“You can use my name. No reason for an alias.”
“I meant, can I say you’re my friend? My date? My online escort?”
She bit her lower lip to keep from laughing. “Just my name. No point in muddying the waters, although I’m partial to online escort.”
“Hmm. I thought you might be.”
Ramsey was not sure how she felt about a face-to-face with Kay Dobbs, but it wasn’t because she expected the woman to recognize her. Shoplifters often regarded her blankly when she appeared in court to give testimony. They didn’t know who she was until she took the stand and identified herself as the Southridge employee who caught them with one hand in the cookie jar.
No matter how much Kay Dobbs might have objected to the venue, she and her husband were still the hosts, and some bridal how-to manual somewhere dictated that she be the first to greet the guests. Ramsey struggled not to smile as the man beside her—the tall, broad-shouldered, impressively framed Sullivan Day—inched closer and placed his palm at the small of her back. She did not shake off what some people might regard as a considerate gesture or a small intimacy. Ramsey might have done so if she thought he was being either considerate or intimate. Her sense was that he was using her for cover. She wondered if he was familiar with his aunt’s powerful right hook.
Ramsey saw Kay Dobbs stiffen ever so slightly as Sullivan stepped up to the plate. It was the only indication that she was disturbed. Sullivan had been right. A recent Botox injection had frozen her features, or at least it seemed that way. She supposed it was possible that the woman’s natural smile was a grimace.
Sullivan inclined his head toward his aunt by way of greeting her. She raised her chin but did not proffer her cheek. “Aunt Kay.”
“Sullivan.”
“This is Ramsey Masters.”
Ramsey responded to Sullivan’s gentle nudge and took a half step forward. She did not want to crowd the pocket-sized Kay Dobbs. Experience made it a matter of self-preservation, although unless the woman had a roll of quarters in her tight fist, Ramsey thought she was probably okay.
“Mrs. Dobbs. A pleasure to meet you.”
“And you, dear,” she said. She did not smile, but her gray eyes, so much like her nephew’s, were cool and curious as they settled on Ramsey’s face. “He’s mentioned you so often that I feel as if I must know you.”
Ramsey marveled that Kay Dobbs made this last statement without a trace of sarcasm.
Kay Dobbs went on, darting a reproving glance at Sullivan. “Which is to say, of course, that my nephew has said nothing whatsoever.”
Sullivan opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and closed it again.
Ramsey spoke into the awkward silence. “It’s a lovely setting. Sylvan. Romantic. How fortunate you are to have found such a perfect location.”
“Mm.”
It was not possible for Kay’s brow to pucker, but Ramsey thought the mother of the bride made a valiant effort as those coolly curious eyes continued to study her. “DoI know you, dear? I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten your name.”
“It’s Ramsey. Ramsey Masters. And, no, I don’t think so.”
“Masters. A relation, perhaps, to Ryan Masters?”
Standing at his wife’s side, Mark Dobbs took Kay’s hand and squeezed it lightly. “The receiving line, Kay. We have a bottle neck.”
Kay nodded absently, but her head remained tilted toward Ramsey. “Of course. I’m sure we will speak later, but if there’s no occasion, I hope you will enjoy yourself.”
Sullivan was already seizing on the opening provided by his uncle and moving sideways to greet him. Ramsey felt the pressure of his fingertips at her back as he gently encouraged her to join him.
Mark Dobbs, although a full head taller than his wife, still had to raise his face to take in his nephew, and in turn, to take in Ramsey. No scrutiny here, Ramsey thought, just genuine interest captured in a pleasantly featured face, highlighted just now with an absurdly wide smile and amused brown eyes. Ramsey liked him immediately, and she could see that the affection between uncle and nephew was mutual. She also witnessed the subtle what-can-you-do shrug that Mark used to communicate an apology on his wife’s behalf. She liked him all the more because he directed that apology to Sullivan. There was a brief exchange, promises they would catch up later, and then Sullivan and Ramsey moved along.
The groom’s mother and father were next in line. Sullivan made introductions, but even before he finished, Donald Kellough, Clifton’s distinguished silver-haired public defender, recognized Ramsey from listening to her testimony in court.
“Well,” he said, looking from Sullivan to Ramsey and back again. “I bet I know how you two met.” He held up a hand to forestall Ramsey as she opened her mouth to object. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe.”
Nancy Kellough, tall and slim, without a single silver thread in her boy-cut black hair, fiddled with one of her diamond studs. She leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “Did you arrest her, Sullivan? Is that what Don’s talking about?”
Before Sullivan could answer, Ramsey said, “Yes. Yes, he did. It was really very shabby of him.”
That set Mrs. Kellough back on her heels. She straightened and almost dropped her earring when her hands fell to her sides. “He did? Surely not. I was teasing.”
