Suddenly...Marriage! Page 3

  “I was just trying to assess how familiar you are with these festivities,” Grant explained.

  “Why?” She was always suspicious of people’s motives. She liked to think that was what kept her sharp and on top of things. That it also kept her alone was just a byproduct she had come to terms with. “Am I in for a grand tour?”

  He thought of the sought after invitation he had to the King’s Ball. “That will come later,” Grant promised. “But I think you should be aware that you would do well to be careful when you venture out on the streets this evening. Despite the fact that the city is expecting a huge storm, the citizens are determined to have their celebration. Whatever you might have seen coming in, the tempo will be increased tenfold by tonight, I guarantee it. The various parades are going on all day—one stops, another starts—but the real chaos—” he said the word with a fond smile, like someone talking about a beloved but slightly eccentric great-aunt “—begins this evening. Did Stan warn you about the throws?”

  Probably not, Grant guessed. He doubted if Stan even remembered what month it was, much less that it was Carnival time in New Orleans. The man had a way of blocking out everything else in the world except what he was focused on at the time—which, for the last ten years, had been the magazine—to the exclusion of even a personal life.

  A little like himself at times, Grant supposed. Of course he did have a personal life—a superficially satisfying one that other men probably pointed to with envy. But that wasn’t enough for him. He hoped that there was going to be something more substantial waiting for him somewhere down the line than just being president of O’Hara Communications.

  Cheyenne looked at him, at a loss. Was this some kind of insider jargon? “Throws?”

  Just as he thought. Grant leaned over the small table, instantly creating an air of intimacy that his competitors had always found difficult to circumvent or match.

  “The various people on the floats, members of the krewe—that’s just a fancy name for group—throw things to the crowds. Gifts, tokens,” he elaborated. “If one falls at your feet, don’t pick it up.”

  That didn’t make sense. “Isn’t that the general idea?”

  “Yes, but if you try to pick it up immediately, you might lose a finger, or at the very least have one broken.” Every veteran of Carnival had his share of horror stories to tell, mixed in with tales of revelry. “If someone throws something in your direction and you fancy it, stake your claim by putting your foot over it first and wait until interest wanes, then pick it up.”

  All right, Cheyenne thought gamely, she’d play along. “I won’t lose a foot?”

  Was she naturally argumentative? he wondered. “No.”

  He looked too serious to be joking. Cheyenne began to believe him. “Just what are these trinkets they’re throwing?”

  “Paste imitations of strings of pearls, medallions, sometimes colored chips,” Grant enumerated the most common for her.

  Cheyenne frowned. “Hardly seems worth losing a finger over.”

  He agreed with her, but the public had its darker side. He raised a well-tailored shoulder, then let it drop. It was beyond him how people could get themselves so worked up over something so simple, yet he had witnessed the frenzy enough times to verify its existence.

  “The crowd gets caught up in the excitement, vying with one another for a souvenir of the occasion to claim as their own.”

  What would it take, he mused, to get that sort of excitement shining in her eyes? “Everyone gets caught up in it one way or another.” His eyes held hers. “Even the very cool.”

  I wouldn’t. I won‘t, Cheyenne thought, but saying so out loud would have been childish. Besides, this wasn’t about her feelings or views. This was about O’Hara and what made the man behind the corporation, behind the money, tick.

  “Everyone yells to the throwers,” Grant continued with his explanation, “trying to get their attention, begging for a throw.” He laughed quietly, remembering the solemn-eyed, black-robed women who had passed through his childhood, bent on teaching him discipline. “The best targets, they say, are nuns, although there are always enterprising ladies who think they make a better target if they plead for the throws topless.”

  He was kidding, right? Cheyenne had just made peace with the image of brightly costumed people on floats pelting women dressed as nuns with costume jewelry. This last tidbit she had trouble assimilating.

  But O’Hara did not look like a man who was biting his tongue not to laugh.

  “All right, point noted,” she agreed. “I won’t reach for anything, whether it’s thrown in my direction or not.”

  Grant nodded. “Now that I’ve at least forewarned you a little, can I ask what you have chosen as your costume?”

  He was still asking more questions than she was. That was going to have to change soon. “I hadn’t thought of wearing a costume,” she answered honestly. It hadn’t occurred to her. And now that it had, she dismissed it as frivolous. She was here to do a job, not to party.

  He couldn’t believe that someone could actually be here for Mardi Gras and not wear a costume. “Oh, but you have to. Everyone does.”

  “Why won’t you make love with me, Cheyenne? Everyone does.”

  “I’m not like everyone, Jeff. I’m not going to make love with a man until I’m married to him. If you don’t respect that, then move on.”

  And he had—taking her heart with him.

  Where had that come from? Cheyenne upbraided herself. She hadn’t thought of Jeff Dolan in years. She’d deliberately packed his memory away, along with her high school yearbook, in the bottom of a deep brown carton in the back of her walk-in closet. He’d been her first love, the first one she’d ever opened her heart to. And all he’d wanted to do was feel the area all around it—as well as other choice places.

  Cheyenne roused herself. “Maybe I just want to stand out by not wearing a costume.”

  She would never have a problem standing out, Grant judged. Not with that face and that figure. Not with a voice that sounded like finely aged whiskey being poured over honey. “There is a time to stand out and a time to blend in—although, I must say, you would stand out if you were draped in a sheet from your head to your toes.”

  He was making her uncomfortable, he realized, and while he had an urge to explore just why, Grant tactfully backed away. Other people’s discomfort only urged him on when he was conducting a business acquisition. On a personal level he thought of it as taking an unfair advantage.

  Grant took out a small black book from his inside jacket pocket. The interest that immediately flared in her eyes did not go unnoticed. He wrote a few words as a reminder to himself on a page that was already half-filled with notes. “I’ll arrange to have someone come over to fit you for a costume for this evening.”

  In Cheyenne’s opinion, the more strings O‘Hara could pull around her, the more control he had over the article she was to compile. The only control she liked exercised over her work was her own. And she was already, technically, indebted to him. She was staying in a hotel under his name. There were no rooms to be had during Carnival, but Grant O’Hara had a standing reservation at the Hotel Majesty for two suites of rooms, in case he wanted to remain in the city to entertain during the festival rather than retire to his island.

  “That’s not necessary—” she began to demur.

  He wasn’t about to be overruled. “Oh, but it is. It’s much too late to get anything, decent or otherwise, on your own in the city. Everything, including sheets,” he pointed out with a smile, “has been spoken for.”

  She smelled a definite contradiction. “Then how do you—?”

  She was trying to trip him up, he thought, amused. “I have contacts, Ms. Tarantino.” He purposely kept it vague. The more mystery around a man, the greater his power. His father had taught him that. One of the few things Shaun O‘Hara had given of himself, other than his money and his name. “Contacts—almost everywhere—are part of the upside of b
eing one of Shaun O’Hara’s sons.”

  Finally, a little meat. She tried not to look as if she was going to pounce on whatever he had to say. “And the downside?”

  “That would be the crux of tonight’s discussion.” He smiled. “Like my father, I don’t believe in giving away too much too soon.” Sparing a glance at his wristwatch, Grant rose. “I have a meeting to go to, but I will make myself available this evening, as promised.” For the first time since he’d lost to Stan, he was beginning to look forward to the interview. “Shall I come to your hotel room at, say, six?”

  That would be the last thing she’d agree to. Cheyenne had no intentions of getting into an intimate setting with this man. “No, I think it’s better if we just meet on St. Charles Avenue, as agreed. Say at the corner of St. Charles and Lafayette, just off the Square?”

  A woman who didn’t want to get him alone—now there was a switch. “I assure you that I don’t bite, Ms. Tarantino.”

  “But I do.” The retort was meant as a veiled warning, but as soon as she said it, she saw that he didn’t take it that way.

  “I look forward to that Ms.... ” Grant stopped himself with a deprecating shake of his head. “Listen, I don’t believe in being this formal with anyone but my father and God. Just what is your name?”

  She’d already told him. Obviously, the man’s memory was not as good as reported. “Cheyenne.”

  Grant shook his head. “I meant your real name, the one on your birth certificate.”

  “Cheyenne,” she repeated a little more forcefully. The smile that followed was a little slow in coming, as she decided there was no harm in elaborating just a little. “My parents met at a bus stop in Cheyenne, Wyoming.” There was no need to add that they parted there as well, a few days later. “My mother was whimsical.”

  In his opinion, there were other words for people who saddled their children with improbable names. Still, it was unique. Almost as unique as the woman herself.

  “Obviously,” he allowed. “All right, Cheyenne, I shall see you tonight at six.”

  “Wait,” she called to him before he had an opportunity to walk out of the restaurant and into the white stretch limousine that was waiting for him. “How will I know you?”

  A dark brow rose in amusement. “I thought you were a good journalist.” Grant expected her to bristle at that, and was pleased when she didn’t rise to the bait He liked a person who was confident. “Besides, I’ll know You.”

  This was much too vague for her. Cheyenne liked having everything spelled out. “If you renege, I’ll come after you.”

  She would, too, he thought. “I’d look forward to that, too, but I don’t go back on my word.” A little of the smile faded as he added, “If you’d done your homework, you’d know that.”

  He’d hit her where it counted and she rallied. “I’ve done my homework, I just don’t believe that.” Her eyes narrowed slightly as memories crowded her head of nights listening to her mother spin dreams that never came true. “Men go back on their word. It’s a fact of life.”

  Maybe he’d misjudged her. There were few things he disliked as much as someone espousing theories for shock appeal. “Feminism 101?”

  “Life 101,” she corrected.

  And with that, Cheyenne walked quickly past him out the door.

  “Can I offer you a ride somewhere?” he called after her.

  “You can offer,” she called out, looking over her shoulder, “but I’ll go my own way, thank you.”

  Grant settled in the back seat of his limousine watching her retreating back. It was, he thought, going to be one of the more interesting Mardi Gras he’d spent.

  Cheyenne frowned as she held the Grecian gown up to the window. Daylight streamed through it as if there were nothing in the way.

  “And what does this go over?” she asked the man standing behind her.

  True to his word, O’Hara had someone at her door almost as soon as she had gotten to her room. The man, who introduced himself as simply “Pierre,” came in with an entire wardrobe on wheels and refused to leave until she had made her selection for that evening.

  The pursed look on Pierre’s thin face told her that he thought the answer was obvious. “You.”

  “Didn’t O’Hara tell you to bring something that wasn’t X-rated?”

  “Mr. O’Hara didn’t select these. I did,” he informed her with umbrage. “He merely told me your size.”

  “My size?” Her eyes narrowed. “How would he know that?”

  “Mr. O’Hara has a good eye for that sort of thing.” He presented her with another costume, something he referred to as the Snow Queen. The applique was strategically placed all along the sheer bodice. “Someone of your proportions shouldn’t try to hide her best features—” he smirked again, as if nature was on his side “—after all, they don’t last.”

  Cheyenne returned the costume to the rack. “My best features are my eyes and my mind,” she informed him tersely. “Both of which are going to last a lot longer than Mr. O’Hara and tonight.”

  Pierre blew out a long-suffering breath. “All right, he did make one suggestion, in case you were more of a romantic than you led him to believe.”

  She wasn’t sure exactly what Pierre meant by that, but she let it pass. Time was growing short. “Anything is better than cellophane and snowflakes.”

  With a flourish, Pierre took out a long, dark green gown. It had long sleeves, golden fringe over one shoulder, and a jaunty little hat that he told her had to be worn tilted to the side.

  Holding the costume up against her, Pierre cocked an eyebrow, waiting.

  Cheyenne brushed her fingers over the nap. Velvet. It stirred a memory she couldn’t quite catch. “It looks familiar.”

  Well, at least she wasn’t a complete heathen. “Scarlett O’Hara’s dress when she went to plead with Rhett Butler for money,” Pierre recited. “She had it made out of—”

  “—a drape.” Cheyenne nodded, intrigued despite her best efforts not to be. “Yes, I saw the movie.” Five times, but no one needed to know that. She took the dress out of Pierre’s hands and held it up to herself. Without meaning to, she smiled at the reflection in the mirror. “Well, if I have to wear something, I guess this’ll do.” She dropped the costume on the bed. Giving her a waspish look, Pierre was quick to arrange the skirt so that it wouldn’t be crushed.

  “What’s Mr. O’Hara wearing?”

  Pierre’s smile was smug as he continued fussing over the fabric. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  With a sigh, Cheyenne retrieved her purse from the nightstand and took out her wallet. “Would twenty dollars give you more liberty?”

  Straightening, Pierre rolled his eyes and then looked at her, a pained expression on his face. “Please. Twenty dollars isn’t enough to tip a cabby tonight.”

  He was fishing for more money, but he was out of luck. There was only so far she could stretch expenses. And, like the gentleman had said earlier, she was a journalist. She’d find O’Hara. “Sorry, then I’ll just have to take my chances.”

  Rather than looking offended, Pierre seemed amused. “Yes, you will.”

  It was not going as well as she’d hoped, Cheyenne thought, struggling to keep her irritation from taking over. And it was all the fault of this damn dress.

  She swung the skirt forward to facilitate her steps, at least for the moment. The evening was unseasonably cool, but even so, the dress felt as if it weighed a ton, and moving around in it was making her perspire. She was beginning to regret her choice. At least in the Grecian gown, she would have been able to move around with ease.

  “Probably have to,” she murmured to herself, “if I wanted to keep my self-respect and a few other things intact.”

  After being on the streets for less than half an hour she’d noted that warnings about tonight hadn’t been out of line. If anything, they had been understated.

  To her surprise, Stan had called her just before she left the hotel room, reinforcing what
O’Hara had already said: be careful tonight.

  “Anything goes, Cheyenne,” Stan’s monotonic voice had droned in her ear. “Watch yourself. It might not be the kind of thing you’re used to.”

  Cheyenne thought of some of the men who had passed through the truck stop diner where she had grown up, and who had made advances on her even before she’d reached puberty. She’d learned from an early age how to take care of herself, thanks to the benevolence of a short-order cook who had taken a far keener interest in her safety than her own mother had. It was because of Miguel that she knew how to protect herself and how to tell by a man’s eyes just what he was going to try. Miguel, whose education had fallen somewhere short of the eighth grade, had been her teacher and her friend when she had most needed one.

  “You’d be surprised what I’m used to, Stan,” Cheyenne had told him. “But thanks for the thought.” While anchoring the phone between her shoulder and neck, she set the hat at a more rakish angle on her head, securing it with two bobby pins. “Actually, I was more concerned about your friend than the partying people outside.”

  “Grant?” The monotone took on a tinge of disbelief. “His reputation is for being a ladies’ man, not a womanizer.”

  Cheyenne saw no difference between the two. “Same thing.”

  For the first time in her recollection, Stan sounded offended. “Then you need a better dictionary. The first loves the company of women, the second uses them for his own pleasure. If you knew O’Hara, you’d know the difference.”

  Maybe, maybe not, she thought, reaching for the small string purse that went with the costume. “Sorry, don’t plan to stay here that long.” She checked her camera equipment for the fourth time. She’d brought with her both her old standard as well as a digital camera. “Just long enough to make Style the best-selling magazine of the year with this particular story.”

  “Which brings me to another point. Hang on to your camera when you go out. They say that pickpockets and thieves make half their income tonight.”