A Bride To Honor

“I’m going to change,” she told him. “Watch the shop. I’m expecting a special customer.”

“Oui, mademoiselle. With my life I shall guard the repository of your dreams, another dedicated expression of the amour I bear you.”

“Better an expression of the amour you bear your job,” she said through a stage smile, winding her way through the circus paraphernalia strewn about the floor.

“Raggedy Ann not suit the mood?” Tony asked, coming fully into the room.

“My brother’s mood,” she tossed over her shoulder, catching the grimace he meant for her back. Tony was of the opinion that William was a Philistine of the grossest order, and while she agreed with him on one level, she felt duty-bound to defend her brother on another. She settled, this time, for a cutting glance, unaware that painted-on eyelashes and bright red grease paint somewhat ruined the effect. “Start a rack for me, Tony,” she called, slipping into the curtained alcove.

“Okay. What do you want on it?”

“Oh, the usual macho male themes.”

“One Dracula/Fighter Pilot/Corsair coming up.”

Cassidy sighed wistfully. She had a Peter Pumpkin Eater costume she’d like to palm off on somebody before Halloween, but she supposed it would not be wise to attempt it with William’s boss. On the other hand, every Dracula, pirate and military uniform in the building was reserved. Whatever Paul Spencer chose was bound to send her back to her sewing machine, and just when she’d thought she was through with the season rush. Oh, well, she could sleep the second week of November—if she lasted that long.

Cassidy first pulled off her mitts, then slipped out of the dress with its attached pinafore, hung it on a hook and divested herself of the calf-length bloomers, striped stockings and soft black shoes. Comfortable, snug-fitting jeans and a mustard yellow cardigan sweater worn buttoned to the top of the V-neck replaced the dress and pinafore. Heavy, plain white cotton socks and burgundy penny loafers, complete with the pennies, replaced the stripes and black shoes. Leaving her goldish brown hair pulled back with the aid of a rubber band, she took the costume and left the dressing room. From sheer habit she went directly to the permanent rack where the Raggedy Anns were kept and hung the costume in its proper place before heading to the mirrored makeup station in the far back of the shop.

She loved every inch of her store, but the makeup station was especially dear to her heart owing to the fact that it contained numerous components of her late grandfather’s barbershop, from the pole to a lather brush, which she used for dusting on powder. Seating herself in the creaky, green leather chair, she whipped a short cape from a drawer and swirled it around her throat and shoulders before reaching for a tub of cold cream. With her fingertips, she began working the white, red and black grease paint from her face. She had it converted nicely to a gooey, slimy, gray mass ready to be toweled off when a movement in the mirror alerted her that “Maurice” had walked up behind her. Before she could ask why he wasn’t watching the front door as he’d been told, he depressed the foot pedal that released the back of the chair and she found herself prone, looking up at her irritating clerk and the front of a dark, pin-striped suit.

“Ewww,” Tony said helpfully. Then he bent over and kissed her on the neck, saying huskily in his phony French accent, “This client asked to see you, chérie.”

Cassidy took a swing at him with her towel, but he danced back out of reach, laughing, and informed the other man, “She adores me.”

“So it would seem,” was the acerbic reply.

Groaning, Cassidy dropped the towel over her face. A moment later, the back of her chair shot forward, nearly propelling her out of it, and she heard the rush of expelled air as someone took a seat on the leather upholstered rolling stool at her side. Expecting Tony, she snatched the towel off her head, only to encounter the grinning visage of a stranger. He was a handsome stranger, at least, with short, conservatively styled dark brown hair the color of cocoa powder and sparkling blue-gray eyes framed with thick, reddish brown lashes. His straight, slender brows seemed almost black, as did the hint of beard shadow that seemed to lurk beneath his pale golden skin. The breadth of his smile made hard little apples of his cheeks and cut deep brackets between them and the flat of a rather prominent chin.

He offered her a long, slender hand. “Cassidy Penno, I presume.”

She slipped her hand into his mechanically. “Yes.”

“Paul Spencer.”

She closed her eyes, grimaced and snatched her hand back, using it to mop up the nasty gray grease covering her face. “I’m sorry, Mr. Spencer,” she said plaintively from behind the towel, her voice muffled accordingly. “I was dressed as Raggedy Ann earlier, and my brother told me you were coming, but I thought I’d have time to remove my makeup, and that rascal Tony probably wanted to embarrass me, blast him! He hates William, and he stays mad at me because I won’t take his passes seriously, and I ought to fire him, I know, but—”

Paul Spencer pulled the towel out of her hands, still grinning. “Uh-huh,” he said, wiping gunk from her face in long, sure strokes. Cassidy stared, mesmerized by the sparkle in his eyes. “You were telling me why you weren’t going to fire, ah, Tony, was it?”

Cassidy mumbled weakly, “It takes a certain kind of individual to work in a place like this.”

“Really?” he said, using the towel to wipe a glob of grease from beneath her eyebrow. “What kind of individual is that?”

She took the towel from his hands and turned to the mirror, leaning forward in order to avoid his gaze as much as to see her own face. Clumps of gray gunk clung to her skin. Quickly she began wiping them away.

“You were telling me what sort of individual works in a place like this,” he reminded her, folding his arms.

“Someone who loves the theater,” she said tersely. “An actor usually. Someone who likes to dress up. Someone creative. Someone who’ll work for minimum wage.” A glance into the side mirror showed that he was grinning again. She rubbed furiously at her cheeks, hoping to disguise the color burning there. William would kill her if he found out about this! Poor William, forever foiled by his own family. Cassidy threw down the towel in disgust and ripped the rubber band from her hair, allowing it to swing about her shoulders in one sleek sheet as she plucked thin tendrils of bangs forward onto her forehead. “I’d appreciate it, Mr. Spencer if you wouldn’t tell William that you caught me like this. William’s a wonderful brother but he’s... well, he’s—”

“Uptight,” Paul Spencer provided helpfully. “Humorless. Staid.”

Cassidy gaped, horrified, at his reflection in the mirror.

Spencer laughed. “Relax, Miss Penno, I think very highly of your brother. He’s a fine executive and an upstanding member of society. He also takes himself and life in general a bit too seriously.” He used his thumb and forefinger to make a zipping motion across his mouth and added, “William won’t hear a word from me about how you greeted me looking like some kind of swamp monster.”

Cassidy spun the chair around. “I did not!”

“No, you didn’t,” he agreed, lips quirking. “I was teasing.”

“Oh.”

The smile working its way across his lips widened to expose strong, white teeth. One on the right side had a tiny chip in it. Suddenly, something of his humor infected her, and she knew, not only that she could trust him, but that he trusted her enough to joke with her. Why did she sense that there were precious few others with whom he could laugh? It didn’t really matter. What mattered was that it was going to be all right. Her spirits soared, and she laughed.

“I’m so sorry. I must have looked a fright.”

He chuckled. “Let’s just say that I’d never have guessed there was such a pretty face beneath all that gray slime.”

She felt a flash of pleasure, then realized that he was teasing again. “Oh, you,” she said, getting to her feet and waving him to his. “Actually, in my business it’s very convenient to have such a plain, featureless face. It’s like having a clean canvas with which to work. If you’ll just come this way, I think—I hope—Tony has put together some possibilities for us.” To her surprise, he hauled her up short with a hand clamped down on her forearm. Heat flashed up her arm to lodge somewhere in her chest, spreading warmth subtly.

“Who told you that you were plain?” he demanded, brows furrowed. “William?”

“What? Oh...no, of course not!”

“Yours is a very delicate, classical beauty,” he insisted, skimming a finger over her wispy brows, down the short—too short, in her opinion—bridge of her nose, across the subtle peaks of her upper lip and over the rounded tip of her chin.

Cassidy was hypnotized. No one had ever told her that she was beautiful before. She almost believed him, he was so good at it! Then he took his finger away, and reality snapped back into place.

She shook her head to clear it and pointed tentatively into the other room. “Shall we?”

He stepped back, dropped his gaze and lifted a hand to indicate that he would follow her. She turned and strode purposefully into the other room, trying not to think how tall he was, not as tall as she had first imagined, because when they had stood close, she had noticed that the top of her head came about to his eyebrows. That meant that he probably wasn’t much taller than six feet, as she stood just about five-nine in these shoes. A perverse little gremlin in the back of her mind whispered that he was just about the perfect height for her, when she knew perfectly well that there was no such thing.

To her relief, the rolling rack that they used for the “possibilities” that customers had not yet tried on, stood in the middle of the third showroom. Cassidy hoped that Tony had used better judgment in choosing costumes than he had used in bringing Paul Spencer back to the makeup station while she was covered in gray glop. She indicated a small barrel, atop which a deep red cushion had been placed. “If you’ll just have a seat, Mr. Spencer, I’ll show you some of our more popular styles for men.”

“Paul,” he said, lowering himself onto the cushion.

Not a good idea, she told herself. He was simply too attractive a man to call by his given name, under the circumstances. She merely smiled and reached for the first hanger on the rack, displaying it for him with a flourish.

“This is our most popular costume at this time of year, for obvious reasons.”

Paul lifted a neat brow. “Dracula seems a bit trite to me.” “Right.” Cassidy moved the costume to the back of the rack and reached for the next one. “The corsair, or pirate, cuts a dashing figure, and it comes complete with earring, saber, and—if you tike—peg leg or parrot.”

His lips quirked. “I don’t think so. I’m not the earring type.”

“Okay.” To the back of the rack went the corsair, and out came the Red Baron. “This is a very romantic figure, the famous World War I fighter pilot. They have those commercials on television, you know, where the women swoon—”

He was shaking his head. “Swooning women embarrass me.”

“Ah.” She stowed the Red Baron. “How about Patton? We could silver your hair and pad your middle a bit and have you looking just like George C. Scott.”