The Last-Minute Marriage

‘I need something to eat,’ she told him.

‘You’re hungry?’

‘I lost my bagel—remember? I didn’t have breakfast and that was my lunch. And then I need a ticket on the subway to the backpacker’s where I have my things. I need to stay until tomorrow—for Aunt Hattie’s funeral. But that’s it. I was stupid to try to see Charles. I just want… I think now that I just want to go home.’

‘Right.’ He nodded, aware all the time that she was poised for flight. ‘Okay. I’ll organise you transport. But let me feed you first. No.’ He shook his head as she backed again and he gave a rueful smile. He knew what she was thinking. At long last he was getting the idea. Money didn’t impress this woman. Money made her want to run. ‘There’s a great deli nearby and it’s not expensive. It’s simple food but it’s good. Concede at least that I owe you a meal. Can you cope with me for a little while longer?’

She stared up at him, seemingly bemused. She balanced on her crutches while she surveyed him. Her green eyes were suddenly thoughtful.

It wasn’t the sort of look he was accustomed to receiving from the women he moved with. To say it disconcerted him was putting it mildly.

‘You must think I’m really ungrateful,’ she said at last, and it was so far from what he was really thinking that he blinked.

‘I don’t. Let me feed you.’

‘Like something in a cage at the zoo?’

He smiled. ‘I’m sorry. That was badly phrased. Share a meal with me. Please.’

‘Out of charity?’

‘Out of my need to give you recompense.’

She stared at him for a long moment—and in that moment something shifted. The Cinderella image receded still further. There was a strength here, he realised. A latent force.

She was out of her depth. She wasn’t sure what was happening to her right now, but this was a woman who would normally be in charge of her world.

Things were out of control but she was still fighting.

He’d be lucky if she’d agree to have a meal with him.

But she did, and he was aware of an absurd surge of gratitude as she did the thanking. ‘Thank you,’ she told him. ‘I’d like that.’

‘So would I.’ And he meant it.

The deli he took her to was one he hadn’t eaten at for years, but still he knew it. The proprietor, a big man in his late sixties, greeted him with pleasure.

‘Well. If it isn’t the great Marcus come to patronise this humble establishment…’

‘Cut it out, Sam,’ Marcus growled and Sam grinned.

‘Yeah, right. To what do we owe this honour?’ He glanced at Peta and his wide smile was a welcome all by itself. ‘A lady. Of course. And a lady of taste. I can sense that already. I bet you could wrap yourself around one of my specials and not even think about counting calories.’

‘I bet I could.’ In the face of Sam’s friendliness she seemed to finally relax—just a smidgeon. ‘Tell me what’s good.’

‘What’s good? In this establishment everything’s good. Tell you what…’ He cast a sideways glance at Marcus and got an almost imperceptible nod for his pains. Sam’s deli was famous in this city and his reputation was richly deserved. He sensed what people needed and he provided it. You came to Sam’s for comfort food and friendliness and good humour. Sam provided it in bucketloads. ‘Why don’t I bring you my specials?’ he told them. ‘My lunch works. You sit back, think of nothing except what you need to talk about and let me worry about your meal. It’s what I do best.’

Think of nothing except what they needed to talk about…

It seemed there was nothing to talk about. Or Peta didn’t seem to think there was. The food that Sam brought them was wonderful: a vast, steaming bowl of clam chowder— Sam’s speciality, handed down from his grandma, who’d invented clams herself, he told them—and some sort of corn flapjacks that were truly spectacular.

It was good food. No. It was great food, Marcus conceded, and he found himself wondering why it had been so long since he’d been here. He sat back, enjoying the food but also enjoying the buzz. The place was full of students and young mothers and academics and artists who looked as if they didn’t have a buck to their name. All of them were attacking their food the same way Peta was. This was food to be relished at every mouthful.

And while she ate, he found himself thinking of the date he’d been on last night. Elizabeth was a corporate lawyer—a good one. She was smart and sophisticated and beautiful. But she’d toyed with her salad, she’d drunk half a glass of wine and refused dessert.

Her beautiful waistline came at a cost, Marcus had thought, and though she’d invited him up to her magnificent apartment afterwards for coffee, coffee was all they’d had. He’d felt no desire to take things further.

But now…sitting on the far side of the table and watching Peta devour her chowder and relish every mouthful of her flapjacks, he thought he’d rather have this contented silence than smart conversation. Genuine enjoyment.

‘What?’ she demanded suddenly, and he looked a question.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You’re looking at me like I’m an interesting kind of bug. I don’t like it.’

‘You’re Australian,’ he told her. ‘What do you expect?’

‘You’ve never met an Australian?’

‘Not one who likes clam chowder as much as you do.’

‘It’s the best.’ She smiled up at him and he blinked. Whew! That smile was enough to knock a man sideways.

Where had it come from? It was a killer smile. Wide and white and there was a dimple right at the corner of her mouth…

Yeah, right. Get a grip, Benson, he told himself. You need involvement here like a hole in the head.

He needed any involvement like a hole in the head.

‘You want to tell me why you need to see Charles Higgins?’ he asked and her smile faded. He was aware of a sharp stab of regret. Damn, he shouldn’t have mentioned it.

But it was why they were here. It was important. And, to tell the truth, he was intrigued.

This girl had just knocked back a gift of a three-thousand dollar suit. Just like that. Would any other woman he knew do that? It wasn’t as if it had come with strings. It would have been a gift, pure and simple.

‘You might have knocked me down, but it was partly my fault,’ she told him, and it was as if she’d read his thoughts. ‘I don’t want to be beholden. To anyone. You spend three thousand bucks on a suit for me and I’ll feel sick about it for the rest of my life. And Charles will know it’s a front.’

‘Charles knows you?’

‘I told you. He’s my cousin.’

‘Then why…?’

She could see where his thoughts were heading and she was way ahead of him.

‘You think because I’m family I should have an entrée with him.’

‘Something like that.’