Gorgeous Grooms: Her Stand-In Groom / Her Wish-List Bridegroom / Ordinary Girl, Society Groom

“Well, have a good time.”

She turned and walked to the counter to pour herself a cup of coffee, and then nearly scalded her hand when he asked, “Is it going to take you long to get ready?”

“You want me to go with you?”

“I want you…to go.” He hesitated just long enough between the words to shroud his exact meaning.

“Stephen—”

He interrupted, his tone sounding sincere when he said, “I want to spend the day with you, Catherine. Just the two of us.”

“I’d like that, too.”

“I figured we’d swing by a deli first, have a picnic lunch packed. We can make an entire day of it, if that suits you.”

An entire day aboard his sailboat, miles from shore, with no chaperones. Nothing good could come from it, her practical mind warned. Yet she found herself smiling with excitement, her blood humming with anticipation.

“It suits me.”

Chapter Eight

LAKE MICHIGAN proved a gentle hostess, her waters a calm and vibrant blue that reminded Catherine of satin. The sun warmed her face and allowed her to remain comfortable in the sweater and jeans she’d worn. And the breeze co-operated as well. It ruffled the sails and tugged the boat out to where the tall buildings on the shoreline looked so small they could be covered with one’s thumb.

“Are you enjoying your sail?”

With her face turned to the sun, eyes closed, she smiled. “Very much. Thank you for asking me.”

“I almost didn’t.”

She opened her eyes and turned to look at him, but said nothing.

“I remember what happened the last time we were aboard La Libertad.”

She’d been sure he was going to mention the night at the movie theater, when needs and desires had beckoned…threatened to overtake them. His reference to that summer evening perplexed her.

“I don’t understand. Nothing happened.”

“Something happened. And it wasn’t the first time. I’ve been attracted to you for a long time, even when I didn’t want to be.”

“When I was engaged to Derek?”

“Before that.”

She sat upright. “But you never said a word.”

“What was I going to say? I thought it would pass, especially after you became involved with my cousin. I thought I was just attracted to the pretty packaging. You’re a very beautiful woman.”

And so he had told her, on more than one occasion. Derek had told her that as well, which made the compliment seem hollow, almost an insult.

“I’d like to think I’m more than that.”

“You are. That’s what makes you so dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” She laughed, sure he was joking, but his gaze remained intense, his mouth a taut line. “I’m not dangerous, Stephen. What you see is what you get.”

“Oh, no, Catherine. You’re much more than what one sees or what you choose to let people see. Why is that?”

“People make assumptions. You made them yourself.”

“And you let them. Why?”

She shrugged.

“Last year, Project Christmas was falling short of its goal for the first time in fifteen years. It hadn’t done that poorly since the last recession. I poured on the charm, made a few phone calls to some people who can be incredibly generous when they want to be or when they’re talked into it. I’m good at talking people into doing things.”

“Some might call that manipulation.”

She nodded in agreement. “Maybe I do manipulate people, but not for my own gain. Surely that distinction counts for something?”

“What drives you?”

“I like to make a difference.” It was her standard answer, but he didn’t look convinced.

“It’s more than that. You could make a difference by heading a beautification committee or simply writing a check.”

His assessment was uncomfortably close to her parents’ way of being community-minded. She thought of that lonely, frightened little girl who had reached out for help and received only money in the form of a scholarship in return.

“It’s not enough.”

Again he asked, “What drives you, Catherine?”

She’d never spoken to anyone about “the incident,” as her parents referred to it. At first she had been too shocked and sad. Then had come the guilt, and so she had remained silent. But for some reason it seemed safe, easy to talk about the unspeakable with Stephen.

Her voice low, halting at first, she began. “I had a friend once, a little girl named Jenny. She came from the Projects, but attended my private school thanks to a scholarship my parents had set up. She was bright, vibrant, thankful for every crumb she received when everyone else I knew just expected everything they got and even then complained.”

“What happened to her?”

“I knew she had a hard home life, even though I’d never been allowed to her home. My parents forbade it. But we hung out at school and I saw the bruises. No twelve-year-old is as clumsy as Jenny claimed to be.”

“What did you do about it?”

“I told my parents I thought something was wrong. Jenny seemed to become more and more withdrawn at school. Her grades started to suffer.”

“What did they say?”

“They told me it wasn’t my concern. A couple of weeks later Jenny was dead. She’d been beaten to death by her mother’s boyfriend.” Once again, Catherine felt the stab of pain and accompanying guilt. “So, you see, writing a check isn’t enough, Stephen.”

“You can’t blame yourself. You were a child. What could you have done?”