Free Hideaway by Rochelle Alers

at the table, everyone extolling the beauty of the ethereal ceremony and Brittany’s exquisite dress.
    Her gown was a sheath of ivory organza and Alençon lace, and she had decided to forego the traditional veil, dressing her pale hair with a spray of miniature white roses and baby’s breath.
    As the wedding party gathered on the church lawn for photographs, a quartet played familiar tunes while waiters served trays of hot and cold canapes.
    Martin’s smile did not falter as Barbara Alexander pressed her firm breast against his arm. He couldn’t wait for the photo session to end where he could disengage himself from Brittany’s sister without causing a scene.
    Barbara and Brittany shared the same ash-blond hair and cool-gray eyes, but that’s where the resemblance ended. Whereas Brittany was delicate and demure, her older sister was lush and provocative.
    Barbara had flirted with him during the rehearsal and at the dinner which was given afterwards at the home of the Alexanders’ but he’d ignored her. What Barbara didn’t know was that her fair coloring, pale hair and gray eyes were “too cool” for his tastes. He preferred women of color with dark hair and skintones in varying shades of brown, ranging from cappuccino cream to a rich mahogany.
    “That just about does it,” the photographer announced.
    Martin was certain Barbara could hear his sigh of relief as he took her elbow, escorting her back to the church’s social hall.
    His gaze swept around the room and he saw Parris sitting with Bill Dobbs. The man was more annoying than fly paper. He had latched on to Parris again. The only thing which prevented him from warning Bill that Parris was “off limits” was that she would go home with him.
    Martin seated Barbara next to Jon, then took his own seat beside Brittany. He couldn’t pull his gaze away from Parris as she smiled at something Bill said. He found her more beautiful than the first time he met her.
    A long sleeve silk jersey sheath in a warm orange flattered her body and her coloring. She had blown out her hair and pinned itup in a sophisticated French twist, leaving a few errant curls to grace her forehead and ears.
    He had driven to her apartment to pick up the dress and a pair of shoes, and as he gathered other items she requested he’d tried to get a glimpse of who Parris was when he surveyed her apartment.
    He had found it neat yet impersonal. Her bed was a convertible sofa and the small kitchen contained a bistro table and two chairs. There were no photographs or diplomas on the walls. A steamer trunk with a woven Navaho rug doubled as a coffee table and tablecloth. It was on the trunk that he found a stack of mail the landlady had left in the apartment whenever it wasn’t picked up for more than two days.
    He’d checked her answering machine; no one had called or if they had they didn’t leave a message. If it hadn’t been for the business suits, blouses and dresses hanging neatly in a small closet off the entrance and a toothbrush in the bathroom, Parris Simmons would not exist.
    Martin placed a hand over Brittany’s, squeezing her fingers gently. Turning, she smiled at him. Happiness shone from her gray eyes and he was pleased that she had married his friend. She was good for Jon, who claimed she mellowed him to where he’d given up his dream of racing cars to join his father’s lucrative law practice.
    “How did Parris meet Owen Lawson?” he asked her without preamble.
    The blood drained from her face before she recovered. “I warned you to leave her alone.” Her tone was sharp and waspish.
    Martin’s darker hand tightened on her fingers. “I can’t leave her alone. She’s going to be my wife.”
    Brittany’s eyes widened until they resembled large silver dollars. “No,” she whispered. She attempted to rise to her feet but he stopped her.
    “Sit down.” The two words were spoken quietly but said with such authority that Brittany obeyed him immediately.
    “I am going