The Stand-In Page 7

  Rule number one for stand-ins. No hookups on the job.

  She needed this job. No way in hell would she ruin it because some lunatic reporter had smacked his gums in her general direction.

  “Um,” she mumbled, running a hand over her hair to fix any stray strands. “Wow, that should not have happened.”

  “Really? I was going to suggest it happen again.”

  “Patrick.” She glared at him.

  “What? Did you or did you not enjoy the kiss?”

  “It was…very nice.”

  He clutched his chest. “Oh, woman, how you wound me.”

  “I could have done without the public ass grab.”

  “It was the best part.”

  “Look, I’m not supposed to be kissing anyone on the job. And you’re supposed to be writing an article, not mauling the story’s subject.”

  “What makes you think the kiss won’t make it into the article?”

  She slugged him on the arm.

  “Okay, okay. Don’t worry. I’m a professional, too. A professional what, I’m not sure about these days, but a professional.” He scratched his head and frowned. “So, about that drink…” He turned toward the bar area.

  She turned in the opposite direction and fled to the washroom. “I need to pee.”

  It was the only escape she could devise.

  * * * *

  About an hour later, Patrick glared from his table as Elena’s great-grandfather whisked Winn about the dance floor. He chugged a glass of ice water, torturing himself with the inevitable brain freeze. Italian folk songs had ruled the room’s airwaves for thirty-odd minutes and he had a headache from the repetitive strains of the “Tarantella.”

  What was he thinking? He’d kissed her. He’d put his tongue down his subject’s throat.

  He’d never done that to any Toronto city councillors when writing stories about them, at least, not to the best of his knowledge.

  He blamed Winn. It was all her fault. That, and the Macarena. She’d put him in a weird mood with her speech about love and romance. And then, when that young punk had propositioned her at the bar, it had brought out the beast in him. No, the protective older brother in him, maybe. Yes, that was it. He was her escort tonight, after all, and considered it his duty to be chivalrous. Gentlemanly.

  Only he hadn’t been thinking like a gentleman when he’d grabbed her ass in front of everyone. The only coherent thought streaking through his consciousness at the time was his need to throw her on a table, lift up that god-awful dress, and sink into her heat.

  He stared at his empty glass, dazed. What the fuck?

  Had he lost his reason?

  Women like Winn made him nervous. Sure, he enjoyed the flirt, enjoyed putting a smile on her face, but he didn’t trust her. She lied for a living. Earned money from untruths. No matter how she or her puppet master, Margie Kent, preferred to spin it, they gouged lonely women, pretending to offer them friendship. They called their work a service. He had another name for it, one that wasn’t fit for print.

  Winn sailed past with Elena’s grandpa and her giggle landed on his ear. Her face bore a blush from all the dancing and a few blonde hairs had escaped her coiffed updo. Her elderly partner, a full head shorter than she, gazed up at her in adoration.

  The perfect bridesmaid. Only it was all a ruse. A sham.

  He’d do well to remember that.

  As a journalist, one who needed to reestablish his career, he didn’t need to be flirting with fake bridesmaids. He needed to concentrate on his story, dig up the dirt, and get it published. Damn it, he owed it to his readers, owed it to Jake and Player, and he owed it most of all to himself.

  So Winn Busby had a nice rack and a plump ass. So what? So her shy smile made his pants feel tight. His strange attraction to her only proved she excelled at her job. He’d been entranced, distracted, by the glamor and facade.

  He couldn’t forget the strange expression she’d worn in the taxi last week. There was something more to this woman, something not quite right, and he would discover it.

  A waiter approached him at the table and held out a bottle, displaying the label. “More wine, sir?”

  Patrick put a hand over his wineglass. “No, thanks.” He smiled at the man. “I need to keep a clear head.”

  * * * *

  He was just about to call it a night. At one a.m., Patrick finally decided he’d had enough for one evening. He’d let Winn do her thing, schmoozing the family for the last few hours, and had hung in the background. He hadn’t minded too much. It had given him a chance to casually question some of the guests about their impressions of the bridesmaid.

  However, now he was officially ready to drop. Exhaustion set into his bones in a way he didn’t quite understand. To make things worse, something ornery and deep inside him acknowledged how much he’d hated watching Winn dance with other men.

  And they still had the drive home. As her escort, he’d insisted on delivering her to her apartment, even though she’d argued the point. Besides, he knew she needed a ride. She might have arrived in Elena’s limo, but he didn’t imagine their hospitality extended to driving the stand-in home while they waited for their wedding night to begin. He stood and wondered if she was ready to leave.

  In a cloud of white fabric, Elena appeared at his side, her brow creased. “Patrick. Can you come to the dressing room? Winn’s not feeling well.”

  Again?

  As weird emotion hurtled through him, he followed the bride. Elena led him out of the reception hall and into the maze of back rooms. She opened her dressing-room door.

  Winn sat on a velvet settee inside, clutching her stomach. She looked at him and once more did an admirable Kermit the Frog impression.

  He dashed to her side and knelt next to her. “Hey. What happened? You were dancing with Nonno not long ago.”

  As perspiration beaded her forehead, she glanced at Elena. “Thanks. You go back to the wedding. Patrick’s here now.”

  “Okay. It’s late anyway. You’ve done your time, doll. You should call it a night.” She slipped a white envelope into Winn’s hand. “By the way, here’s the balance I owe you. And a little extra. You’ve been amazing.” She shifted her balance, smiled, and offered Winn a hug, before exiting the room.

  Once the bride was out of earshot, he grabbed a tissue from the scrolled makeup table in the corner and wiped Winn’s brow. “Did you eat something funny? Because between you and me, the shrimp seemed off.”

  “No, it’s not the food.” She clutched his hand as if needing to steady herself. She attempted to take a deep breath, but it caught in her throat. “I just…I don’t get it. I’ve never reacted this way at any of the weddings.”

  “You’re green, Winn. Do you want me to take you to the hospital?”

  “No, it’ll pass. You won’t tell Margie, will you?”

  “Tell her what? That you had a tummy ache because of some bad shrimp?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and moaned.

  “Jesus, woman. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  She opened her eyes, her blue irises almost engulfed by the black pupils. “You promise it won’t go in your story? You have to promise. I could lose my job.”

  “Okay, I promise. We’re totally off the record. Now tell me.”

  “It’s…it’s a panic attack.”

  “Panic attack? Why? You don’t strike me as the nervous type.”

  “I’m not,” she confessed, her mouth turned down at the corners. “But I used to get them, about a year ago. I haven’t had one in ages, and today they just came back to me. I can’t…breathe.”

  And just like that, she began gulping for air like a dying salmon on a rock.

  “Winn, look at me.” He touched her clammy cheek. “Look at me. That’s it. Now concentrate on my breathing. In and out. In and out. You’ve got it. Nice and slow.” He kept his gaze glued to her until her breathing regulated and the color returned to her cheeks. “Good girl.”

  She blinked and
a lone tear dripped down her face. “You swear you won’t tell? I know you’re a big, bad reporter and would probably sell your soul to get a good angle on a story.”

  He wiped the tear away, bothered by the image she presented. “I swear. Besides, what makes you think this is a good angle? I don’t see any angles here. I just see a clammy woman in a pink dress.”

  “It’s coral.” She managed a grin. “Thanks, but I’m not stupid, you know. You just found out your professional bridesmaid suffers from panic attacks. If I were you, I’d try to find out why.”

  “Yeah, well, a promise is a promise, and I can find another angle. Although, off the record, I am curious.”

  “And you might have to stay that way.” She stood up with his help. “So, my work here is done. How about driving me downtown?”

  Patrick realized it wasn’t the first time he’d imagined driving her downtown. Although he suspected her plans didn’t end the same way his perverted fantasies did.

  Chapter 4

  Winn had suspected his curiosity would get the better of him. When he knocked on her apartment door Monday afternoon, she knew her instincts hadn’t failed her.

  She looked out the peephole in the door. Patrick stood outside, looking way too sexy for her peace of mind. Wearing a faded T-shirt and cargo shorts, ones that emphasized his intriguing build, he held a couple of large Starbucks cups. As a ripple of nerves made her stomach clench, she unlatched her door and opened it. “Patrick. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I know. I was in the neighborhood.” He thrust one of the cups at her, frowning. “At the wedding, I noticed you took your coffee black with sugar so I got the same thing.”

  He’d noticed? “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

  “Awesome.” He smiled and took a drink from his own cup.

  “So, what can I do for you?”

  “Well, I wanted to catch up with you after the wedding and find out your thoughts about how it went. Do you have a few minutes?”

  “Actually, I’m on my way to my grandfather’s home.”

  “Right. You said you work at the senior’s residence as well.”

  She grabbed her bag from the hall table, stepped outside her unit and locked the door. “I’m not working today. It’s my grandfather’s eighty-fifth birthday and they have a cake for him. My sister’s meeting me. I have to grab the subway at St. George Station. Feel free to join me if you’re headed the same way.”

  “My car’s downstairs. I’ll drive you to his home, if I can tag along.” He offered his best you-know-you-can’t-resist-me-when-I-smile smile.

  “Ah, ulterior motives. Thus, the coffee.”

  “Do I look like a man who’d employ bribery to get what I want?” Without pausing a beat, he said, “Don’t answer that.”

  They got into the elevator, a space she’d always considered small. However, standing next to Patrick, who seemed to fill the entire space with his muscles and his smile, the lift seemed even smaller. Even though he no longer wore his dashing pinstripe suit, her eyelids still managed to flutter in his presence. He stood close to her, and she sensed him giving her a once-over. She threw him a glance.

  “You look nice today,” he remarked. “I like the tight jeans. I really like that they’re not coral.”

  “Boy, what did my coral dress ever do to you?”

  “It insulted my sense of decorum. Considering I have none, that says a lot.”

  The elevator door opened and he allowed her to walk ahead of him. When she heard a low chuckle of appreciation from behind her, she looked over her shoulder. “Patrick Lincoln, did you just check out my ass, you lothario?”

  He cleared his throat. “So, my car’s just over here.” He led the way to a sweet Mazda convertible. Black and sleek, it looked like the sort of car that often zipped past her rusty Yaris on the highway.

  “Nice ride,” she mumbled as he held open the passenger door for her.

  “Thanks.” He got in and stuck the key in the ignition. “I won’t bore you with my thoughts on its performance or gas consumption.” He winked. “I really just like how it looks.”

  Shallow, shallow, shallow. Her inner voice sent out an alarm. You are the Yaris, girlfriend. This man is the Mazda. Hell, he’s a freaking Lamborghini. Everything about him was too smooth, too polished. His car, his demeanor. His goddamned kisses.

  And yet a part of her still wanted to drive away with him, just to see where the road would take them.

  “So, tell me where to go.”

  She relayed the directions and they set out for the uptown area, a good twenty minutes north of where she lived. They chatted about the wedding, laughed about her dress some more, and she answered a few questions for him about some of the other weddings she’d attended. Their conversation, light and easy, made her feel comfortable and she had to remind herself not to give too much away.

  After all, a girl needed some secrets.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when he didn’t pepper her with inquiries about her panic attack. She’d already resolved she wouldn’t have another and refused to spend a single moment more dwelling on it, despite how disconcerting it had proven to be.

  They arrived at Sandy Lane and Patrick parked in one of the visitor spots. As she retrieved her coffee from the cup holder, he slipped out and opened her door for her. She got out, her face heating as she moved past him.

  “I don’t want to get in the way of your family celebration,” he said as they entered the home. “I’ll just hang out and wait for you. Maybe we can grab dinner afterward and you can tell me about the next assignment.”

  “Sure.” She rolled her eyes. “Although you don’t need to worry about breaking up a family event. It won’t really be a celebration for the whole group. I expect Enid, my sister, and that’s all. My folks don’t get out to see Gramps very much. They won’t be here.”

  “You don’t sound too sad about it.”

  “I’m not. My dad is too busy fooling around with his younger girlfriend, and my mom is too busy making his life hell for it.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah. Wanna know the best part? The young girlfriend is my former best friend, Amber. So she’s not really welcome here anyway.”

  Patrick stared at her as if he expected her head to pop off.

  “No need to be concerned. There won’t be bloodshed. We have an agreement. Amber doesn’t show up to family gatherings and I allow her to continue living in sin with my dad.”

  He sucked back some of his coffee. “Yikes. I’m seeing a new side to you, Winn. A side that should be dressed in leathers and wielding a whip.”

  She looked away from him. “I guess I’ve already said too much. Look, I’ll just spend some time with Gramps and then I can give you the low down on the next wedding. It’s next week.”

  “So soon?”

  “I like to keep busy.” She threw him a saucy smile. “You’ll love this next one. It might take you out of your comfort zone.”

  His eyes narrowed to thin slits. “Winn Busby, you scare me a little.”

  Laughing, she entered the private dining room where the cake was to be set up for her grandfather. As soon as she spied the people there, she blanched. She’d expected only Enid and Gramps. However, her dad and Amber huddled in the corner of the room and her mother stood at the opposite end of the table, her fiery gaze pinned on Amber.

  Oh, shit.

  While Gramps stuck his finger in one of the icing roses on the cake, Enid rushed over, her eyes wide. “Thank Christ you’re here. I was about to call in the troops.” She took a long, appreciative look at Patrick. “Well, hello.”

  Winn stood in front of him before Enid added the unwitting man to her personal harem. “Enid, this is Patrick. The friend I mentioned to you.”

  “Oh. Right. That friend.” She angled away from him and spoke softly to Winn. “And why’s your friend here today?”

  “He’s my ride.”

  “I’d bet you’re not the first woman to say so,” she mumbled.<
br />
  “Sis, be nice.” Ignoring how Enid aimed her death glare at Patrick, Winn glanced at Amber and her dad. “I can’t believe they showed up, today of all days.”

  Her dad patted Amber on the bottom, smiling at something she said. Amber, on the other hand, turned to Winn and offered her a shy smile and a wave.

  She did not wave back.

  With a pointed glare at her father, Winn dashed over to her grandfather and kissed his bald head. “Happy birthday, Gramps.”

  “Thanks, knucklehead.” He eyed the cake, his myopic gaze narrowing behind his thick lenses. “So, are we gonna eat this thing before I turn ninety?”

  “We’ll cut the cake in just a second.” She marched over to her father. “What are you doing here…with her?”

  “Now, now, Winifred,” Pierce Busby countered. “Amber has been in my life a long time. She’s been your friend even longer and I think it’s about time we bury the hatchet.”

  “I know where to bury it,” Renee Busby drawled.

  Bless her mom, thought Winn. She’d never been one to mince words.

  Amber flounced forward. “I really just want us all to get along.”

  “You should have thought of that before you slept with my father and broke up my parents’ marriage,” Winn replied in a hushed voice.

  “I followed my heart,” Amber said, standing tall. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, Winn, the marriage was already over.”

  Her mom gulped red wine. Winn took a look around and didn’t see any bottles on the table, leading her to believe her mother had brought her own stash.

  “And how did you become an expert on my failing marriage? You were still at school when it ended,” Renee demanded. “Pierce, did you even check to see if she was in big-girl pants yet? Hang on. Don’t answer that question. I don’t want to know.”

  “Renee, sweetheart,” he crowed. “The color green never suited you.”

  While they continued to squabble at each other, Enid moved into the center of the room. “Look, this isn’t the time. We can argue later. Today we’re here for Gramps. So let’s put a lid on it.”

  The old man smiled at her. “That’s right, sweet cheeks. Where are my presents?”