The Sometime Bride

Chapter Fourteen



The parade of oaks leading up to Ashton Hall was magnificent. Though Carrie had heard of the all-boys boarding school, she’d never once been there. Likely because the high school circles she’d run with didn’t exactly involve a “moneyed” crowd.

Carrie had plans to discuss her financial “predicament,” meaning the fact that she was exceedingly wealthy, with Mike tonight. The time for pretense was over. He’d proven well enough, in a million different ways, that the woman he cared for had nothing to do with her bank account. Of course, he’d seen her car and knew she worked in finance. What he didn’t know was that her title in New York was Venture Capitalist and that her account balance registered in the seven digits.

Carrie prayed inwardly that it wouldn’t make too much difference. Mike certainly didn’t strike her as the sort of man who would feel emasculated by a wife who made more money. The impression he’d given her was that Alexia had been well-off, and that, in and of itself, apparently hadn’t fazed him in the least. “Thank you for doing this,” Mike said, shutting off the engine and pulling his keys from the ignition. “You don’t know what it means to me to have you on my arm tonight.”

Oh yes, she did. Because whether or not he suspected it, it meant just as much to her. And not simply because she planned to pose as his fiancée for the night. But, more importantly, because she hoped to soon make that role a legitimate position.

Mike walked around the car and opened her door. “You ready to be my bride-to-be?” he asked with a grin that sent her stomach all aflutter.

More than he knew. But she just said, “Yes.”



Ashton Hall was an impressive two-hundred-year-old red-brick building, elegant, high white columns flanking the tall main entrance. The striking Georgian architecture reminded Carrie of parts of the college campus where she and Mike had both studied.

“Wow,” Carrie said as Mike ushered her in the door.

The domed central ceiling, in and of itself, must have reached over forty feet. Elegant crystal chandeliers dripped light like sparkling teardrops onto the well-placed circular tables that dotted the perimeter of the room.

White linen tablecloths lapped hand-sewn oriental carpets. And above the clatter of clinking glasses and conversation, a band played jazzy eighties tunes from a stage set up far against a back wall.

The mood was all genteel opulence. They’d been standing there scarcely five seconds when a server strode briskly over, offering up a tray of champagne.

“Carrie?” Mike asked, lifting a single flute off the tray and extending it in her direction.

From the trailer park to this. All at once, the disparity hit her. “Thank you,” Carrie said, accepting the champagne.

Mike picked up a glass of his own, and the white-gloved server made himself scarce.

Carrie took another look around the room. “I said it before, but it bears repeating. Wow.”

“I know it must seem odd,” Mike said. “I mean, after seeing the place I grew up.”

Carrie heated at the notion that he’d read her thoughts. How embarrassing. He probably assumed her to be judging him. “No, actually—”

“It’s all right. Really. Though I may have been somewhat ashamed of my humble roots as a teenager…”

“You should never have felt ashamed of your father, Mike. He’s a wonderful man.”

“Easy for me to accept now,” he told her as they made their way into the busy room. “Not so easy for a boy in high school. I landed at Ashton Academy like a total fish out of water.”

“Scholarship?” Carrie guessed.

“Swimming.”

She might have known. “Well, I think it’s fantastic you had the opportunity. When I was a teenager, I didn’t even know places like this existed.”

An attractive couple wandered over. A pretty blonde and a stocky brunet about Mike’s age. The husky fellow set his glass on a nearby table and took up Mike’s free hand with great gusto. “Mike the Spike!” he said, cheerily pumping Mike’s arm. “Great to see you, buddy!

Mike’s eyes lit up. “Figaro? Oh, my… How are you?” he asked with unfeigned delight. “Uh, oh, forgive me. Carrie St. John, this is Fig.”

“Fig’s not his real name,” the blonde interjected. “It’s Paul. Paul Westinghouse III.”

Mike chuckled and turned his eyes on the woman. “Why, hello. Are you the lucky missus?”

“Am at that.” She smiled. “My name’s Wendy. And you, officially, are…?”

“Mike Davis,” Carrie supplied, easily following the protocol where the women spoke for the men. She could get used to that. “But I want to know where that ‘spike’ part came from,” she said, playfully poking Mike in the chest.

Mike looked down at her rigid finger and chuckled at their private joke. “Now, don’t go getting any dirty ideas,” he whispered in her ear. He turned and winked at Paul. “Spike comes from the way I used to dive.”

“Straight out like this,” Paul said, striking a pose by extending his arms arrow-straight over his head. The group broke out laughing.

“And Fig?” Carrie asked with a grin. “I can’t fathom that one.”

“That’s because he swam like a song,” Wendy reported. “You know, Figaro, Figaro, Figaro…”

“Yeah, a swan’s song,” Mike chimed in.

More companionable laughter.

“So, you two were on the swim team together?” Carrie asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Paul answered, “though it looks like your husband’s keeping much more fit than I am. Congratulations, by the way,” he said, turning to Mike and once more pumping his hand. “Somebody made an honest man of you after all.”

“Well, not quite,” Mike began.

“Yeah,” Carrie said. “He’s still as dishonest as they come.”

Paul and Wendy roared.

“Know what you mean,” Wendy added. “Once incorrigible, always incorrigible. Wedding band or no.”

Wait a minute! What was happening here? He was assumed to be married? Mike shifted and dug his left hand into his pocket.

“Well, buddy,” Paul said, lifting his glass in Mike and Carrie’s direction. “Guess you had us all fooled. Heartiest congratulations on your excellent taste.”



When Paul and Wendy had made their polite good-byes and departed to mill with other guests, Mike turned to Carrie. “Holy cow, those guys thought we were married!”

“Imagine that,” Carrie said with a curious poker face. “Well,” she said after a brief silence, “stop staring. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To be known as the man who beat his perpetual bachelor status?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Look,” Carrie interrupted. “People are getting seated. We’d better find our places before they start serving.”



Mike and Carrie were lucky enough to find their place cards at the same table with Paul and Wendy and a few more of Mike’s old swim-team cronies. Mike looked around the room, seeing that many of the other groups that hung together in high school had also been placed together at their respective tables. Whoever had been in charge of the seating chart had done an excellent job.

The various courses flowed by with good conversation and wine, both of which seemed in endless supply. Everyone at their table was duly impressed with Carrie, both her financial acumen and her personal style. Mike could tell by the body postures of his former fellow athletes who seemed intent on angling close to Carrie to absorb her every informed word on the financial markets. Either that or to catch a whiff of her heather perfume, which made Mike more than just a little bit jealous. Though he didn’t know why. She was doing exactly as he’d hoped she would, knocking the socks off every one of his buddies. If only they didn’t look like they’d be happy to also have Carrie knock their boxers off…

“You’ve been quiet,” Carrie whispered in his ear. “Getting tired?”

“Just tired of the conversation,” Mike whispered back.

“Ah,” she replied, her tone still hushed, “finance bores you.”

“No,” Mike said, his voice coming out louder than intended. “Men putting the moves on my ‘wife’ bore me.”

The two couples seated across the table from them stopped conversing and stared.

Oh Jesus. Mike pushed back his chair and stood. “Excuse me, I’m going to get some air.”

“Then I’m coming with you!” Carrie said, scrambling to her feet and hurrying after him.

Carrie followed Mike out a large glass door that led to a sweeping veranda, then settled beside him on a carved marble bench. She couldn’t believe it. He was jealous! All rationale told her that was a bad sign. The books, the magazines all told you that jealousy meant possessiveness. But way deep inside, Carrie’s heart was doing a jig, shouting yes, yes, yes!

He loved her; she knew he did. All she had to do was get him to say it.

“If any of those men were flirting,” Carrie lied, “I certainly didn’t know it.”

“Flirting? Carrie, Billy Smith looked like he was ready to up and carry you away! That, with his wife Elizabeth sitting next to him!”

“Mike,” Carrie said, scooting in toward him. “Only one man in this crowd could carry me away. And I think you know exactly who that is.”

Oh, if only, Mike thought, looking up at the big, bold moon. But what if when he really asked, she said no? Mike had nothing to offer her. Nothing but what was in his heart. And Carrie already had it all. He knew from talking to her grandmother. Feeling it only right, he’d gone by this afternoon to discuss his intentions. Grandma Russell had assured him that the money business didn’t really matter one way or another. And, at the time, feeling hopeful, he’d believed it.

Now he just didn’t know. Mike had seen the way Carrie’s jaw had dropped when she’d walked in here. Though she came from more humble roots like he had, this was the sort of world she was meant for. That ambition was what had taken her to New York. And to see the way she had meshed with his Wall Street buddies at the table, he guessed that was where she belonged. Certainly not stuck permanently in Central Virginia with the likes of him, much less down in the far-off Caymans. Mike heaved a sigh, his heart heavy with the moment.

“Penny for your thoughts?” she said, lightly touching his arm.

“Carrie,” he began, “there are some things I need to tell you.”

“No,” she said, laying a hand on his thigh. “Me first.”

Mike looked up into her beautiful dark eyes sparkling with starlight.

“I think,” she began, then stopped. Come on, Carrie, don’t lose your nerve. But what if he couldn’t love her for who she really was, a woman with money? What if he said they were too different, that their lives were worlds apart?

“What do you think?”

“Mike, I have something personal to tell you. I mean, personal about my job. Of course, normally, it’s nobody’s business, so I don’t discuss it at all. But with a man I… What I meant to say was… Criminy!”

“Criminy?” Mike asked, leaning in and raising her chin.

“Oh gosh, it’s an expression I picked up from my grandmother.”

“Speaking of your Grandma Russell…”

“No, Mike,” she said, lightly brushing aside his hand. “Let me finish. It’s very important to me I get this out—before I lose my nerve.”

Mike set his palms on his thighs and waited.

“Mike, I’m—”

“Dirty rich,” he said, turning his eyes on hers.

Carrie gasped. “Have you been talking to my grandmother?”

“Carrie, beautiful Carrie,” he said, cupping his hands over her satiny shoulders. “Did you for one minute think that wealth would be a hindrance?”

Carrie nodded but saw nothing besides her own confusion mirrored in his eyes.

“Honey, the only one setting up roadblocks here with his miserable life is me. You, Carrie St. John, have everything any woman could ask for. You’re intelligent, attractive, accomplished at your job—and rich. I, on the other hand—”

“Oh,” she said, scooting back and out of his grip. “So you are holding my bank account against me.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Well, it’s certainly what you implied by telling me I already had it all. For your 411, I don’t. At least not what I most want in here.” She stopped and thumped her chest. “And in case you haven’t heard, money can’t buy you love.”

“Oh, I know that for certain,” Mike assured her. “And for your information, though I had suspicions you had money, my falling in love with you had nothing to do with your bank account!”

“Your what?” she asked, her voice softening in disbelief.

Holy cow! He’d gone and done it. And for crying out loud, right smack in the middle of the closest thing they’d had to an argument yet.

Carrie reached up and pinned his face between her hands. “Repeat what you just said.”

Do it better this time, Mike warned himself. Much better.

“I, uh…” Mike swallowed hard past the lump in his throat. “Carrie, it’s true. I know I was a jackass at dinner…” Oh great, he was doing just wonderfully. Curse words and all. “I mean, I know I overreacted. But, in truth, it drove me crazy seeing those other guys vying for your attention. And it made me think about… Realize just what a danger it would be to have you on the open market.” Nice, Mike. Real smooth, you unromantic doofus! Well, at least she wasn’t laughing.

It was all Carrie could do to stifle a chuckle. He was trying so hard it almost hurt her to watch. For all his experience with women, it was overwhelmingly obvious Mike Davis was, at this moment, mapping uncharted territory.

“Carrie St. John,” he said, the words erupting from his throat like red-hot lava. “I love you.”

Carrie wasn’t sure whether he looked more amorous or petrified, but whatever it was, she understood that Mike had just put his heart on the line.

“And I love you back,” she said, bringing the cushion of her mouth up to his.

“Now,” she said after their long, languorous kiss, “let’s go dance while the two of us still seem to be agreeing on something.”

“I don’t like to dance,” Mike protested.

“Oh yes, you do,” Carrie answered with a mysterious grin. “I’ll prove it.”



Carrie was right about the dancing part, Mike thought, reveling in the comfort of her curvaceous body snuggled up against his own. The song playing was a band arrangement of Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven.” It had been the only song in high school, Mike recalled, shutting his eyes, that even the nerdiest guys could get a dance for. Though he wasn’t prepared to tell Carrie just yet, in his day, the swim-team fellows weren’t the most sought after of the jocks. Mike’s early successes with women came later, in college. But now, thinking back to his Ashton days and gently swaying to the music with Carrie, he was glad for every forgotten dance. Every pigtailed, pug-nosed girl who’d ever rejected him. And yes, even snooty Alexia. For if it hadn’t been for any of them, he would have had no way of knowing exactly what he held in his arms now.

The music slowed to a stall and polite applause, and Mike feared the band leader would pick up his tempo. But instead he sent a smile over Carrie’s shoulder and gave Mike a knowing wink as he began a slow, jazzy rendition of “Lady in Red.”

Carrie didn’t know if the music was still playing, or if it was merely the pulse of her heart that was lending rhythm to her feet. All she knew was that she felt protected, sheltered, and loved. Wholly and unconditionally drawn straight into Mike’s warmth. They couldn’t have been more connected had they been in bed together. Or maybe they were, and she was dreaming.

Mike reached up and stroked her hair, causing her to melt into him another inch. He’d never peel her off now. Carrie couldn’t even say where Mike ended and she began. The only thing she knew for certain was that she never wanted this feeling to stop.



“I’m sorry, folks,” the band leader said, lightly tapping Mike’s shoulder. “But we’re closing up.”

Carrie opened her eyes in astonishment to find the room had cleared. Only a few staff persons remained, busily bussing tables and stacking up chairs.

“Holy cow,” Mike said, squinting into the brightness of the lights that were now turned way, way up.

“Holy cow is right,” Carrie said, bolting back into foggy reality and sweeping a hand through her hair. “We’ve shut the place down!”