Metsy Hingle - Switched At The Altar

“Don’t you?”

“No. I’d say that’s between you and Kevin. After all, it’s Kevin’s life.”

“Yes, it is,” Alex said in a deadly soft voice. “And I have no intention of standing by and letting Kevin ruin his life by marrying you.”

Shock hit her first, then her anger kicked into high gear. She strangled the stem of the bouquet in her hand and silently condemned Kevin to a slow, painful death for getting her into this fix in the first place. Tipping up her chin up, she called on her training as an actress to make her lips curve into a smile that reached her eyes. She batted her lashes in what she hoped reflected all sweetness and innocence. “Well then,” she said laying on the Southern drawl like thick maple syrup. “I guess I’ll just have to be sure to tell Kevin not to bother sending you an invitation to the wedding.”

Two

For a moment Alex couldn’t speak. He nearly choked on the fury rising inside him. “There isn’t going to be a wedding,” he finally managed to say.

Desiree arched her brow. “No? I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

“I am sure of it. Kevin is not going to marry you.”

“I believe that’s another one of those decisions that’s not yours to make.”

“Trust me, Ms. Mason. You are not going to marry my brother.” Even if he was wrong and she wasn’t a gold-digging actress with her eye on Kevin’s trust fund as he suspected, he couldn’t tolerate the thought of her being married to his brother. Not when he could all too easily imagine her with him, in his bed, with her body naked beneath his. Just the thought of being with her had him growing hard with desire—and sent guilt stabbing through him like a knife. He shoved a hand through his hair. She was involved with his brother, for pity’s sake. Yet, not even that knowledge could ease the hungry, restless ache inside him that he experienced by just looking at her.

“Like I said, that’s Kevin’s decision. And mine,” she amended a moment later, as though adding herself to the equation was an afterthought. “Now, you really will have to excuse me while I see if I can find out what happened to the actor Bernie was supposed to send over.”

She smiled at him, and Alex’s brain turned to mush. He stared at her mouth, mesmerized by the bow shape of those rose-colored lips, remembering how warm and soft they’d felt against his own.

“I believe you can find your way out.”

He watched in silence as she scooped up the train of her wedding gown and walked down the hall. For a second he tracked the enticing sway of her hips as she moved down the corridor before she disappeared into one of the rooms.

At the click of the door closing, Alex blinked. He shook his head to clear it. Muttering an oath, he started off after her. “The woman must be some kind of witch,” Alex grumbled, remembering the tales of voodoo and black magic that was supposedly still practiced in the New Orleans area. For a moment he’d been so mesmerized by her that he’d almost forgotten his reason for being here in the first place. Alex frowned at that realization. Try as he might to stop it, he couldn’t help thinking of his father.

Eddie Stone had been a dashing, debonair ladies’ man with a hearty laugh, a lust for partying and the deep pockets to pay for it. He’d also been as irresponsible as hell. He’d been about to marry wife number five when he’d been killed in a skiing accident. Otherwise, Alex might have added a few more stepmothers to his family tree. While his memories of time spent with his father were good ones, they were far too few—primarily because of his string of ex-wives, three of whom had been ladies from the South.

And now Kevin thought he was in love with Desiree Mason, another Southern belle. He conjured up an image of the green-eyed beauty in his mind and frowned. Maybe it was something in the water that drew men to women like her. Alex hesitated in front of the room he’d seen Desiree go into. Or maybe it was a weak gene in the Stone men that made them susceptible to a woman with a honeyed voice and magnolia-soft skin.

Whatever the reason, Alex decided, he had no intention of allowing himself to fall under Desiree Mason’s or any woman’s spell. With that thought in mind, he rapped his knuckles on the door.

“It’s open,” she called out in a distant, somewhat muf fled voice.

Alex pushed the door open and stepped inside only to discover the room was empty. “Ms. Mason?”

“Be right with you,” Desiree called out from an adjoining room.

As he waited, Alex took the opportunity to study the room. Just like the rest of the house, this room boasted high ceilings that were accented by crown molding. Ivory silk wall coverings flecked with gold ran from ceiling to floor. What he suspected was either a genuine Aubusson rug or a good imitation covered the center of a wooden floor that was in dire need of polishing. A lovely watercolor of Magnolia House and the grounds, painted during earlier and obviously more prosperous times, hung crookedly on one wall alongside several framed theater posters of plays that he’d never heard of, let alone seen.

On another wall damask drapes, in a faded shade of what once had probably been mint, were swept back from a massive window that served as a home to a half dozen flowering plants.

Alex fingered a purple bloom on one of the plants and caught the fragrant scent. Wisteria. It brought back vague memories of a house with a yard and a huge tree with a swing. He could remember sitting in that swing as a little boy, urging his mother to push him higher. He’d wanted to reach the tree’s limbs and capture one of the purple flowers from the vine tangled in its branches. It had been the first and only time he’d lived with his parents—before they’d divorced, before they’d left him with his grand-father and gone on to their new lives—lives without him.

Pushing the melancholy thought aside, Alex prowled the room while he waited for Desiree. The place was a mess, Alex decided as he looked at the beautiful Queen Anne desk covered with stacks of papers, magazines and bound copies of what were evidently plays. A battered-looking computer sat haphazardly on a desk blotter. Framed photographs took up what little space was left. Alex picked up one of the snapshots of a much-younger Desiree flanked by a timid-looking blonde and a serious-eyed brunette—all dressed in toy soldier costumes and tap shoes. He grinned at the way Desiree mugged for the camera despite two missing front teeth.

“That was one of my first starring roles,” Desiree told him from the doorway. “You’re looking at the Mason Sisters Trio. Tap dance recital for four- to six-year-olds,” she explained.

She was still wearing the wedding dress, but the veil and flowers were gone. Most of her hair had escaped from its combs, leaving long strands of red shot with gold trailing along her neck and cheeks. “Must have been quite a performance,” Alex replied.

“Oh, believe me, it was.”

She walked toward him, the sound of her skirt swishing as she moved, and his eyes immediately zeroed in on those sashaying hips.

“My sister Lorelei—she’s the blonde—lost her dinner in front of the entire audience before we even got to the first ‘ball-change’ in the dance routine. Stage fright,” she said as though that explained everything.

“And my sister Clea—” she pointed to the brunette “—she’s the perfectionist. She was so miffed at Lorelei for ruining our act, she walked off the stage in the middle of our number and hung up her tap shoes for good. I’m afraid it ruined any hopes my parents might have been harboring that we’d be a dancing version of the Lennon Sisters.”

“What about you? What did you do when your sisters dropped out of the show?”