Married By Mistake

Visage, which claimed to be delighted with the show and confident its relationship with Channel Eight would be both long and mutually beneficial.
    That succeeded where nothing else could in putting a smile on Adam’s face as he and Casey faced the barrage of camera flashes and the questions hurled at them.
    “Mr. Carmichael, is this a ratings stunt?”
    “Casey, why did you say yes?”
    “Adam, how long do you give this marriage?”
    “Are you in love?”
    “Casey, what will your family think?”
    At this last question, he felt the tremor of her fingers in his grasp. She looked imploringly at him. He held up a hand for silence.
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “as you’ve probably realized, tonight didn’t go according to plan for either of us.” Chuckles from the crowd told him they were on his side. All he had to do was give them enough to satisfy their immediate need for a story, without exposing Casey to further humiliation and without actually lying. “We’re asking you to respect our privacy beyond what we tell you now. I can reveal that Casey and I knew each other before this evening’s show—” only an hour before, admittedly “—and that for as long as I’ve known her I’ve considered her a very special lady.”
    Any grown woman who could cling to her dream of being adored had to be special.
    He looked down at Casey, noting that a few tendrils of honey-colored hair had escaped her veil. Gratitude warmed her eyes, and her lips curved in a tremulous smile. He turned back to the waiting media. “Can you blame me for seizing the chance to marry her?”
    Applause broke out among the journalists. Pleased at the success of his speech, Adam grinned at Casey. She smiled back, obviously relieved.
    “Hey, Mr. C.” It was one of the older hacks. “How about you kiss the bride?”
    Photographers readied their cameras in a flurry of motion.
    Adam raised his eyebrows in silent question to Casey. She gave a barely perceptible shrug, then a nod.
    Once again, their lips met.
    Like last time, he intended a brief kiss, one that would allow the cameras to get their shot.
    Like last time, he found himself drawn to her.
    Despite the crowd around them, he couldn’t resist the temptation to test the softness of her lower lip with his tongue. Her indrawn breath told him she was just as intrigued by the exploration.
    The catcalls of the journalists pulled them both back to reality.
    “Okay, folks, that’s all.” Mainly with the power of his glare, but using his elbows where necessary, Adam parted the throng and ushered Casey out the front of the building and into a waiting limo. She scrambled across to the far side, gathering her skirts about her to make room for him.
    “Where to now?” Casey asked. The last half hour had passed in a blur, and she couldn’t imagine what might come next. All she knew was it couldn’t be worse than what had happened in the studio.
    Adam’s half smile held equal measures of cynicism and resignation. “Our honeymoon.”

CHAPTER THREE
    I T WAS TEN O ’ CLOCK at night—her wedding night— by the time they got to the Romeo and Juliet Suite at Memphis’s famous Peabody Hotel.
    Casey—or Mrs. Carmichael, as the hotel receptionist had called her—roamed around the room, while Adam tipped the porter. The original honeymoon Channel Eight offered hadn’t included the suite, which Casey suspected went for several hundred dollars a night. But a standard hotel room wasn’t going to work for a newly married couple who had no intention of sharing a bedroom, let alone a bed.
    Judging by the crowd of reporters who’d followed them from the TV station, and were now being held at bay by the Peabody’s doorman—so much for their promise to respect the newlyweds’ privacy—Casey and Adam wouldn’t be leaving the hotel in a hurry, so the bigger the suite the better. Casey climbed the curving staircase to the bedroom. The king-size bed was a sea of snowy-white covers and elaborately arranged pillows. Surely a real honeymoon couple would want something cozier?
    There was a bathroom off the bedroom, in addition to the one she’d seen adjoining the living room. More white—marble and porcelain—offset by highly polished stainless steel fittings.
    “Casey?” Adam called from downstairs.
    Dreading having to sit down and hash out the legal implications of what they’d done, she joined him in the living room. How was she going to explain this to her family? How would she