have a dancing partner.
She supposed there was always a silver lining.
“You have got to be kidding me.” Alec stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of the exhibition hall entrance, staring in obvious disbelief at the racks of costumes, hats, shoes and accessories.
“Our party’s a 1920s theme,” she offered, halting beside him.
He gazed deliberately around the barnlike costume rental setup. “They bring all this in for horse jumping?”
“Tonight isn’t the only theme event. And with this many wealthy people in one place, it’s a prime opportunity for fund-raising.”
People were starting to pile up behind them, so she snagged his arm and tugged him forward.
“You mean I have to dress up in a costume
“You really don’t get out much, do you?” she couldn’t help teasing him.
“Not like this,” he told her, gazing around the jumble of merchandise taking up about a quarter of the cavernous room. “I’m more a dinner at Palazzo Antinori or a cruise on the Seine kind of guy.”
“A closet romantic,” she reflexively observed, then cringed at the unfortunate choice of words.
His expression turned serious. “No, Stephanie. I’m not a romantic of any kind.”
She sensed some kind of a warning in his words.
“Over there.” She cheerfully pointed, changing the subject as they made their way past a suit of medieval armor and a shelf of colored wigs and sparkling Mardi Gras masks.
Alec leaned in close, his tone still dire. “I don’t want you to…” He obviously struggled for words.
She refused to prompt him. She really didn’t want to pursue this line of conversation.
“To get caught up-”
“In the 1920s?” she wedged in.
“In our marriage,” he corrected.
She let sarcasm color her tone. “You afraid I’ll mistake a dance for a declaration of undying passion and devotion?”
He backed off a little. “You seem…”
“What?” she demanded.
He shrugged. “Happy. Animated.”
“And you attribute that to
“It’s not my ego.”
“Right.”
He clenched his jaw. “Forget I said anything.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
“You’re faking, Alec. I get that. I’m faking it, too.” She might have let her emotional guard down for a moment, but she wouldn’t make the mistake of enjoying herself again.
He searched her expression. “Fine.”
“Fine.” She nodded in return. Just flipping fine. Bad enough she had to fake a marriage. Now she wasn’t allowed to smile while she did it.
She put her attention on the costume racks again, now simply wanting to get this over with. “You might as well pick something?”
He glanced around. “I’m not a fan of costumes.”
“Yeah? Too bad.”
He shot her a look of annoyance.
What? She was supposed to get happy again? “Be a man about it,” she challenged. “Put on some pinstripes and spats. Be grateful it’s not superhero night.”
His look of horror almost made her smile.
“You’d look good in red tights.”
“Not in this lifetime.”
“Check those out.” She gestured to a rack of suit jackets.
For herself, she moved further down the aisle, finding a selection of flapper dresses.
She started through them one by one. After a few minutes, she came across a sexy, silky black sheath, dripping with shimmering silver ribbons that flowed from the low-cut neckline, past the short hem of the underdress to knee-length.
With a spurt of mischievousness, she held it against her body. “What do you think?”
His gaze traveled the length of the garment, eyes glittering with what looked suspiciously like humor. “You show up in that, doll-face, and I’d better be packin’ heat.”
This time, she did crack a smile.
She pulled the dress away from her body, turning it and making a show of taking a critical look. “Too much?”
“Not nearly enough.”
She could have sworn there was a sensual edge to his tone. But his cell phone chimed, cutting it off.
She hung the dress back on the rack, battling a wave of prickly heat that slowly throbbed its way through her system. Faking, she reminded herself ruthlessly. Faking, faking, faking.
“Alec Creighton,” he said into the phone.
His glance darted to her for a split second, then he turned away, lowering his voice.
She told herself to focus on the costumes and give him his privacy. He had his own life, and she had hers. As he’d so clearly just pointed out, this intersection between them was completely temporary.
Still, she couldn’t help catching snatches of the conversation. She heard him say tomorrow, then airport, then Cedarvale.
It sounded like he was leaving, and a wave of disappointment surprised and worried her. It was good that he was leaving.
But then she heard him say her brothers’ names. She blinked at his back, listening unabashedly to the final snatches of the conversation.
As he signed off, she quickly grabbed another dress, pretending to be absorbed by it.
“This one?” she asked.
It was a soft, champagne silk, with a low V-neck, spaghetti straps and covered in sparkling, criss-cross beading. The silk came to midthigh, while a wide, sheer, metallic lace hemline, slashed to points, rustled around her knees.
“They don’t have anything with sleeves?” he frowned.
“It’s the roaring twenties,” she told him, trying not to wonder about his phone call. “I’m supposed to look like your moll. What do you think? A wide choker and a long string of pearls?”
“I think you’ll be the death of me.”
“What about the red one?” she lifted another from the rack. “It comes with satin gloves and a feather boa.
Alec’s nostrils flared. “Better stick with the gold.”
“It’s champagne.”
“Not the red, and definitely not the black.”
“Fine.” She put the red one back, wishing she was brave enough to ask about the phone call. Was he leaving? And why had he mentioned her brothers? “What about a long cigarette holder?” she asked instead.
“Absolutely not. You’re pregnant.”
“Shhhh.” She glanced quickly around, worried someone would overhear.
He moved closer, leaning down to whisper. “You’re pregnant.”
“I wouldn’t really smoke anything.”
“Don’t even joke about it.”
“Who was on the phone?” she blurted out.
“A friend.”
