The Groom Said Maybe!. Sandra Marton

flooring the pedal as he flew down the highway. He was in a mood even he knew could best be described as grim.

      Now what? He had hours to kill before his flight from Boston, and he had no wish whatsoever to sit around an airport, cooling his heels.

      Not ever, but especially not now. Not when he was so annoyed he could have chewed a box of nails and spit them out as staples.

      There was always the flight out of Hartford, the one he’d turned down as being scheduled too early. Yes. He’d head for Bradley Airport, buy a ticket on that flight instead.

      Maybe he should phone, check to see if there was an available seat.

      No. What for? Bradley was a small airport. It didn’t handle a lot of traffic. Why would a plane bound for D.C. on a Sunday afternoon be booked up?

      David made a sharp right, skidded a little as he made up his mind, and took the ramp that led north toward the airport.

      The sooner he got out of here, the better. Why hang around this part of the world any longer than necessary?

      “No reason,” he muttered through his teeth, “none at all.”

      He glanced down, saw that the speedometer was edging over sixty. Was fifty-five the speed limit in Connecticut, or was it sixty-five? Back home—back in his real home, Wyoming—people drove at logical speeds, meaning you took a look at the road and the traffic and then, the sky was the limit.

      But not here.

      “Hell,” he said, and goosed the car up to sixty-five.

      He’d done what had been required, even if he had left the reception early. He’d toasted the bride and groom, paid his respects to Annie, shaken Chase’s hand and had a drink with him. That was enough. If other people wanted to hang around, dance to a too loud band, tuck into too rich food, make a pretense of having a good time, that was their business.

      Besides, he’d pretty much overstayed his welcome at table seven. David figured the Blums and the Crowders would make small talk for a month out of what had gone on between him and Stephanie, but they’d also probably cheered his defection.

      The needle on the speedometer slid past seventy.

      “Leaving so soon?” Bobbi Blum had asked, after he’d made a circuit of the ballroom and then paused at the table just long enough to convince the Blums and the Crowders that he really was insane. Her voice had been sweet, her smile syrupy enough to put a diabetic into a coma, but the look in her eyes said, “Please, oh, please, don’t tell us you’re just stepping outside to have a smoke.”

      Maybe it had something to do with the way he’d demanded to know if any of them had seen Stephanie leave.

      “I did,” Honoria had squeaked, and it was only when he’d heard that high-pitched voice that reality had finally made its way into David’s overcooked brain and he’d realized he was acting like a man one card short of a full deck.

      And for what reason? David’s mouth thinned, and he stepped down harder on the gas pedal.

      It wasn’t Honoria’s fault—it wasn’t anybody’s fault—that he’d let Stephanie Willingham poison his disposition before she’d vanished like a rabbit inside a magician’s hat.

      “Give us a break, Chambers,” he muttered.

      Who was he trying to fool? It was somebody’s fault, all right. His. He’d homed in on Stephanie like a heat-seeking missile and that wasn’t his style. He was a sophisticated man with a sophisticated approach. A smile, a phone call. Flowers, chocolates...he wasn’t in the habit of coming on to a woman with all the subtlety of a cement truck.

      He could hardly blame her for leaving without so much as a goodbye.

      Not that he cared. Well, yeah, he cared that he’d made a fool of himself, but aside from that, what did it matter? David’s hands relaxed on the steering wheel; his foot eased off the pedal. The widow Willingham was something to look at, and yes, she was an enigma. He’d bet anything that the colder-than-the-Antarctic exterior hid a hotter-than-the-Tropics core.

      Well, let some other poor sucker find out.

      He preferred his women to be soft. Feminine. Independent, yes, but not so independent you felt each encounter was only a heartbeat away from stepping into a cage with a tiger. The bottom line was that this particular babe meant nothing to him. Two, three hours from now, he’d probably have trouble remembering what she looked like. Those dark, unfathomable eyes. That lush mouth. The silken hair, and the body that just wouldn’t quit, even though she’d hidden it inside a tailored suit the color of ripe apricots.

      Apricot. That was the shade, all right. Not that he’d ever consciously noticed. If somebody had said, “Okay, Chambers, what was the widow wearing?” he’d have had to shrug and admit he hadn’t any idea.

      Not true. He did have an idea. His foot bore down on the accelerator. A very specific one. His brain had registered all the pertinent facts, like the shade of the fabric. And some nonpertinent ones, like the way the jacket fit, clinging to the rise of her breasts, then nipping in at her waist before flaring out gently over her hips. Or the way the skirt had just kissed her knees. He’d noticed the color of her stockings, too. They’d been pale gray. And filmy, like the sheerest silk.

      Were they stockings? Or were they panty hose? Who was it who’d invented panty hose, anyway? Not a man, that was certain. A man would have understood the importance of keeping women—beautiful, cool-to-the-eye women—in thigh-length stockings and garter belts. Maybe that was what she’d been wearing beneath that chastely tailored suit. Hosiery that would feel like cobwebs to his hands as he peeled them down her legs. A white lace garter belt, and a pair of tiny white silk panties....

      The shrill howl of a siren pierced the air. David shot a glance at the speedometer, muttered a quick, sharp word and pulled onto the shoulder of the road. The flashing red lights of a police cruiser filled his rearview mirror as it pulled in behind him.

      David shut off the engine and looked in his mirror again. The cop sauntering toward him was big. He was wearing dark glasses, even though the afternoon was clouding over, as if he’d seen one old Burt Reynolds’ movie too many. David sighed and let down his window. Then, without a word, he handed over his driver’s license.

      The policeman studied the license, then David.

      “Any idea how fast you were tooling along there, friend?” he asked pleasantly.

      David wrapped his hands around the steering wheel and blew out a breath.

      “Too fast.”

      “You got that right.”

      “Yeah.”

      “That’s it? Just, ‘yeah’? No story? No excuse?”

      “None you’d want to hear,” David said after a couple of seconds.

      “Try me,” the cop said. David looked at him, and he laughed. “What can I tell you? It’s been a slow day.”

      A muscle clenched in David’s jaw. “I just met a woman,” he said. “I didn’t like her. She didn’t like me, and I think—I know—I pretty much made an ass of myself. It shouldn’t matter. I mean, I know I’ll never see her again...but I can’t get her out of my head.”

      There was a silence, and then the cop sighed.

      “Listen,” he said, “you want some advice?” He handed David his license, took off his dark glasses and put his huge hands on the window ledge. “Forget the babe, whoever she is. Women are nothing but grief and worry.”

      David looked at the cop. “That they are.”

      “Damn right. Hey, I should know. I been married seven years.”

      “I should, too. I’ve been divorced seven years.”

      The two men looked at each other. Then the cop straightened up.

      “Drive