Trying to act like his brain wasn’t going to explode from tension, Craig went to work helping unload roses and gladioli. Then he tried to look busy while he watched the woman who was putting together bouquets, hoping he could do a credible job of flower arranging. It looked like the trick to making them stay in place was anchoring the stems in some kind of rigid Styrofoam stuff.
All the time he kept projecting the message that nobody had to check up on him at the New Orleans office. He was supposed to be at the local shop. He couldn’t be sure if it would work, and he kept thinking that if it didn’t, he might have to pull a gun and herd the two women into the refrigerator, while he stole the van and went to the wedding.
Every minute that ticked by made him feel a little closer to pulling off the delivery scheme. But that didn’t stop his mind from churning, because there was no way to know if his plan would work until after he got into the estate. More than that, he knew Stephanie had to be sick with worry about the upcoming nuptials, but there was too much activity around the plantation for him to risk going in until closer to the big event. The best he could do was to keep sending messages, telling her he was coming. Telling her it was all going to turn out okay, even whenhe was pretty sure she couldn’t hear him—because he couldn’t pick up anything from her. That had him worried, even though he kept telling himself they were too far apart.
Stephanie’s chest was so tight that she could barely breathe. While she ate breakfast, she covertly watched John. But he gave no sign that he remembered anything from the evening before.
Of course, that could all be an act. One of his main goals was to never have anyone think less of him. Even her and Claire, so he put up a good front.
After she’d done her best to pretend that she was hungry, he pushed back his chair and stood up.
“I should leave you ladies to the preparations,” he said, his voice casual, but she knew that he was hiding his own tension.
“We’ll be ready for you at five,” Claire said in a chipper voice.
Right, Stephanie thought. Why don’t you just stand in for me since you’re apparently enjoying sleeping with him?
“I’ll be in my office if you need anything,” he added.
Stephanie nodded.
As soon as he was out of the room, she felt marginally better.
“You have nothing to worry about,” Claire said.
“Um hum,” she answered, wanting to scream at the woman who had pretended to be working for her when she’d been drawing double pay from John.
“Do you know how lucky you are?” Claire asked.
“Yes,” she managed to say. She was thinking she was so lucky to have met Craig, and he was going to get her out of this.
Or die trying? That stray thought had her insides going cold. She knew he was going to try and get in here, but she didn’t know how.
“You should start with a nice relaxing bath,” Claire said. “I’m thinking about what order we should do stuff in. First, the bath. Then we can do your finger and toenails. Then your hair and makeup. What color do you want for your nails?” From the sideboard she brought over a box of nail polish bottles. “I think a pale pink would look good with your coloring.”
Stephanie agreed because she had no interest in the color. Or maybe blood red would be best. Then it wouldn’t show on her hands if she ended up in bed with John and scratched her nails down his face.
She canceled that thought as soon as it surfaced, knowing it was dangerous to give Claire even a hint of her real feelings.
Instead, she said, “Yes, let’s do the nails first.” At least getting herself all prettied up would give her something to do until the hateful ceremony.
Then what? She kept thinking about something she’d heard about the Nineteen Fifties. Back then, the Soviet Union had been the major threat to America, and people had debated “Better dead than red or better red than dead.”
In other words, if you succumbed to the enemy, could you bide your time and hope to free yourself?
She knew that was true for the countries that had been Soviet satellites. They’d stuck it out and come through the dark period. Many of them now had democratically elected governments.
All of that was well and good in theory. But could she stand to go to bed with John Reynard? Stand to have him kiss her, touch her? Be inside her? What else would he want her to do to him?
When she couldn’t stop herself from shuddering, Claire touched her arm. “I know you’ve been through a terrible experience,” she murmured. “Maybe it would help to tell me about it.”
So you can report to John, Stephanie thought, but she only shook her head. “I don’t want to dwell on it.”
“I understand.”
Yeah, I’ll bet you do,she thought with a note of sarcasm. Aloud she said, “I’d like to take that bath now.”
If they had to have a wedding night, maybe she could get him drunk again. Or would that work twice in a row? But she couldn’t do it every night of her life. Eventually . . .
