Chapter 53
Stuart managed to discourage plans for a weekend bachelor drink-fest either in Las Vegas or Miami.
He had been through enough of them as a friend and occasional groomsman and had no desire to suffer through one of his own.
At thirty-two, most of his friends were already married, some with toddlers, and, frankly, it was time to grow up.
During his wildest days he’d been only a midrange hell-raiser, certainly no match for some of his frat brothers, two of whom were now in recovery.
Both had quietly informed him that they would not miss the wedding but would avoid the parties.
Nash had said there would be no parties, just a quiet, simple wedding with a fine dinner afterward.
Rae Claire was even less interested in throwing herself a party.
Because she had not joined a sorority at her small college, and had fewer friends than Stuart, it was easy to stifle any chatter about a bachelorette weekend.
She had been invited to only one, five years earlier, and thought it a waste.
That friend, the bride, had not been heard from in at least three years.
Rumor was she was going through a divorce.
Rae Claire forced herself to work the social media fronts and give the impression that she was deeply in love and living in la-la land.
Just counting the days until the wedding, then off on a magical honeymoon.
She had posted stock photos of the famous sights of Paris, all of them known to anyone who might be curious.
She posted photos of restaurants they planned to visit, even the menus.
There were photos of her groom, in all his splendor, grinning in each with a forced smile.
She included a photo of their romantic hotel on the Left Bank and daily itineraries of their week in heaven.
She found everything posted by Chelsea Tanner, Beth Snyder, even Milly Stockman from three, almost four, years earlier, and tried to mimic it.
Little wonder they were stalked in Paris; they handed the kidnappers blueprints of where they were going.
Rae Claire did the same, with great disdain.
—
A near derailment occurred nine days before the wedding.
Stuart was working out in the sprawling basement gym of his apartment building.
A few other residents were sweating and gyrating nearby, including Carmen, the superbly toned brunette he’d been flirting with for two months.
She was doing yoga in a small class in one corner, not far from his weight machine, and a collection of tall mirrors allowed him to catch her from all angles without getting caught.
Not that she would mind if she caught him.
The woman was on display, in her virtually see-through, skin-tight black yoga pants and revealing top.
With underwear forbidden, the yoga girls left little to the imagination.
They took a water break and the music died.
Carmen caught his eye and flashed one of those smiles he often thought about.
He drifted over, took his water bottle, and said, “Haven’t seen you lately. ”
“On the road for ten days,” she said, as if frustrated. She worked for some agency—hell, they all worked for an agency or a department—and traveled the Northeast doing important work. He knew she was divorced and lived alone one floor below him, and that was all he knew.
If she knew he was about to get married, she pretended not to. “Are you finished?” she asked.
No, he was not. He was halfway through a ninety-minute strength routine, one that suddenly seemed unimportant. “Yeah, I’m done.”
“Let’s get a drink?”
“Carrot juice? Or a real drink?”
“How about a beer, a real drink?”
“I love beer. Where can we find one?”
“Let’s go to my place,” she said with a grin, and nodded upward as if he didn’t know where she lived.
At that moment, it was humanly impossible to say no.
He had managed to gently stiff-arm her on two prior occasions, and then felt rotten afterward.
She was nice, smart, clearly single, and from head to toe looked phenomenal.
There was no believable reason to say no.
For a split second, he thought he could say something lame about getting married next week, and remaining faithful and so on, but he couldn’t pull it off with sincerity.
They took the stairs to the third floor and he followed her inside.
The apartment had the same floor plan as his, but, surprisingly, was quite spartan.
Same as his, as if both were just passing through.
As she opened the fridge she said she had been there for almost a year and didn’t plan to stay. She was a renter, not an owner.
To a trained agent thinking clearly, that was perhaps a red flag, or at least something to be checked out later. But Nash was not a trained spy, and at that moment was thinking only of how firm her butt and thighs looked.
They sat at opposite ends of the small sofa. After a few sips from her bottle she said, “I think I’ll get a quick shower. Okay?”
And what was he supposed to do while she was gone? “Why? We’re both a little sweaty. Not going to bother me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I was thinking we might even get sweatier.”
He knew it was one of the worst pickup lines in history, but it worked. The beers hit the coffee table. The yoga pants and top were off in seconds as they attacked each other as if they had been celibate for years.
—
Rae Claire took the news in stride. She was not at all surprised. Carmen was one of their seduction pros, a legend in the agency. Few targets had been able to resist her.
The call was brief. Carmen gave the details, said they had a rather delightful evening and spent time on both the sofa and in the bedroom. She ended the call with “He’s all yours.”
There was only a slight twinge of jealousy, and if Rae Claire was honest with herself, she would admit to a measure of envy.
With nine days to go, a little straying by her fiancé was nothing significant and would not affect the operation.
Or so she thought.