Ripped (2 page)

I glared, taking my anger with myself out on him.

I hated that he made me feel this way. He didn’t like me. I didn’t like him. We were polar opposites. I was fun-loving, friendly and honest about my feelings. He was zipped up, ruthlessly contained and cold as the inside of my freezer. There had been moments over the past few years when I’d been tempted to leap on him with a blowtorch to see if I could thaw him out.

He’d given me a lift home in his car once when Charlie had been too drunk to walk, let alone drive. It was a night I’d tried to forget. We’d been celebrating my job, which for some reason had sent Charlie over the edge.

Nico drove a red Ferrari, just about the sexiest car on the planet, and he was ruthlessly tidy. There wasn’t a single screwed-up piece of paper in sight. No mess (although by the time he dropped me off there may have been traces of saliva where I’d drooled all over his car). His suits were Tom Ford, his shoes polished and his shirts a crisp, pristine white. But underneath that carefully polished appearance there was something raw and elemental that no amount of sophisticated tailoring could conceal.

I’d been wearing my favourite black dress that night and I remember he didn’t look at me once. Not even at my legs, which were definitely my best feature, especially when I dressed them up in four-inch stilettos (no pain no gain). He hadn’t bothered to hide his disapproval then and he wasn’t hiding it now.

His burning gaze lowered to my neckline and that sensual, unsmiling mouth tightened into a line of grim censure.

I wanted to stand up and point out that the dress wasn’t my choice. That it was yet another trick on the part of the bride to make sure I looked hideous. Quite honestly my breasts were too big for this dress and breasts generally weren’t on the guest list to a wedding. Mine were so big they could have qualified for separate invitations.

Nico Rossi obviously didn’t think they should have been invited at all.

Truth? I found him intimidating and I hated that.

I was a modern, independent woman. I’d never worn pink and I’d never had the urge to coo over strange babies in prams. My best subjects at school were Math, Physics and Technology. I was the only girl in the class and I always had better marks than the boys, which usually pissed them off, but I figured that was their problem not mine. I had a degree in aeronautical engineering and was working on a supersecret project to do with satellites. I couldn’t tell you more than that or I’d have to kill you and eat you and you didn’t need a degree in engineering to know there was no room in this dress for two people. I loved my job. It excited me more than any man I’d ever met. But that could have been because I constantly messed up my love life.

Every. Single. Time.

Honestly, how could an intelligent woman get it so badly wrong? I’d tried to apply data analysis methods to my dating history but failed to extract anything meaningful from the results except that getting it wrong hurt. I always seemed to end up compromising who I was, but that’s in the genes. Rosie and I watched our mum contort who she was for men who subsequently left her. As I said, we weren’t good at relationships, which was probably why I was sitting here single, watching my ex get married.

I breathed in the smell of this musty old church and thought about all the promises that had been made here only to be broken a few years down the line. And right there and then, I made a decision.

No more feelings.

Feelings just led to misery and I was done with misery.

Not that I’d ever been the sort of girl to wait by the phone, willing it to ring. God, no. If a guy played those games with me, I deleted him from my contacts. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t be hurt. And frankly, what was the point?

‘I’ve made a New Year’s Resolution.’ I risked the dress and leaned closer to Rosie. ‘And I’m starting right now.’

‘You’re never wearing pukey-yellow again?’ She eyed my dress. ‘Good decision.’

I ignored her. ‘I’m sick of romantic relationships. Why bother? I can go to the movies with girlfriends. I can chat with girlfriends. I can laugh with girlfriends.’

‘That’s your New Year’s resolution?’

‘Everything I need in life I can get from girlfriends,’ I hissed, ‘apart from one thing—’

Rosie coughed. ‘Well, you can—’

‘No, I can’t. I need a man for that part. But only that part. From now on I’m using men for sex. Nothing else.’

‘Well, as resolutions go, I predict that one is going to be a lot more fun than giving up chocolate.’

I could always rely on my sister for support.

The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was it was a brilliant idea. ‘I should have thought of it before.’ I was talking out of the corner of my mouth, trying not to attract glares from the elderly aunts. ‘Instead of trying to find a man who can make me laugh and is actually interested in me, instead of wondering what I can do for his career, I look for one thing. Sex appeal.’

‘If all you’re interested in is sex appeal, you could start with Nico Rossi,’ Rosie whispered. ‘He is scorching hot.’

Not just me then.

The problem was, I didn’t want to find Nico sexy. I didn’t want to think of him naked or wonder how it would feel to be kissed by him. He didn’t like me. It disturbed my sense of order and fairness that I should find him attractive.

I looked away, but not for long.

I couldn’t help myself. I sneaked another look. It was some consolation that every other woman under ninety was staring, too. If ever there was such a thing as raw sex appeal, Nico had it. He was the sort of guy that made you think about sin in a big way, which wasn’t a good thing when you were sitting in church with your breasts half exposed.

I couldn’t wait to get to the bathroom so that I could unzip my dress and give my ribs the freedom they deserved.

When was this wedding going to end?

Enough already
.

Just say
I do
and go and live your lives until your realize what you should have said was
I don’t
.

But now they were staring into each other’s eyes and reciting handwritten personalized messages.

I promise to love you forever and cherish you
.

I promise never to cancel your subscription to the sports channel
.

(OK I made that one up but you get the point.)

I wriggled in my seat, wondering whether Nico Rossi spoke in Italian when he was having sex. He’d brought his younger sister to the wedding—a sleek, dark vision of slender perfection. She was poised and sophisticated, just like him. Every now and then she glanced at him adoringly, as if he were a god. It seemed unnatural to me. I mean, I loved my sister but there were plenty of days I wanted to poke her in the eye. But these were perfect people who would never show emotion in public. They probably never argued. They were the sort who believed marriage to be an exciting journey.

I was always sick on journeys.

Thanks to our parents’ less than stellar example, my sister and I were both equally screwed-up about relationships. Not that there weren’t men in our lives. Far from it. Men were always attracted by Rosie’s sweet, heart-shaped face and her pretty smile. They thought she was fragile and needed protecting. Then they discovered my sister had a black belt in karate and could break a man’s bones with one kick and they usually retreated nervously, licking their wounded machismo.

There
was
a guy once, but if I so much as thought his name she’d break my bones, too, so it was a subject I didn’t touch.

Just when I thought this wedding was never going to end, the priest benevolently told the groom he could kiss the bride. He’d been kissing the bride and half her friends regularly for the past six months without permission from anyone, but no one seemed to care about that.

I couldn’t help wondering if the kiss was for my benefit, to remind me what I’d turned down.

It was very Hollywood. No bumping noses or awkward moments. Scripted. The sort of kiss where you just knew they were thinking about how it looked on the outside, not how it felt on the inside.

There seemed to be an awful lot of tongue involved.

Rosie made sick choking noises next to me.

God, I loved my sister.

And then finally,
finally
, it was over.

I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

And my dress split.

Chapter Two

Oh fuck
, so now I was naked. Not just wearing a condom, but a split condom, and suddenly no one was looking at the bride and groom—they were staring at me and I couldn’t exactly blame them because there was plenty to see. There were times when I was happy to be the centre of attention, but this wasn’t one of them.

Why oh why hadn’t I worn a bra?

I’d tried it, but it had shown through the cheap, shiny fabric, so I’d decided in the interests of vanity that if I
had
to wear this hideous dress at least my outline would be smooth and perfect.

Another bad decision. The dress had split down both side seams simultaneously, exposing me completely from the waist up. I felt like a half-peeled banana, but I probably looked like one of those women who turned up at stag parties and leapt out of cakes.

I was strip-o-gram bridesmaid.

Everyone was staring, transfixed by delicious horror, all deeply relieved it hadn’t happened to them. But it could never have happened to them. Only to me. My life had a habit of unraveling, only usually not quite as literally as this.

The snow and the draughty, under-heated old church had conspired to make my nipples stand to attention. I tried to cover them with my hands, but then I realized I was probably making it worse. Now I wasn’t just naked—I was touching myself.

For the first time in quite a few years, I prayed.

Kill me now
.

Mum had always drummed into Rosie and me that we should wear clean underwear in case of an accident, although to be fair I don’t think this was the sort of accident she had in mind when she dished out that advice. I wished I’d listened, but I honestly hadn’t thought my underwear, or lack of it, was going to be an issue. Every unattached girl hoped she would score at a wedding, but I was a realist. No man was going to hit on a woman wearing a giant body condom. Don’t misunderstand me—I was all for safe sex. I insisted on condoms. It was just that I didn’t usually try and squeeze my whole self into one.

The dress was a horribly tight tube, floor length, which basically meant my legs were locked together. I couldn’t even run away. I was like a mermaid, but without an ocean to drown in. Escape would be a slow, shuffling, breast-bouncing affair.

Scarlet-faced, I tried to grab the misbehaving fabric and cover myself with that, but honestly it was like trying to cover Big Ben with a handkerchief.

Somewhere through the swirling clouds of embarrassment I heard Rosie snort. She was laughing so hard I knew she was going to be as much use to me as a non-alcoholic cocktail at a party. Rosie had a problem with laughter. She couldn’t control it. Watching her laugh usually made me laugh, too, but any desire to laugh was squashed by the look in ruthless Nico Rossi’s eyes.

While everyone else was gaping in horrified silence (and I can tell you they weren’t looking at my face) he strode across the aisle towards me, all broad shouldered and powerful like a warrior preparing to repel an invading army.

I waited for Rosie to leap to her feet and execute one of her incredible scissor kicks that would flatten him, but my useless sister was doubled up with tears pouring down her face and Nico was still striding. I guessed it would take a lot to flatten a man like him.

Just for a moment I shivered because whatever he lacked in the emotional warmth department, physically he was truly spectacular—stomach-melting, willpower-destroying spectacular. The sort of man you couldn’t look at without thinking about sex.

Dark, glittering eyes were focused on me like a laser-guided weapon programmed to destroy.

His role as best man was to support the groom and solve problems and right now I was the problem. Or at least, my breasts were. They were loose and free and I could tell from the look on his face he thought breasts like mine shouldn’t be allowed out without a permit.

The elderly aunts had their eyes averted, but the elderly uncles were staring at me, their bulging eyes reminding me of sea creatures. I saw sweat on their brows and was just wondering whether I was going to be responsible for adding more bodies to that pretty churchyard when Nico reached me. He removed his jacket in a smooth movement that made me think he’d be good at undressing women, and wrapped it around my shoulders. Actually ‘wrapped’ was too gentle a word for what he did, but either way my bouncing breasts were now safely buried under Tom Ford. His jacket felt warm. It smelled delicious. It smelled of
him
.

‘Move!’ It was a command, not a request and I opened my mouth to point out my legs were tied together, but his hand was on my back and he was propelling me down the aisle.
Down the aisle
. That’s right, I, Hayley Miller of 42 Cherry Tree Crescent, Notting Hill, was shuffling down the aisle with a man, something I always said I’d never do, except that I was doing it backwards and half-naked, so it probably didn’t count.

I staggered past a sea of faces, all with their mouths hanging open. They reminded me of a nest of baby birds waiting to be fed and I wasn’t just feeding them morsels of gossip—I’d given them a banquet. At least they wouldn’t need to eat at the reception.

And behind the fascinated horror was the delight some people felt when they witnessed someone else’s public humiliation. They’d be talking about this moment for weeks. Who was I kidding? Years. One thing I knew for sure—I was never trusting a condom again.

But I had more immediate problems to worry about.

I had no idea where we were going.

This was a small private church in the grounds of a stately home. England was full of that sort of thing and, since the credit crunch, even the very rich were looking for ways to supplement their income. Hiring out the dusty family chapel for weddings was a clever way of allowing less privileged folk to pretend for that one day of their lives that they actually lived like this. I didn’t think it was any more fake than exchanging vows and promises about loving each other forever and then splitting up a few years later. In other words, none of it meant anything, so why not go over the top? If dressing like an over-whipped dessert made you happy, then go for it I say (but for God’s sake get one that fits).