiped his dripping brow. “You’re a little too smart for your own good, kid. It’s not an appealing quality.”

  Marcus laughed and tossed the ball, laughing harder when it hit Patrick square in the chest. “It’s too late to trade me in for a dumber model. Besides, you’d miss me too much.”

  “I wouldn’t trade you in. How else would I get all the cutting-edge information on Justin Bieber?” He dribbled the ball, waiting for the squeals of indignation.

  Marcus didn’t disappoint. He let out a holler worthy of a banshee. “You did not just say that. You know I only listen to Eminem.”

  “Yeah. And you know that dude is over forty, right?”

  “Mr. L., you’re a cruel man.”

  Grinning, Patrick put the ball down and reached into his bag for two Gatorades. He tossed one to Marcus. “Here. I promised your mother I’d keep you hydrated at all times. Sit and drink and let me rest my aging bones for a minute.”

  They took up spots side by side on a bench and drank, quietly watching one of the three-on-three matches in a neighboring court. Marcus fiddled with the cap on his bottle and gnawed his lip.

  Patrick gave him the side eye. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Oh, boy. Is it time for ‘the talk’?”

  A blush spread across the boy’s cheeks. “Ah, hell, no.”

  “Language.”

  “Sorry. It’s just…well. I heard you got fired from your job. They’re saying you did the nasty with a married lady. Is it true?”

  Patrick rubbed his face. “Boy, news travels quickly. Even in middle-school circles.”

  “Not just at school.” He frowned. “My mom’s been making comments.”

  “I see.”

  “Mr. L., did you really do those things?”

  He put his beverage down on the bench and turned toward Marcus, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Kid, I loved my job. And I love hanging out with you. Do you honestly think I’d do anything to jeopardize it?”

  He squinted as the sun hit him in the face. “No.”

  “Then you have your answer.”

  Marcus stared at him for a moment. “I didn’t really believe it. They put a picture of that lady in the newspaper. She’s not your type.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah. Too much eye shadow. It’s just wrong.”

  In spite of himself, Patrick chuckled.

  “Anyway, you’re always nagging me about honesty and reliability and respecting the ladies. It just didn’t sound like you.”

  Patrick could have hugged him. Hell, his own family had bought into the hype. He’d already received lectures from his brothers and could still hear their snooty snickers. Frankly, he was growing tired of seeing disappointed looks on other people’s faces. Did everyone believe what they read in the papers?

  Did Winn Busby?

  Why are you thinking of her? Who cares what she thinks?

  He couldn’t care less.

  Yeah, right, his inner voice continued to taunt him. You care, buddy. A little too much.

  He grunted. Winn’s opinions meant nothing to him. But he was glad Marcus believed him. If only everyone else had the kid’s simple faith.

  Chapter 3

  Mr. and Mrs. Claudio Albano

  request the pleasure of your company

  at the marriage of their daughter

  Elena Maria Albano

  to

  Mr. Carlo Giuseppe Esposito

  at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow, Woodbridge

  on Saturday 17th July

  at 2:30 o’clock

  and afterward at

  Adelina’s Banquet Hall and Conference Center

  * * * *

  Winn walked up the last few steps of the dingy entrance to the Stallion Club, clutching her purse. The bride, Elena, had expressed her desire to hold her stagette in one of the last tacky strip clubs remaining on Toronto's Yonge Street. W
here so many of the storefronts had been rejuvenated with classy shops in recent years, the Stallion Club was one of the holdouts from Yonge Street's questionable days. As she reached the entrance, a beefy bouncer with a missing tooth grinned at her boobs and held the door open. She slipped in, making sure not to touch the smudged brass handrail on the wall. All of a sudden, she wanted to take a bath.

  As soon as she entered the dark interior, a shrill female voice rang out over the pounding dance music. "Winn! My bridesmaid." Elena wobbled toward her, already tipsy. "Thank God, you're here. I'm bored out of my skull. My mother insisted on inviting all my prude cousins. Look at them. They look like scared chickens on their way to the slaughter."

  Winn glanced toward a group of women, huddled in the corner with their Cokes. They all seemed much older than Elena, which was why the bride had hesitated in making any of them her maid of honor. For that, she'd wanted someone in the same age bracket or, at least, the same generation. Thus, Winn. Although a gregarious woman, Elena had told Margie she didn’t have a lot of female buddies. They were “intimidated” by her love for life.

  Who was she to argue?

  "I swear to God," said Elena. "The minute any of them see a naked man, they're gonna run for the hills." As if to emphasize her point, she slurped her piña colada. "Come join us and I'll introduce you to the old biddies."

  "Um, Elena," she said, looking around for Patrick. "I know it might sound weird, but I'm meeting a man here."

  "Honey, aren't we all?"

  "No, I mean, a friend. I hope you don't mind. He's a journalist and is observing my work."

  She threw her hands up and proceeded to fluff her hair. "Oh. My. God. This is so fucking exciting. Is he taking pictures, too?"

  "No, and he won't be publishing names or anything like that.” She hoped. “He just wants to see what I do."

  The woman's dark eyes gleamed with glee and she looked around the crowded club. "Don't look now, Winn, but I think your journalist friend just walked in. Madonna, what a hottie. Look at those arms."

  Winn turned and saw Patrick at the entrance, politely fending off the advances of a barely clothed male dancer. As he ran a curious hand up Patrick's arm, the reporter spotted Winn and ducked away from the other man. She couldn’t resist smiling when the dancer patted him on the ass, causing Patrick to jump. He walked over to her, looming close and grabbed her elbow. "Jesus, Winn. You could have warned me the talent swings both ways."