“Hmm.” Barry looked at her consideringly. “How can I put this…”
“Give him the guest list,” Paula interrupted. “The more important the guests, the more column inches his editor will reserve. Unless you aren’t interested in a premium write-up with mentions in the About Town and Fashion Sightings columns.”
The secretary fingered the papers in one of her folders. “I…”
“What?” Barry spoke and heard Paula echo him.
“I’m not certain that is our mission.”
What the— “I understand getting hitched is the ‘mission.’” Barry used finger quotes. She deserved it. “Coming up with a story is my ‘mission.’ With a guest list, I can make a few calls ahead of time. Without it, I see who shows up and wing it.” He took a step forward and lowered his voice. “By then, I’m close to my deadline. A little desperate for a good story. A little on the edge. Not discreet.” He shrugged. “And who knows what my photographer might happen to catch on film.”
The secretary paled and handed him a stapled packet of papers. “Here, but you must promise you won’t bother the guests. Particularly—” She broke off. “Just don’t bother them.”
“I won’t bother them. They all love me.” Barry scanned the columns. Good grief. A cast of thousands.
“Here, Barry.” Paula supplemented the list with one of her signature peach pieces of paper. “The official wedding schedule. Subject to change.”
Barry studied the timeline. “Rehearsal begins promptly at noon.” He looked at his watch, then made a note. “Guess it’s going to be impromptly.”
“We’re waiting on the matron of honor.” Paula gave him a tight-lipped smile. “She’s pregnant and isn’t feeling well at the moment.” She glanced through the sanctuary door at the milling bridesmaids and sucked air through her teeth. “And it appears the best man is running behind schedule.”
“No prob.” Barry widened his smile to reassure her that he wouldn’t write anything sarcastic because he knew Paula, and he liked her. She fed him information that was ninety-five percent correct, and she was fun after a couple of post-wedding martinis. Since she was married, he could flirt and she wouldn’t take him seriously. Which was good, because he never meant his flirting to be taken seriously.
Barry slipped into one of the back pews and surveyed the scene at the front of the church. The bridesmaids, minus the country cousin who didn’t seem to be there, all wore the urban style of short skirts and tiny belly shirts, along with the mother-of-pearl white high-heeled shoes they’d wear tomorrow. Very excellent fashion choices.
Barry allowed himself several moments to enjoy the sight, prayed for Vera Wang silk tomorrow, then scanned the guest list.
The names weren’t in alphabetical order but were helpfully arranged by reception seating order. And in spite of what he’d told the secretary, Barry was very discreet. Otherwise, these people would never talk to him and he’d have to hang around parties to which he’d never be invited on his own. Which was exactly how he’d spent his childhood when he’d tagged along after his older sisters.
Most of the names on the seating chart were familiar to him. The Dallas old guard would be out in force tomorrow. Barry was struck by the number of the older generation who planned to attend. And then his attention was caught and held by one name—Donald Galloway. Congressman Donald Galloway.
Barry was instantly transported back to last fall and the investigation involving Representative Galloway. The same undercover investigation that Barry’s report had exposed and that had landed him on wedding detail. He hadn’t known Galloway was cooperating with the authorities. He hadn’t known publishing the story would blow a two-year investigation. If someone had just told him—but Barry had found evidence of bribery and blackmail and figured he’d stumbled onto a scandal. And he had, but he’d ended up in the middle of it, along with Megan Esterbrook, the police media spokeswoman. He’d made lucky guesses in his article and she’d been accused of revealing too much information.
Barry had few regrets in his life, but getting Megan into trouble was one of them.
Megan. Earnest and sincere Megan Esterbrook. The Megan Esterbrook who could make a Girl Scout look slutty. The Megan Esterbrook who’d watched him when she’d thought he didn’t know it. Who blushed, even as she grabbed for her gun. Potent combo, that. Barry stared off into the middle distance for an instant, then cleared his throat. He’d had thoughts about Megan—unprofessional thoughts he’d wanted to explore but the time never seemed to be right. And now she barely made eye contact with him.
Yeah, he felt bad about getting her into trouble, even though he’d just been doing his job. Megan was so heartfelt and so serious about everything while Barry had learned not to take anything seriously. Or not much, anyway. But her betrayed expression had stayed with him.
Right now, he was not going to think about Megan or her puppy-dog eyes. He was going to get back to business. Donald Galloway would be attending this wedding. Barry would not be chatting with him. Too bad, because he knew there was something behind the blackmail no matter what the official line was. Unfortunately, he had to play by the rules in order to reclaim his investigative-reporter status and the rules said hands off Galloway. Actually, the rules said Barry was to report society doings or never work in print journalism again. So that’s what he was going to do.
Barry went through the list and starred the guests who he wanted to approach for comments and who he wanted the society photographer to shoot.
And speaking of pictures, Barry noticed that the bridesmaids were restless. Now would be a good time for him to take a few candid shots of his own. Though he wasn’t the official photographer, the pictures helped him in writing up the gushy junk his editor wanted. Once he’d saved the day when the real photographer’s equipment had been stolen along with all the wedding pictures. If one of his photos was actually used, it meant more money in his pocket.
He recognized Mrs. Shipley speaking to her daughter. Ah. A lovely candid mother-and-daughter moment. Daughter, wearing a more demure outfit than her bridesmaids—the skirt was Prada and maybe the top, too—and the mother conservatively attired in St. John Knits.
Barry held his breath, took the photo, then exhaled. He recognized fashion designers now. No real man should be able to do that.
Barry snapped more pictures—gotta love digital cameras—then looked around for the groom’s family. Still none present, as far as Barry could see.
Paula and the secretary, both talking on cell phones, hurried down the center aisle. From the side entrance, the Whitfield florist began bringing in the now-assembled candelabra. Finally, some action.
Barry zoomed in on the face of the tough, serious-looking groom and a no-neck guy who looked like a bodyguard. Generally, the reactions of men as they’re confronted with wedding excess were always good for a laugh and blackmail-quality photos. But the expression of this groom and the man standing next to him was lethally cold—and aimed right at Barry.
Something told Barry to keep taking pictures even as the two men turned away.
And then someone told him to stop.
“Sir.”
The man without a neck thrust a hand over the lens. He’d moved fast for such a big guy. “You’ll have to come with me, sir. We are not allowing photographs.”
“Back off, fella, I’m the press.”
Barry carefully set his camera out of reach and dug for his press card—the real one. He had a feeling this guy knew the difference.
Mr. No Neck studied the ID card, then grinned, revealing gold-framed front teeth. “Lifestyle? You mean parties and clothes and girlie stuff?” And Barry had to endure The Look, the one that questioned his manhood.
“It’s a living.” He accompanied this