Fiancé at Her Fingertips (18 page)

He gave her a puzzled look. “No, not really,” he said. “But this is hardly the first time I didn’t understand you. I’ve gotten used to it.” He gave her a soft, lingering kiss. A good-bye kiss. He just didn’t know it yet.

Tears pooled in Debra’s eyes. By sheer force of will, she prevented them from falling. Instead she smiled and let Logan lead her to her seat in the huge party room. She stumbled
when she realized she would be seated on the platform next to him. She stared at the blurred faces that filled the tables below. Someone ought to alert the fire department to standby status, she decided. With the number of lawyers gathered in the room, a seriously dangerous amount of hot air was certain to build up. The threat of combustion had to be off the scale. Debra chuckled, fighting hysteria.

“What’s so amusing?” Logan asked.

“I haven’t seen this many attorneys since the Florida recount debacle,” she replied.

Logan laughed. “They’re not all attorneys.”

“Oh?”

“Some are judges.”

Debra tried to laugh but couldn’t.

“Hungry?” Logan asked.

When a waiter appeared to take their drink orders, Debra said, “I think I could use a—”

“Mineral water for the lady,” Logan interrupted. “I’ll have a light beer.”

She shot him a dark look.

“Sorry, sweetheart, no fuzzy navels for you this evening. I want you fully aware, fully alert, and fully awake tonight. Odd,” he said. “I don’t see my folks anywhere.”

“Oh?”

“I understood they were to present the award—they like to get people who know the recipient really well to speak.”

Debra grimaced. Could things get any worse? Mother Ione would be on hand to witness her son being dumped by his Amazonian girlfriend on one of the most important nights of his legal career. She could hear the woman now:
I
knew
she wasn’t suitable. A state job. No master’s degree. And
those feet!

Debra took a long swig of mineral water and wished for something a bit more substantial—like, say, a bottle of tequila. The room continued to fill up. Logan introduced her to a multitude of nameless, faceless men and women. Debra smiled and nodded, all the while looking for a way out of
this mess. A rescue. A reprieve. A fire alarm. A bomb threat. Anything.

Logan grabbed her sweaty, trembling hand and squeezed. “Nervous?” he asked.

“Me? Ner vous?” Her voice squeaked. She sounded like Minnie Mouse. “Why should I be nervous?”

“I assumed you might feel a little uncomfortable up here with all the beady little shyster eyes dissecting you.”

“I’ve kind of gotten used to that, I guess,” she said. “Your beady little shyster eyes have been doing it for the last couple months.”

“Ah, but I’m looking through the eyes of love,” he whispered.

Debra’s breath caught in her throat, and she made a strangled little sound. Love? Love? He dared speak of love at a time like this? When she was about to hack his heart into convenient little bite-size pieces?

“What? No scathing comebacks, Debra Josephine? No witty repartee? No classic Debra Daniels put-downs?” He put a hand to her forehead. “Are you ill?”

She nodded her head yes, but found herself saying, “No, I’m fine.”

Those classic Debra Daniels put-downs would come later, after Logan had collected his award, received his well-deserved accolades, and basked in the hard-earned praise of his colleagues. Then she would screw her courage to the sticking point and make a clean break.

The first cut
, she told herself,
is always the deepest
.

It was not the most comforting of thoughts.

The evening began with the usual preliminaries: boring general business, endless introductions, dignitaries to kiss up to, followed by the required roast. The last, rather lackluster speaker had finished up his comments on their Man of the Year and was moving to the real meat and potatoes of the evening. Debra listened closely as he began with a general background of Logan’s life.

Logan Alexander had been an All-State football and basketball player in high school, and had moved on to play two years of college ball at the University of Missouri before a knee injury sidelined him. He had graduated first in his law school class and worked in the St. Louis area before moving to Springfield seven years ago. In cooperation with the Women’s Resource Center of greater Springfield, Logan Alexander had, the speaker said, championed the cause of abused women who fought to free themselves and their children from the fear and danger of domestic violence. He donated legal services and represented women in court unable to afford competent counsel. Logan Alexander also worked with the resource center to find homes for these families, and to help place these women in well-paying jobs.

Stunned, Debra listened to Logan’s impressive record of community action and compassionate outreach to women and children in need. She felt dazed. Bewildered. Damned confused.

Despite the fact that she happened to be sitting next to a living, breathing, gorgeous hunk of manhood who appeared to be crazy about her—this last fact alone meant there had to be something very wrong with him—she knew she’d
bought
Lawyer Logan, lock, stock, and legal briefs. She’d bought him in a store. She just knew it. He hadn’t even been her first choice. If Farmer Frank had been available, would she instead be wearing hip boots and slopping hogs at this very moment?

No, Lawyer Logan was not supposed to be real. He was not supposed to be the man of her dreams. He was not supposed to charm her family and be everybody’s darling. And he was not, under any circumstances, supposed to make her fall in love with him.

Debra’s breath came in quick, shallow puffs.
Hold it, hold
it, hold it
. What was that about falling in love?

“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Logan Alexander, Man of the Year!” Exuberant applause jolted Debra out of her hyperventilation-inducing reflections. Logan now stood by the lectern and shook the speaker’s hand.

A tiny figure walked across the stage toward the lectern. Debra frown, puzzled. A child? A child was presenting the Bar Association award?

“Good evening, ladies and gentleman.” The wee little person had reached the podium, her voice oddly familiar. “Logan, I know your parents were supposed to present this award to you, but I twisted their arm and asked that they permit me to have this great honor.”

“Catrina?” she heard Logan say.

Catrina?
The
Catrina? Catrina was here? Debra saw Logan’s body stiffen and guessed he was as surprised by the identity of the guest presenter as she was.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Catrina Stanton. Catrina Stanton Travers. This is the first time I’ve ever done anything like this, so bear with me. I’ve known Logan Alexander since before we were high school sweethearts. He’s been a part of my life—an important part of my life—for
as long as I care to remember, and when I heard he was getting this well-deserved award, I very much wanted to be a part of it as well. So, I convinced his mother to permit me to present the award for old times’ sake.”

Lawyer Logan glanced back at Debra and gave her a reassuring smile. She could not, for the life of her, return it.

“I did so, however, under false pretenses. You see, the thought of missing out on this very special night—and perhaps so much more—was simply unbearable,” Catrina Stanton Travers went on. “So, Logan, I’ve decided to not only take this opportunity to congratulate you on this outstanding recognition, but also in front of all these people gathered to pay tribute to you, tell you how much you mean to me, how much I owe you, how you’ve given me hope and love and the courage to act. But most of all, I wanted to let you know, before I lost what ever nerve I’ve gained as a result of you being in my life, that I’m finally ready. Ready to begin again. Ready to start that new and exciting life you promised was out there for me. I know what I want now. I’m ready to be happy, Logan. And thanks to you, I’m not afraid to go after that happiness—and embrace it with all that I am.”

The audience was pin-drop silent. At a time when there should be an explosion of applause and cheering, there was nothing but a faint buzz around the room. The audience watched this little soap opera unfold with bloodlust in their eyes.

Stunned, herself, Debra strained to catch a better glimpse of the woman who had the audacity to show up uninvited to an awards function and profess her love for someone else’s fiancé. Well, faux fiancé. “Move that man-of-the-year keester, Lawyer Logan,” she muttered. “I’ve got to get a look at this piece of work.”

Logan obligingly took a step back and, for the first time, Debra got a good look. And from where she sat, the view wasn’t pretty—in a manner of speaking.

She definitely should have had a clue. The men in the audience with their tongues hanging out should have been
warned her. The glares of their dates should have made this a no-brainer. Yet, she was still flabbergasted by what she saw. Catrina was beautiful. Gorgeous, in fact. A goddess. A cameo confection. Absolute and total perfection. A fitting mate for the perfect man, she was dark, dramatic, and dainty. Impeccably coifed, she was dressed to the nines, poised and articulate, and at ease with this legion of litigators. The perfect politician’s wife. In other words, she was everything Debra wasn’t.

“So, with hope for the future and with my heart in my hand, along with this token of so many others’ high esteem for you, I am proud to present you with the Illinois Bar Association’s Man of the Year Award. Congratulatons, dear, dear Logan. Well done.”

Logan reached out and took the plaque. He seemed stunned. Off-balance. Debra watched Catrina step into Logan’s open arms and he embraced her, clutching her fiercely to his chest as she raised up on tip-toes to kiss him. Debra raised an eyebrow and waited for Logan to end the kiss. And waited. And waited.

The gasps, twitters, whispers and coughs of the spellbound audience dared her to appear unflustered and unaffected by a kiss that seemed to drag on longer than commercials during the Super Bowl. Debra looked out into the crowd, disturbed by the pity reflected in the looks directed at her.

Pity?
Pity?
Was this the worst embarrassment of a date she’d ever had?

Debra’s thoughts took a surprising direction. She found herself replaying Catrina’s impassioned talk of new beginnings and fresh starts. Of hopes for the future. And hearts in hands. She recalled Alva Daniels’s championing of Catrina as the perfect marriage partner for her son, and Debra found herself grudgingly respecting the self-assurance and, yes, even courage, Catrina had just demonstrated by professing her feelings for Logan so publicly. Debra thought of her reticence to put herself out there, to act spontaneously and roll with the flow. To shoot from the hip. She thought
of how she hated crowds and being the center of attention. And how she was probably too old to change now. She looked at Catrina and back at the audience, hushed and expectant.

Maybe this was Providence’s way of showing Debra that it really wasn’t meant to be. Lawyer Logan and her. Maybe Catrina was the lovely catalyst Debra needed to do what she came here to do. To cut Lawyer Logan loose. Maybe Logan and Catrina were meant to be. Debra never would have fit comfortably in Logan Alexander’s world. She could see that now. She ought to have had her head examined for not seeing it before.

And she would. Just as soon as she got back home.

But now? Now she had unfinished business to attend. It was time for the curtain to fall on Debra Daniels’s Dream Date Extravaganza. And thanks to the fates, she’d just been handed the perfect provocation with which to bring that curtain down: A woman scorned—and hold the recriminations.

Debra took a deep breath and fished into the only cute, beaded clutch bag she would probably ever own—and would never be able to look at again after tonight—searching for the prop she needed. And the courage to do what had to be done. For Logan’s sake. For her own sanity. No matter how much it hurt.

She stood and moved toward the couple, each movement completed as if choreographed by Hollywood’s finest. Debra snagged someone’s full glass of champagne along the way, a bit tempted to instead put it to her lips and drain it. But she didn’t.

Debra knew the exact moment that the cute, adorable little Catrina spotted her; she pulled her mouth from Logan’s, her divine little rosebud lips formed a perfect O, and her magnificent caramel-colored eyes blinked once. And again.

Debra smelled fear. She smiled.
Good
.

She turned to Logan. Her chest ached with the strain of holding in the feelings she’d harnessed just for the occasion.
This might very well be the last time she would see Lawyer Logan Alexander—or even speak his name. Well, except for on a shrink’s couch, that is. She would make a memory to serve her in her old age, etch each and every detail of his face into her brain to keep with her always. The crystal blue of his eyes. The arrogant strength of his jaw. The lazy lock of hair tumbling onto his forehead. The lopsided grin. The Plum Passion lipstick all over his mouth.

The Plum Passion lipstick all over his mouth!?

Debra raised the glass of champagne in Logan’s direction. His eyebrow rose. She took a sip. He frowned. She smiled again.

“Congratulations, Lawyer Logan,” she said, and took one more sip—then hurled the remaining contents into his face. Not giving herself a chance to back out, she barreled full speed ahead. “Congratulations, you two-timing, lying, womanizing letch! You three-piece-suited, scum-sucking slimeball! I…I hope your starched collars choke the daylights out of you! Man of the Year? Ha, try Weasel of the Century. You…you impostor! I hope you know what you can do with that plaque there. Have you no shame? Have you no heart? Oh, pardon me, what was I thinking? Of course you don’t. You’re a friggin’ lawyer!”

Logan took a step toward her and reached a hand out in her direction. “Debra—”

“Don’t even think about touching me. Not when you’re standing there with some other woman’s lipstick all over your face!”

“Debra, listen—”

But Debra couldn’t risk listening. If she did, she would forgive him her embarrassment, listen to his excuses, throw herself in his arms and yell,
Take me! I’m not fragile or porcelain
or tiny and helpless, and I’m no great shakes at public speaking,
but you’ll never get a crick in your neck kissing me. Take
me!

She felt the tears well up. Oh, God, if she didn’t get out of here now, she would fall at his feet and beg forgiveness. And for forever.

“Listen? Listen to what? More lies? More legalese? No, thanks.” She took the billfold-size photo of Logan that had come with the Fiancé at Your Fingertips box and began to rip it into small pieces. “It’s over, Lawyer Logan,” she said, and threw the tiny scraps in the air to rain down on him and Catrina—like rice at a wedding, she thought. “It’s finally over.”

She managed to make her way down the steps off the stage and through the crowd. She held her head high, her shoulders erect, and her backbone stiff. But inside of Debra, where no one could see, her heart was breaking.

Back in her hotel room, Debra sniffled, blew her nose, and watched the clock. Nine thirty. Nine thirty-one. Nine thirty-two. She began to pace. What was taking him so long? How long could it take to get from the banquet room to the fourth floor? He would follow her and try to explain, wouldn’t he? Not that she would let him, of course, but he was still supposed to try. Wasn’t he? Ten. Ten thirty. Eleven. Eleven thirty.

He wasn’t coming. Was he?

Debra opened the door and peeked out into the hall. What kind of man gave up without even trying? What kind of lawyer surrendered without a fight, settled without negotiation, pleaded guilty without trying for a plea bargain? She bit her lower lip. She hoped he was all right. She’d unloaded big-time on him in front of all those high muckety-mucks. Now that she thought about it, she might have affected his career negatively. He was bound to be angry. Furious, in fact. But then, why hadn’t she heard from him?

She stepped out into the hall and crept down to the front desk. “Could you tell me, is the Illinois Bar Association banquet still meeting?”

The desk clerk shook his head. “Broke up about twenty minutes ago, ma’am. I believe some of them found their way into the lounge.”

Debra thanked him and headed in that direction. How on
earth would she explain being there? What could she say to him?
Better presoak that shirt? So, you’re into midgets, huh? I’m
so sorry; please forgive me?

Debra stopped at the lounge entrance and peeked in. A smoky haze dropped the ceiling in the dimly lit room, and a live band was preparing to begin their last set of the evening. She slunk toward the bar and slumped into the nearest empty stool, searching the haze for that familiar dark head and lady-killer smile.

“What can I get you?”

Debra looked at the bartender. “You have any night-vision lenses back there?”

“Huh?” He stared at her.

“I’ll take a ginger ale.”

He filled her order, and she swiveled in her seat to survey the room. The band was starting up. Where was Logan? He hadn’t returned to his room. She knew, because she’d kept her ear to the connecting door.

“So, we meet again, Miss Bond.”

Debra twirled to face the man on the stool beside her. She groaned. “Burger Boy.”

He nodded. “Are you okay? You look kind of down. Is there anything I can do? I feel real bad about earlier.”