The Groom Said Maybe!. Sandra Marton

will win the war.”

      “They’ll probably win it anyway,” David said, and drove off.

      

      A war.

      That’s was what it was, all right.

      Men against women. Hell, why limit it? It was male against female. No species was safe. One sex played games, the other sex went crazy.

      David strode into the departures terminal at the airport, his garment carrier slung over his shoulder.

      That was what all that nonsense had been today. A war game. The interval with the policeman had given him time to rethink things, and he’d finally figured out what had happened at that wedding.

      Stephanie Willingham had been on maneuvers.

      It wasn’t that he’d come on too hard. It was that she’d been setting up an ambush from the moment in church when they’d first laid eyes on each other. He’d made the mistake of letting his gonads do his thinking and, bam, he’d fallen right into the trap.

      On the other hand... David frowned as he took his place on the tail end of a surprisingly long line at the ticket counter. On the other hand, the feminine stratagems she’d used were unlike any he’d ever experienced.

      Some women went straight into action. They’d taken the equality thing to heart. “Hello,” they’d purr, and then they’d ask a few questions—were you married, involved, whatever—and if you gave the right answers, they made it clear they were interested.

      He liked women who did that, admired them for being straightforward, though in his heart of hearts, he had to admit he still enjoyed doing things the old-fashioned way. There was a certain pleasure in doing the pursuing. If a woman played just a little hard to get, it heightened the chase and sweetened the moment of surrender.

      But Stephanie Willingham had gone overboard.

      She hadn’t just played hard to get. She’d played impossible.

      The line shuffled forward and David shuffled along with it.

      Maybe he really wasn’t her type. Maybe she hadn’t found his looks to her liking.

      No. There was such a thing as modesty but there was such a thing as honesty, too, and the simple truth was that he hadn’t had trouble getting female attention since his voice had gone down and his height had gone up, way back in junior high school.

      Maybe she just didn’t like men. Maybe her interests lay elsewhere. Anything was possible in today’s confused, convoluted, three-and-four-gender world.

      No. Uh-uh. Stephanie Willingham was all female. He’d bet everything he had on that.

      What was left, then? If she hadn’t found him repugnant, if she wasn’t interested in women...

      David frowned. Maybe she was still in love with her husband.

      “Hell,” he said, under his breath. The elderly woman standing in front of him looked around, eyebrows lifted. David blushed. “Sorry. I, uh, I didn’t expect this line to be so long...”

      “Never expect anything,” the woman said. “My Earl always said that. If you don’t expect anything, you can’t be disappointed.”

      Philosophy, on a ticket line in Connecticut? David almost smiled. On the other hand, it was probably good advice. And he’d have taken it to heart, if he’d needed to. But he didn’t, because he was never going to see Stephanie Willingham again. How come he kept forgetting that?

      End of problem. End of story. The line staggered forward. By the time David reached the ticket counter, he was smiling.

      

      “Mrs. Willingham?”

      Honoria Crowder let the door to the ladies’ room of the Stratham Country Club swing shut behind her.

      “Mrs. Willingham? Stephanie?”

      Honoria peered at the line of closed stalls. Then she rolled her eyes, bent down and checked for feet showing under the doors. A pair of shiny black pumps peeped from beneath the last door on the end.

      “He’s gone,” she said.

      The door swung open and Stephanie looked out. “You’re sure?”

      “Positive. The coast is clear. Mr. Chambers left.”

      “You saw him go?”

      “With my very own eyes, Stephanie. He gave us the third degree and when we’d convinced him you’d left, he did, too.”

      “I’m terribly sorry to have put you through all this, Mrs. Crowder.”

      “Honoria.”

      “Honoria.” Stephanie hesitated. “I know my behavior must seem—it must seem...” Odd? Bizarre? Strange? “Unusual,” she said. “And I’m afraid I really can’t explain it.”

      “No need,” Honoria said politely.

      It was a lie. Honoria Crowder would have sold her soul for an explanation. She’d felt like a voyeur, watching the sparks bounce between the Chambers man and this woman. She’d said as much to Hayden, even added that anybody standing too close could almost have gotten singed. Hayden had given one of his prissy little smiles as if he had no idea what she was talking about—but Bobbi Blum, who’d turned out to be lots more perceptive than she’d looked, had leaned over as she’d danced by in her husband’s arms and whispered that what Honoria had just said was God’s honest truth.

      “I’m not sure if those two are going to haul off and slug each other senseless, or if they’re going to grab hold of each other and just...” She’d blushed. “Just, you know...”

      Honoria knew. She wouldn’t have put it quite so bluntly, but yes, that about summed things up. The Willingham woman and that man had turned out to be the entertainment of the day.

      “It isn’t as if I was afraid of him, you understand.”

      Honoria blinked. “Beg pardon?”

      “That man. David Chambers.” Stephanie cleared her throat. “I, uh, I wouldn’t want anyone to think he’d, you know, threatened me or anything.”

      “Oh. Well, no, no, actually I didn’t—”

      “It’s just that he...that I...that I felt it was best if...if...”

      If what, Stephanie? Why are you acting like such an idiot? Why are you hiding in the ladies’ room, as if this were prom night and you’d just discovered that your slip was showing?

      Stephanie grabbed for the doorknob. “Thanks again.”

      The door swung shut, and that was it. Honoria Crowder sighed, washed her hands, and headed back to table seven.

      “Fascinating,” Bobbi Blum said when Honoria told her the latest details over decaf and wedding cake.

      “Interesting,” Honoria corrected.

      Bobbi leaned closer. “Wasn’t he just drop-dead gorgeous?”

      Honoria opened her mouth and started to correct her there, as well. Drop-dead gorgeous was such a New York kind of phrase. It was overblown. Overdone. Over-dramatic...

      But my goodness, it was accurate.

      That build. Those eyes. The hair. The face... Honoria’s inborn New England sense of reticence deserted her, and she sighed.

      “Drop-dead gorgeous, indeed,” she murmured.

      David Chambers surely was.

      The wonder of it was that Stephanie Willingham hadn’t seemed to notice.

      

      Stephanie got into her rented Ford, snapped the door locks, and turned on the engine. She checked the traffic in both directions, then pulled out of the parking lot.