Halloween Honeymoon Read online

  She did. With a flounce of her silly hoops and a resounding slam of the door that made Josh wince. His head pounding, he walked into the bedroom and yanked off his shirt.

  Cari O’Donnell was just the kind of woman he usually made it a point to avoid, Josh reminded himself in irritation. Obviously she wasn’t up to the game as it was played by the pros, and he wasn’t ready to play it any other way. Not at this uncertain point in his life, at any rate. His mouth tight, he decided to put the woman and the whole ridiculous evening out of his mind.

  At the other end of the long chandeliered corridor, Cari echoed his thoughts exactly.

  Josh Keegan, she fumed as she waited for the elevator, was precisely the kind of man any woman with a grain of common sense would avoid like the flu! He was too sure of himself. Too smooth. Too darn handsome and unsettling. Like a virulent virus, he’d raised her blood to fever pitch. Given her the shakes. Left her disoriented. She was lucky she’d gotten out of his hotel room without requiring medical attention!

  The elevator doors opened, and Cari swished inside, still fuming. Only now her anger was directed as much at herself as at Keegan. She shook her head in disgust, remembering how she’d melted against the man like a lump of microwaved chocolate.

  Melted? Ha! She’d just about puddled around his ankles. Hadn’t she learned her lesson with Edward? Did she have to make a fool of herself all over again, this time with a perfect stranger, before she learned to tread warily where men were concerned?

  She stepped out of the elevator, anxious to get home and put this whole idiotic night behind her. She needed to regain her equilibrium, to retreat into her research books and a world populated by her beloved Elizabethans. Sir Francis Drake might have been a pirate who lived in a bawdy, freewheeling era, but he had class. He wouldn’t just invite a woman to get naked and…

  “Miss O’Donnell?”

  The low, musical voice slowed Cari’s determined march through the lobby. She turned, recognizing the dark-eyed woman who filled out her black leotards and cat’s ears in a way Josh Keegan would certainly have appreciated.

  “Yes?”

  The woman gave Cari a friendly smile. “I’m Lucy Falco, from Gulliver’s Travels. I just wanted to give you your prize.”

  Cari stared blankly at the envelope the woman held out.

  “The donation we matched for charity?” Lucy went on. “The one we converted to a honeymoon cruise for two?”

  “This joke has gone far enough. There isn’t going to be any honeymoon.”

  The older woman blinked at the curt reply. “Of course not. But you were a good sport to go along with the whole charade. Here, the prize is yours.”

  Cari took the thick packet with a mumbled word of thanks. She knew she sounded ungracious, but she was still off balance from her encounter with Atlanta’s favorite perennial bachelor. Collecting her velvet cloak from the coat-check room, she swung it around her shoulders, stuffed the prize envelope in a side pocket and hurried out of the hotel.

  As she crossed to the adjacent parking lot, a sharp October breeze swirled fallen leaves around her ankles and stole some of the heat from Cari’s cheeks. By the time she located her reliable old Buick and worked her farthingale under the steering wheel, she’d regained a measure of her composure.

  Only to almost lose it again, as Josh Keegan’s face floated before her every time she stopped for a red light. The grainy photos in the tabloids hadn’t done him justice, she admitted grudgingly. They certainly hadn’t picked up the mahogany lights in his dark hair, or the whiteness of his smile against his tanned skin. Or the way his laughter softened the square, uncompromising line of his jaw.

  Her mouth tight, Cari negotiated the Buick through the city streets, then headed south on I-85. Fifteen minutes later, she turned off the interstate and drove through tree-lined streets. Most of the homes in this older, residential area housed faculty and students from Billings College—a good number of whom had been up to some Halloween pranks, Cari soon saw. Toilet-paper streamers decorated several yards, while a straw-stuffed dummy with a startling resemblance to the dean of the business school occupied a chair balanced precariously atop a flagpole just outside the west gate to the campus.

  Relieved to see that her apartment complex hadn’t suffered anything more than a few smashed pumpkins, Cari parked in her assigned slot. By angling her skirts sideways, she managed to negotiate the stairs to her upper-story apartment.

  The cheerful clutter of her home welcomed her like an old friend. Over the years, Cari had spent far more on books than on furniture. They spilled out of the wall-to-wall bookshelves, vying for space with the jumble of green plants that Cari nurtured like children. More stacks of books and potted plants made an obstacle course out of her living room floor. Another tall pile sat beside a feathery fern on her roll-top desk, which constituted the only piece of furniture in the room, apart from a comfortable, well-worn sofa. Colorful prints from the Museum of History and Science decorated the off-white walls, along with an ornately framed portrait of an early Dutch settler that Cari had picked up at a garage sale. She blew him a kiss as she weaved her way through the stacks to her bedroom.

  “Hello, Van Dyke.”

  Shrugging out of her cloak, she reached in the closet for a hanger. Only then did she remember the envelope stuffed in its pocket. She dug through the velvet folds and pulled out the thick packet. Curious, she riffled through the contents, then extracted a glossy brochure. Her breath caught in sheer delight at the picture on the front.

  A gleaming white yacht. A sparkling aquamarine bay. Tall palms fringing a curving shore.

  Opening the brochure, she skimmed the bold print. Nassau. Saint Thomas. Grand Cayman Island. Cancún. A ten-day cruise, exploring the splendors of the past while cradled in every luxury the present could offer.

  Intrigued, she read on. Old forts. Sunken treasure. Ancient Mayan pyramids. A select group of ten passengers. An experienced captain and crew, one of whom was a world-class chef.

  The perfect honeymoon for a history buff, Cari thought with a small smile. If she’d planned the trip herself, she couldn’t have come up with a more idyllic itinerary. Sighing, she flipped the brochure over and skimmed the departure dates.

  The next cruise left from Miami tomorrow afternoon.

  Cari stared at the date for several long moments, then shook her head. No! No way! She couldn’t afford a cruise like this, unless the prize package covered every major expense.

  Did it?

  Curious, she dug through envelope once more. Good grief, it did. Even the taxi fare from Miami airport to where the yacht was docked.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake! Assuming there was still cabin space available, she couldn’t just take off for ten days. Not at this uncertain juncture in her life. Tossing the brochure on the antique chest that served as a nightstand, she reached for the drawstring of her heavy skirt.

  Why couldn’t she?

  The wayward thought stilled her fingers. She wouldn’t hear about the grant until the end of next week. If she got it, she wouldn’t come up for air, much less take a vacation, for the next six months. If she didn’t, she’d be pounding the streets looking for short-term work while she circulated her résumé.

  No! She was nuts to even consider it. She had too much work to do on her thesis, too many uncertainties in her life right now, to go cruising through the Caribbean.

  Three

  Josh woke to a sunshine-filled room and a blessed absence of pain. Lacing his hands behind his head, he enjoyed both. Gradually memories of the night before filtered through his lazy contentment.

  He’d pulled a few crazy stunts in his time, for charity, for publicity, and occasionally just for laughs and to release the intense pressures that built up on the tour. Once, he and a left-handed competitor had switched clubs on a bet and kept the gallery hooting with laughter during a wild practice round. Early in his rookie days, Josh had shown up for a tournament hosted by “friends of the environment.” They’d b
een friendly, all right. The friendliest nudists Josh had ever played a round of golf with. He’d gotten burned that day on parts of his body that rarely saw the sun.

  But last night’s escapade ranked right up there among his crazier stunts. In the bright light of day, he had a hard time believing he’d actually exchanged phony marriage vows with a complete stranger in front of a ballroom full of partygoers.

  Although…

  For a while last night, it had appeared that the gag would lead to some unexpected fringe benefits. His bride had the softest, fullest, sweetest mouth Josh had tasted in a long time. Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember ever experiencing such an instantaneous, explosive reaction to a kiss.

  The image of Cari O’Donnell’s expressive eyes and wide, generous mouth teased at Josh, banishing his early-morning lethargy. One by one, his muscles tensed. An echo of the desire that had gripped him last night threaded through his veins.

  Josh frowned, wondering just what it was about Cari that had gotten under his skin like this. Sure, her tawny hair, creamy skin and huge brown eyes would snare any man’s interest. Despite her piquant appeal, however, this particular woman came complete with a bundle of feminine contradictions that confused the hell out of him.

  She’d rigged herself out in a costume that displayed most of her upper deck, yet she’d blushed like a schoolgirl when his appreciative gaze lingered on the view. For all her initial reluctance to participate in the mock ceremony, she’d been willing enough to come up to his room for a private postwedding celebration. What was more, she’d tumbled into his arms with an eagerness that set Josh’s blood pounding, then pushed herself away and laid into him with a few scathing words.

  He grimaced at the memory. Oversexed, overmuscled jock that he was, he’d obviously made a few wrong assumptions about Cari, but he was damned if he knew what they were.

  He shook his head, deciding to put her and the whole incident out of his mind. He had more important matters to concern him at this point in his life. Like earning a living.

  Flinging aside the sheets, he called room service for a light breakfast, then padded naked to the bathroom. While he waited for the shower to heat, he reviewed the game plan he’d laid out last night.

  First he’d call Walt Henshaw, his longtime trainer, to set up a session at the country club where Walt worked as PGA pro.

  Next he’d check out of the hotel and get his butt home to collect his gear. He’d stayed here last night only because his vision wasn’t reliable enough for night driving. He could be at the club within an hour, two at most.

  Then he’d start swinging a club again. It was timepast time!—he learned to connect a club face with a ball while wearing a patch over one eye. The doctors gave him fifty-fifty odds on regaining full sight, but Josh couldn’t wait around for the dice to roll. If he laid off his game much longer, he’d lose both his rhythm and his competitive edge.

  Stepping into the steamy shower, he lifted his face to the hot, stinging pellets. Fierce determination surged through him, as strong as any he’d felt during his years on the circuit. He itched to hold a club in his hands again and hear the satisfying crack of a ball solidly hit.

  He’d just stepped out of the shower and pulled on a thick terry robe with the hotel’s logo on the pocket when a sharp rap on the door to his suite heralded the arrival of his breakfast. Impatient now to get started on his agenda, Josh belted the robe and strode into the sitting room.

  “Morning, Mr. Keegan.”

  “Good morning.”

  A tall, gangly youth in a maroon waiter’s jacket deposited a silver tray containing a coffee carafe, a basket of rolls and a neatly folded newspaper on the table by the window. Josh took the pen he offered, added a hefty tip to the total and scribbled his name across the bill.

  The waiter pocketed the ticket, then hesitated. “Would you mind signing your name again? As an autograph, I mean. My dad’s a big fan of yours. He still talks about your two-iron shot to the green during the U.S. Open three years ago. He’ll have a bird if I bring home your autograph.”

  “Better he has a birdie,” Josh replied with an easy grin as he turned over a paper napkin. “What’s his name?”

  The door closed behind the beaming waiter a few moments later. Josh poured himself a cup of coffee and flipped open the morning edition of the Atlanta Constitution. When he spotted the picture in the lower left-hand corner of the third page, he choked on a gulp of coffee. Swallowing hastily, Josh stared at the grainy shot.

  A bleary-eyed judge with an old-fashioned wig dangling precariously on one side of his head glared back at him. Setting aside his coffee cup, Josh picked up the paper and read the caption under the picture.

  Retired state supreme court justice Benjamin Tyce III was arrested after driving his vehicle through the front window of Comet Laundry and Dry Cleaning. When charged with driving under the influence, Justice Tyce announced that he’d stopped by to pick up his shirts.

  “I’ll be damned. The little guy was for real.”

  Grinning, Josh flipped to page twelve to read the accompanying story. When he got to the last paragraph, his grin slipped.

  Judge Tyce protested his arrest, citing an obscure statute enacted more than a century ago that grants supreme court judges extraordinary powers. The district attorney is confident the DUI charges will stand, however. His office plans to issue a statement later today concerning the disposition of the case.

  Eyes narrowing, Josh skimmed the short paragraph again. Obscure act? Extraordinary powers? The first tendrils of unease curled in his chest.

  What the heck was the phrase the judge used last night? Plenipotentiary powers? Everyone, Josh included, had assumed he’d pulled it out of his hat as part of the joke. Maybe…maybe it wasn’t a joke.

  His unease sharpening to a deep foreboding, Josh strode to the desk, staring at the paper fisted in one hand. Yanking up the phone, he punched in his longtime friend’s number.

  When Harry came on the line, Josh gave him a succinct summary of the newspaper article, liberally interspersed with acidic comments about his friend’s harebrained ideas. Then he held the receiver away from his ear while the lawyer whooped with laughter.

  “If you’re through,” he asked icily when Harry’s bull-like hoots had dwindled to devilish cackles, “you might just tell me if there’s any possibility the ceremony was really legal.”

  “It’s possible,” the lawyer replied between snickers. “We still have all kinds of archaic statutes on the books that have never been repealed. Did you know it’s against the law to tie your horse to a hitching post on the left side of the street on Sundays? I think that one has something to do with giving the street sweeper a break so he could attend church services.”

  Josh ground his teeth and suggested a few places Harry could tie his horse. That set his friend off again.

  “This is priceless,” Harry wheezed some moments later. “Absolutely priceless. Wait till I call Joan.”

  “Oh, right! All I need is for the programming chief of CNN news to hear about this!”

  “C’mon, Josh. She’s my wife. Aside from the fact that she’s been after you for years to give up your philandering ways, she’ll kill me if someone else scoops the story.”

  “I’m going to kill you if anyone scoops this story.” Josh drew in a deep breath. “Give me a break here, Harry. The hoopla from the accident has finally died down. I want to start swinging a club again, and I can’t do it with a pack of photographers and cameramen recording and analyzing every shot I miss.”

  The merriment left his friend’s voice instantly. Harry was one of the few people who’d witnessed the disastrous results the few times Josh had tried to hit a ball since the accident.

  “Let me check into this, buddy. You’d better give me the phone number for your, ah, wife. In case I need to contact her. What was her name?”

  “Caren O’Donnell,” Josh answered tightly. “She goes by Cari. I don’t have her number.”

  �
�What? We all saw you carry her out of the ballroom and head for the elevators. Don’t tell me you duffed your shot with her?”

  “Big-time.”

  “Oh-oh. Well, see if you can track her down while I check out the judge’s exact legal powers.” Harry hesitated. “She’s probably read the newspaper story by now. We might have to do a little damage control here, pal.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Look, I specialize in corporate tax shelters, not divorces. But it might not be as easy to get you out of this marriage as it was to get you into it. If it turns out you’re really married, our best bet is to resolve the matter quickly, before your wife—”

  “Will you stop with the wife business!”

  “Before Ms. O’Donnell starts thinking about things like community property and alimony.”

  If she did, Josh thought cynically as he hung up a few moments later, she was in for a rude awakening. Two very expensive eye surgeries and their attendant medical expenses had eaten a big chunk out of his well-publicized winnings. Given his questionable future on the pro tour at this point, Josh couldn’t count on any income from that source. Sure, he had plenty of offers from sports equipment companies, begging him to endorse their products, but he wasn’t any more ready to make a full-time career out of hustling golf shoes than he was chairing charity events.

  Dammit, he didn’t need a complication like this! Not now. Not when he’d decided to try to get his game going again.

  Simmering with frustration, he yanked open the desk drawer and hefted out the white pages. He might as well track Cari down and arrange to meet her this afternoon—in Harry’s presence.

  He didn’t find a listing for Caren or Cari O’Donnell in the Atlanta directory, but he did find seventeen C. O’Donnells. Swearing, Josh started dialing.

  Eleven answering machines, four wrong numbers, one hang-up and one disconnected line later, he was no closer to finding his prey. He hadn’t recognized any of the voices on the answering machines. He could only assume that Cari had arranged for a male friend to make the recording to disguise the fact she lived alone. Either that, or she lived outside the Atlanta area.