The Groom's Revenge

He sought the source of the disembodied voice, wondering if the woman could see him even though he couldn’t see her. The shop seemed magical, after all

“I think it’ll make men look twice, don’t you?”

The woman was batty, Gray decided. No one answered her, and she certainly wasn’t talking to him.

“Of course I’m right,” she said.

He had to see this woman who talked to herself. Stepping silently around the counter he spied her attempting to shove an oak credenza along the floor. She seemed familiar, although she shouldn’t. He purposely hadn’t tracked down a photograph of her—which was out of character for him. Details were his life. He’d balked, however, at seeing her image ahead of time, this woman whose life he was about to change.

Who did she remind him of...?

Cinderella! Mollie Shaw—if indeed, this was she—looked like Cinderella. Her long hair was a rich coppery red instead of blond like the Disney movie character, but she wore a small, triangular scarf over it, keeping her hair out of her face Her pale green blouse and snug jeans sported streaks of dirt. He admired the picture she made from behind as she shoved again, her breath expelling with the effort.

“If Tony doesn’t get here soon, I’m going to pass out,” she muttered.

“Where do you want it?” Gray asked, coming up beside her.

Her eyes widened, eyes the color of a deep, dark forest, where mysteries beckoned. Where leprechauns might play—He dismissed the fanciful thought as he watched her reaction. She took a step back, not answering him, her lips parted. He couldn’t read her expression. Fear? He’d come upon her without warning, after all.

“You’re...you’re—” She stopped, seeming to catch her breath. “I can’t believe it.”

“I’m Gray McGuire.”

“I know. I saw you on CNN yesterday.”

His gaze strayed to a little smudge of dirt at the corner of her mouth and lingered until her words registered. She knew him? He shouldered her aside, deciding that her knowing could only help his cause. She would probably trust him sooner. “Just point out where you want this thing.”

She pointed.

He almost laughed. Then he muscled the credenza where she indicated.

“There’s more.” She gestured to a bookcase-type piece. “It goes on top. It’s a hutch If you’ll grab one side, I’ll take the...”

Her voice faded as he lifted the piece, then set it where it belonged. When he turned around he caught her sliding the scarf from her hair.

“Thanks,” she said, jamming the fabric into her back pocket. “I’m Mollie Shaw.”

She didn’t extend her hand, so he did. She hesitated, then finally rubbed her palm along her thigh before shaking his hand.

He knew she was twenty-two, which suddenly seemed decades younger than his thirty-three. He judged her height to be about eight inches shorter than his six foot one, her build as slight as the fairy on top of the bell. The bones of her hand were delicate, the flesh unpampered.

And she seemed a little starstruck, of all things, which could complicate his plans. He intended to propose a partnership with her, one completely unrelated to either her business or his. They would need a professional relationship.

She glanced over her shoulder. Tension radiated from her When she looked at him again, she smiled, but a smile mixed with—what? Embarrassment? She pulled him around the hutch and into the main section of the shop before she let go of his hand.

“You caught me redecorating,” she said. “I’ve been putting it off for months.”

Probably eight months, he thought. Since her mother died.

“Wednesdays are slow,” she hurried on. “I should’ve waited for my helper to get here. But once I got going, I didn’t want to stop.”

“What are you going to put in the hutch that will make men look twice?” he asked.

“Um, you heard that, did you?”

She wiped a finger along the counter without leaving a mark No dust settled in this hardworking woman’s domain.

“Men tend to spend more than women do,” she said as if sharing a secret with him. “Sometimes they want something in addition to flowers, so I thought I’d start carrying some jewelry too. Maybe some perfume. Pottery might sell well. One-stop shopping for the man who wants to appear romantic but who actually waited until the last minute.”

Or a man who’s hiding a guilty conscience, Gray thought.

He wondered whether her redecorating was the result of coming out of mourning for her mother or financial need. In a shop this size, she must barely eke out a living, he decided, anger brewing at the unfairness. She shouldn’t have to live like this It was a wrong Gray intended to right—with her help—as well as fixing what had been wrong in his own life for twenty-five years.

“Your initial investment could be substantial, and slow tc bring returns,” he said, protective of her but not questioning why. He knew why.

Mollie eyed the empty hutch. “Too much, do you think?” she asked, looking around and sighing, something she’d beer doing a lot lately. “Things haven’t changed around here in a long, long time. I want to drum up some new business, but I can’t afford to take any losses.”

“You should discuss this with your business manager.”

“Um, I’ll do that.” She dragged her tongue along the inside of her cheek.

“You don’t have a business manager,” he said, awareness in his eyes.

She shook her head, a smile tugging at her mouth. No one will ever believe me, she thought. Gray McGuire, the high-tech wizard from the Silicon Valley was here. In her shop. He’d materialized from her dreams and was actually talking to her. He’d touched her. Touched her.

“Tax accountant?” he asked hopefully.

“I’m sort of a full-service shop owner.”

He was even more attractive in person than in any photo she’d seen. Clipped. Saved.

His blue eyes were startling against his California tan, his dark brown hair shiny and thick. She’d admired the sculpted muscles of his arms when he’d lifted the hutch top onto the credenza as if it weighed no more than a wicker basket. The turquoise polo shirt and khaki pants he wore fit his body perfectly, showing off a well-toned physique, one that didn’t look like he spent his days behind a desk.

He was here. In her shop. Gray McGuire.

“I apologize,” he said, moving around the shop, looking at the merchandise. “You weren’t asking my advice.”

“I always listen to advice.” Standing in front of the counter, her hands clasped, she was content to watch him, afraid if she did something wrong, he would disappear in a puff of smoke.

He must think her crazy the way she was talking to him as if she’d known him forever. But, in truth, she felt she had. Although he lived in California, his photograph had been in the StarTribune following a gala charity event attended by the city’s most prominent family—the Fortunes—a month ago, and he often graced the pages of Time, Newsweek and the like.

Her obsession had begun harmlessly enough. She had made a completely innocent comment to her new acquaintances Amanda and Chloe Fortune upon seeing his picture in the newspaper—a comment along the lines of Mollie wishing that someone like Gray McGuire would sweep her off her feet. Amanda had promptly ripped out the picture and told Mollie to sleep on it, and maybe he would be hers.

Mollie had laughed at the joke, but kept the photo. After months of mourning her mother’s death, she’d found a new focus, something to think about other than relentless grief and loneliness. And after too many nights of dreamless sleep, she started dreaming again. So Mollie had read everything she could get her hands on about Gray McGuire, fixating on him because it made her feel alive again.

It didn’t even make sense that she was fascinated by a man who was the CEO of a software design and manufacturing company, McGuire Enterprises. A man who’d designed a computer operating system at age twenty. A man who spoke to Congress on computer security issues. He’d lunched with the president yesterday!

And if he’d caught a glimpse of that newspaper picture of him she’d taped under her counter, he would have hightailed it out of there faster than she could say, “You’re the man of my dreams. Literally.” She’d even been talking to his picture when he’d arrived.