I Don't Want to be Married Page 4

  Unable to stop herself, she sat on the edge of the bed and stared at Allan. She leaned down and kissed the lips that caused her heart to race. A musky aftershave scent filled her nose.

  Rosalind came to her senses, sprang off the bed, and nearly fell.

  What the heck am I doing?

  She didn’t have time to dilly-dally. Sam would be looking for her soon.

  Stepping to the table, she paused to stare at Allan’s discarded pants. Bending down, she picked them up and his wallet fell out. She hesitated and her fingers touched the leather. This time it was cold and heavy, not warmed from his body heat as before.

  About to set it on the table with the papers, a business card on the floor caught her attention. She retrieved it.

  Smith and Associates Brokerage Firm, Inc., Allan Smith, President.

  In panic mode she dropped the pants and hurried to the door. With her hand on the knob, she stopped short, breathed in, and then exhaled. Pivoting, she proceeded to the bedroom.

  Shit. He’s going to be meaner than a wet cat when he awakes.

  She scooped up his wallet and laid it on the table. She slid the business card into her jeans pocket and neatly hung his pants over a chair.

  Taking one last quick look at the man who was her husband, her gaze lingered on his handsome face. Regret dominated the moment, knowing she’d never see him again.

  Allan was probably a very nice man and hadn’t deserved being a pawn in her plan. She grabbed a pen and wrote him a note.

  Rosalind laid it, along with the money and marriage certificate, on the table for him to see. With a clenched jaw, she hurried out of the hotel room.

  Chapter 4

  A ringing tore through the silence of Allan Smith’s darkened hotel room. He flung his hand toward the sound, the first attempt unsuccessful, hitting the lamp and then the wall.

  “Fuck!”

  Finally he stopped the annoying noise and held the receiver to his ear.

  “Hello,” Allan groaned and slowly opened his eyes.

  “Hello? Allan, where are you?” a loud agitated voice interrupted the quiet.

  “In my room,” he replied.

  “You’re ten minutes late.”

  “Late?” He fought through the fog of an instant headache, and swallowed to moisten his dry lips and throat.

  “Come on, stop kidding around. What the hell happened to you last night? You left the bar without telling us.”

  Allan tried to comprehend the words sadistically thrown at him as pain riveted through his forehead. The red numbers on the clock indicated it was eleven-fifty.

  I’m Mr. Time Management. I’m never late. I can’t remember. Late for what?

  Fragmented pieces of the night emerged. Bachelor party. A damn stupid rodeo. Being kicked out for being rowdy. A limo ride to a country western bar. Drinking tequila shots and buckets of beer.

  Allan’s lips thinned and his nostrils flared with a mounting rage. He hated tequila. It was the most senseless thing he’d done in a very long time.

  “Sorry, man. I forgot to ask for a wake-up call. I need to take a quick shower. Give me ten minutes,” Allan grumbled.

  “I need help down here now. Damn it. John is unbelievably nervous.”

  “Right, John’s wedding.”

  At last, through the haze he remembered he was in Las Vegas for his best friend’s wedding. The rehearsal thing had been last night. They’d gone out celebrating.

  “This is not the time for you to be indisposed. I’m doing your job here. For God’s sake, you’re the best man, not me.”

  “I’m the best man? Shit. I am the best man.”

  Laughter erupted from the phone, triggering Allan’s head to pound even more. The ceremony was today.

  Why hadn’t I stayed in my room like I planned? Damn it. The Heinz Corporation paperwork and reports from his lawyer were still in his briefcase, untouched.

  The annoying voice on the phone continued to talk in excited tones. Allan managed to sit vertically and swing his bare legs over the side of the bed.

  “How did . . . how did I get undressed?” He held the phone to his ear with one hand and rubbed his face with the other.

  “I don’t know. John is asking for you.”

  Trying to ease the tension along his forehead proved fruitless. Instead of relief from the pounding, something hard and foreign on his hand initiated more pain.

  Snapping his hand away from his face, Allan stared at a simple thin band encircling his ring finger. Straightening, he gawked as waves of shock wracked throughout his body.

  Left hand.

  Ring finger.

  Wedding ring.

  Disconnectedly, the meaning slipped into his mind. Tension filling his body, holding his breath, he turned, expecting to see a woman—or worse, Katherine, his current girlfriend—lying in his bed.

  The other side of the bed was vacant, the bedspread untouched, and there was no evidence of another person having been in bed with him. Allan’s gut quivered as a sick feeling mounted.

  It can’t be! There’s no way in hell I’d marry anyone.

  “. . . are you sure you’re still not impaired from drinking? Allan! Are you there?”

  “Yes, yes. Did you guys play a prank on me last night?”

  Allan paced around the room. This bore all the components of one of John’s signature schemes. When they’d been in foster care together, pranks offered them a meager form of salvation to avoid the hurt and mistrust they had to deal with.

  As he waited for details of his friends’ sick practical joke, an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach wouldn’t cease. A pair of delicious lips kissing him surfaced in his brain.

  “What are you talking about? You left with the cowgirl from the rodeo. Hurry up and get your ass down here.”

  “All right, ten minutes.”

  He peered at the ring as he disconnected the phone and inspected the room a second time. The bedroom door stood open. His Gianni Versace shirt lay on the floor. That wasn’t right. He stepped toward the shirt and stopped. On the table was an envelope and papers. He smiled.

  Okay, this is all a hoax. John knows paybacks are hell.

  Time stopped as Allan picked up the envelope and tore it open.

  Cash. Hundred dollar bills.

  He counted it, separating the hundreds in piles of tens. When he hit two thousand, the rest of the money fell unheeded onto the table, most of it landing on the floor.

  “No way. No way in fuckin’ hell.”

  He stared at the paper.

  Marriage Certificate.

  “Holy shit!”

  The curse vibrated off the walls. Allan pulled out the closest chair, sank down, and stared at the paper. His hands trembled. John would never consider marriage a joke.

  After leaving their foster care homes at the age of eighteen, they’d formed a pact to never get married, knowing firsthand the trouble it caused. They worked the system to acquire money for college, food, and housing. John graduated with a degree in political science, while he’d obtained a degree in finance and a minor in law. Then last year, John came to his office, shocking Allan by declaring he’d found a woman he wanted to marry.

  Allan’s jaw tensed in frustration as his signature taunted him. Fifteen years, their pact had lasted. It should have been forever. Beyond common sense, he closed his eyes trying to visualize what could have transpired in the past twenty-four hours.

  He remembered the guys passing around shots of something in the limo as they headed to the rodeo. After climbing the metal grandstand steps, his knee ached, so he’d taken a Vicodin.

  No, I’d taken two. The first one I took before leaving the hotel. Crap.

  As hard as he tried to remember anything from the
previous night, he couldn’t.

  Nothing. Not a goddamn thing. Not a single moment.

  His eyes flashed open.

  Fool. Vicodin and alcohol. No wonder he had a headache and couldn’t remember. Damn my friends.

  He could see them now, all laughing their asses off. The certificate might very well be a fake. Anyone could’ve printed one from the internet.

  Or was it blackmail? Who would’ve done this? What if someone successfully extorted him after all these years?

  This can’t be real.

  He’d play along until someone admitted what they’d done. Yet doubt crept in as he stared at the money, the certificate, the note, and the final receptor, the warmth of the metal on his finger. A cold, harsh truth settled in.

  I’m married.

  A new level of questions rushed him.

  Who was his bride? Was she pretty? Had she been a good kisser? Had they sexually pleased each other?

  Allan closed his eyes again, trying to see an image of the woman who was now his wife. It failed; nothing came. He tilted his head. This seemed to work, as an odd sort of room with bells ringing and an older man and woman flashed for a moment. It faded and he opened his eyes.

  Had he married an old lady?

  Concerned, he absentmindedly combed his fingers through his hair and cursed when the ring caught, pulling stands out.

  “Shit.”

  Cautiously he reached for the other damning paper. The loathsome note seemed more damning in his hand than propped on the table. He lifted one corner hesitantly, and then all the way, revealing a handwritten scribble.

  Allan,

  Thank you for helping me. I left you a copy of the marriage certificate and the specified amount of money for your time.

  I’ll contact you in two months to conclude our agreement. Rosalind

  This confirmed what he’d guessed, and the authenticity frightened the hell out him. Allan’s gut gurgled and acid caught in his throat.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Who in the hell is Rosalind?

  Perhaps one of the strippers the other groomsmen hired for the night?

  The name didn’t evoke a face and he wondered when the nightmare would end. His long line of foster parents taught him not to trust. Trepidation became the driving force that made him successful in his business transactions. Someone would pay dearly for this stunt. If, heaven forbid, this was real, he couldn’t allow any of it leaked to the news.

  The illuminated numbers on the clock showed he had a few minutes left. He’d have to deal with this Rosalind person after John’s wedding. Opening his briefcase, Allan grabbed the money and the offensive marriage certificate, tossing them inside. As he did, his prescription bottle rolled with a flash of its red warning label.

  Do not take with alcohol.

  By the time Allan arrived downstairs in the lobby, showered and dressed in his navy tuxedo, a crowd was gathered around the groom, who was hyperventilating. He laughed in spite of his own annoying situation.

  Allan calmly walked to his best friend and yanked away the brown paper bag he held to his face, which compelled John to fling his arms around to reclaim it.

  “John. Look at me.”

  Panic emanated from the groom’s eyes, the same look he’d seen the first time he and John met, years ago in the middle of the night at the foster home. He’d heard the caseworker say John’s parents were drug addicts and they had been living out of a car when the police found them.

  As he did all those years ago, he clasped John’s hands and placed them on his knees. The raspy breathing didn’t stop. Allan took hold of John’s head and tilted it higher so they were face to face. Blue eyes met brown eyes.

  “John, you’re about to marry the woman you love. Do you want her to see you like this?”

  John blinked. “I’m not . . .”

  The dazed look faded, replaced by confusion. Allan’s concern vanished. “Do you still want to get married, or do I need to take you to the hospital?”

  “No, no. I’m fine,” John answered between gulps of air and heaving shoulders.

  “Show me. Act like a man who is about to marry the most gorgeous woman I know.”

  “You’re right. It’s a new beginning. I love her. She loves me. I want this. I can do this,” John replied.

  “Yes. You can. Now, on your feet.”

  He glanced over the crowd. The other groomsmen stood around like statues.

  As John’s panic began to subside, Allan had to wonder if he was the only sane person here, even with a splitting headache. “John, concentrate. What time do we need to be at the church?”

  His question broke the groomsmen’s zombie-like state. Several immediately consulted cell phone calendars and notepads for last-minute checks. As if on cue the limo arrived on the scene to take them to the church.

  The ceremony began without any more drama. Allan, positioned to the right of John, found himself recalling fragments of the previous night. He and a woman had stood before an altar much like the one in front of them at the moment.

  He was concentrating so hard on the image, he missed his prompt to hand the wedding rings to John. Someone nudged him in the side, and he instantly snapped to, reaching into his pocket for the rings and setting them on the Bible the pastor held.

  Too late, his mistake was visible for all to see. Instead of two rings, three lay on the Bible. The pastor gasped. So did the bride and groom. Hastily Allan snatched up the shining silver ring that stood out like a sore thumb next to the gold circlets.

  Shit.

  Unwilling to draw attention to himself until he knew exactly what was going on, he’d taken the damn ring off and shoved it in his pocket earlier. The slip was now a blur as the rest of the ceremony went on without any further incidents.

  Allan focused on his best friend who appeared happy. When John leaned in to kiss his bride, a woman’s face flashed before him, along with a lush body he’d held in his arms and a pair of waiting lips he’d taken in a never-ending kiss. An unexpected sexual ache spread to every nerve in his body, and he shifted his stance, frowning at his reaction. The vision was gone before the woman’s face became clear.

  Loud musical chords from the organ played, signaling the end of the ceremony. Allan shook his head to clear his mind and followed the happy newlyweds down the aisle.

  Frustration set in as he struggled to enjoy the reception. Not only did he not know who his wife was, but how was he going to break the news to Katherine? He wasn’t too worried, since they’d tired of each other anyway.

  Several guests and bridesmaids tried to entice him out onto the dance floor, but he declined. He couldn’t get into all the merriment. He’d done his duty for his best friend. All he wanted to do now was escape to his room.

  With a pounding headache and his knee throbbing, Allan reached inside his tuxedo coat for a Vicodin and stopped. He couldn’t chance a repeat of the previous night. He scanned the room. It was time to cut loose so he could figure out why he married a woman he didn’t know. None of the groomsmen offered a single word about his so-called marriage. It was as if it never happened. He was almost convinced it was a joke, but the image of the money and the damn certificate wouldn’t leave.

  It’s real. It happened.

  Time was ticking away and he’d stayed long enough. Allan maneuvered toward the doors. Unfortunately, one of the bridesmaids, whose name he couldn’t remember, slipped her arm through his, delaying his exit.

  “Help us let the bride and groom make their exit to the wedding suite.”

  “Sure, I’ll get John. You ladies take care of the bride.” He agreed without hesitation, knowing it was also his escape.

  Upon completion of their errand, along with all sorts of sexual jokes about the wedding night directed at the happy couple, the same bri
desmaid who’d asked for help put her mouth to his ear.

  “I’d love to have you join me in my room.”

  The other bridesmaids laughed and giggled, offering the same.

  “Sorry, ladies. I need my beauty sleep. Thanks for the invitations.”

  Ignoring the pleas and the pawing hands, Allan escaped. He wanted no part of them, which surprised him. He’d never turned down an invitation for sex with a gorgeous woman.

  What’s gotten into me?

  Allan looked at his ring, then continued on alone to his room.

  Chapter 5

  “I had no choice. I did what I thought I should do,” Rosalind conceded.

  She’d kept her marriage and the wedding in Las Vegas a secret from Sam until they’d arrived home in Minnesota, hoping if she waited, Sam and the lawyers wouldn’t be able to do anything.

  “It was wrong,” Sam retorted.

  They were in the kitchen finishing lunch when he’d brought up her marriage for the thousandth time. Rosalind nibbled her lower lip and placed both hands on her hips as confusion and indignation set in. Mr. Smith wasn’t going to be happy. Then again, she hadn’t heard from him. With no other options in her playbook, she’d have to wait this one out. She’d done everything to get that land for the horses.

  “I can’t allow them to die. A handful are scheduled to be put down soon. If the dumb lawyers hadn’t requested confirmation my marriage was legitimate, I’d have my money.”

  “It’s part of their job.”

  “No, no, no. They can’t put a hold on the release of the money until I can provide the necessary verification. It’s not fair. I’ll be more than a week behind schedule.”

  “You should’ve thought about this before—”