The Wedding Favor (12 page)

If he’d gotten them naked, she would have let him inside. Taken him deep. She’d be riding him now, at this very moment. She squeezed her breast. Slid her other hand lower to cup her wetness. Sucked a ragged breath through her teeth.

She’d never, ever wanted anyone the way she wanted Tyrell.

The jackass.

She sat up abruptly, raked both hands through her hair. God, she was pathetic. After bending Lil’s ear with her big talk about ethics, she would’ve shucked those very ethics right along with her panties if Isabelle hadn’t shown up. Even now, when Ty had taken his lips and his hands and his hard-on and left her alone to contemplate her own weakness, her biggest regret was that she’d lost her one chance to do it with him without taking responsibility. She’d never pull off the fake-drunk act again. He’d catch on. He was an idiot, but he wasn’t stupid.

The sad truth was that she’d missed her free shot. Now she’d never have sex with Tyrell Brown.

Chapter Eleven

T
y dug through his armoire, pulled out the tailored black suit Isabelle designed for him two years earlier and the sapphire shirt she gave him to go with it. It was all top of the line, red-carpet wear. Even the French would approve.

He tossed the whole pile on the bed.

Dragging his T-shirt up over his head, he blew out a weary sigh. He’d already changed clothes three times that day, from yoga gear to golf wear, then into his usual jeans and T-shirt, and once more thanks to the sunscreen smear that even he realized was unacceptable. Now it was cocktail party duds.

The only consolation was that Isabelle would get weepy when she saw him in the suit. And Vicky’s mouth would water. He smiled. She’d only seen him in his court suit, the one he’d stuffed in the trash compactor after the trial . . .

The trial. His smile evaporated.

How could he have forgotten? How could he have forgotten that just forty-eight hours ago Victoria Westin—Victoria Westin of the perfect breasts and pink cheeks and sleepy blue eyes, the same woman he’d dry-humped just hours ago on her bed across the hall—accused him of cutting off Lissa’s life support? Of letting her starve, letting her suffocate, for Christ’s sake!

And now here he was, still half hard, dressing up for her, hoping she’d drool over him. Hoping she’d fuck him.

Self-loathing coated his skin like slime. It slithered down his back, soaked the roots of his hair. How could he live with himself? It was bad enough he had to
pretend
to be attracted to her; he couldn’t let himself
actually
want her.

His cell phone chimed, the tone that meant Joe was calling from the ranch. He made himself focus. It had to be important for Joe to call.

“Hey, Joe. What’s up?”

“Oh, hey Ty. How’s it going?”

Joe was a slow talker, and Ty was short on patience. He started to pace.

“It’s going great. Now what’s up?”

“Um, well, I thought you’d want to know. Clancy came by this morning to look at Brescia.”

Ty stopped walking. “What’s wrong with Brescia?” She was his most loved horse, and Clancy was the vet.

“Well,” Joe drawled out, “Clancy’s not a hundred percent sure . . .”

Ty’s patience snapped. “Damn it, Joe! Spit it out before I reach through this phone and pull it out.”

Joe gulped audibly and got to the point. “Probably bloodworms. He took some samples, sent them to the lab.”

“How the hell did she get bloodworms?” They could be fatal.

“Can’t say for sure. But Molly Tucker’s got them over to her place . . .”

Shit. Molly Tucker. He’d known that was a mistake even as he bent her over her sofa.

“Those two bay mares of hers’ll be okay,” Joe was saying, “but the gray gelding, well, Clancy says he likely won’t make it. He’s got some age on him.”

Ty swallowed. He’d left Brescia in the paddock with the docile gray while he’d been banging Molly. “But he can’t be more than thirteen or fourteen.”

Which was just about Brescia’s age. Lissa had rescued her nine years ago, when Brescia was five or six. He’d always figured she’d live another ten years, or even longer.

Now she could die of some damn parasite. Because he couldn’t keep his pants zipped.

He made himself ask more questions while guilt ate a hole in his stomach. But Joe was out of information. Ty let him ramble about other things for a minute, then cut him off.

His throat was raw when he barked out his parting orders. “You take good care of Brescia, you hear? And tell Clancy to call me the minute he gets the labs.”

T
he private room at Le Cirque was barely large enough to contain the fifty guests who’d arrived for what was shaping up to be a pre-wedding wedding reception. Except for the few who’d been at the chateau the previous evening, Vicky didn’t know any of them.

“Hey, babe.” Ricky dropped a brotherly kiss on her cheek. “You look like a million bucks.”

“You think so?” She did a little spin that flared her cocktail dress, a shimmery scrap of black silk that fell two inches above her knees, held up by flimsy black-sequined straps. A narrow band of sequins edged the neckline too, curving just below her collarbones in front, then dipping daringly below her waist in back. Five-inch Manolo Blahniks jacked her up to runway height.

Ricky looked her up and down. “Nah, I was wrong. A billion bucks.”

She laughed, feeling pretty. Her hair, loosely piled on top of her head and strategically bobby-pinned to look like a casual afterthought, bared her neck and, not coincidentally, showed off diamond drop earrings so stunning that women actually gasped when they saw them, the only gift she hadn’t returned to Winston when she broke their engagement.

She’d used a heavier hand on her makeup too. Not Annemarie-heavy, but she’d dabbed on some sooty eye shadow, a few swipes of mascara, and an extra stroke of blush, and dug out her seldom-used fuck-me-dead-red lipstick.

She gave him an exaggerated eye-walk in turn. “Look who’s talking, Mr. GQ.” As tall as Matt and all-American handsome, Ricky looked terrific in a dark gray suit with a barely detectable pinstripe. For the umpteenth time she wished she could have fallen in love with him back when he had a slavish high-school crush on her. He was long over it, and she was glad of his friendship. But sometimes she missed all that worship and devotion.

They stood together comfortably, sipping their drinks and scanning the room, commenting on the stylish French couples.

Then Ricky sputtered his beer. “Holy shit. Check that out.”

Annemarie had made her entrance. Or rather her chest had made an entrance, stopping conversations around the room.

After a brief pause in the doorway for effect, she sailed forth like the
QE2
, effortlessly parting the sea.

“They can’t be real,” Ricky marveled. “They just can’t.”

“That dress is the eighth wonder of the world,” muttered Vicky. Mostly gauze except for satin swaths covering ass and boobs, it somehow concealed a suspension system worthy of the Brooklyn Bridge.

“Underwire,” Lil said, as she and Jack appeared beside them. “Isabelle tells me you can work miracles with it. And keeping those up off her knees all night will definitely take a miracle.”

Jack sipped his whiskey, said casually, “Isabelle happen to mention if they’re real?”

Lil gave him the beady eye. “You’ve got money on this, don’t you?”

Jack looked innocent. She stared him down until he shrugged. “Twenty on fake.” With a pointed look, he threw Ricky under the bus too.

Vicky snorted. “Seriously? You
bet
on her
boobs
?”

Ricky tossed up his hands. “Don’t look at me, I didn’t start it.”

“Who did?”

He jigged his head at Ty, who’d chosen that moment to cross the threshold.

Vicky’s eyes slitted. Lil snorted. Jack grinned and waved him over.

Vicky tried not to watch as he ambled their way, handing out smiles to the other guests, looking unfairly incredible in a beautifully tailored suit. His sapphire shirt—which some woman must have handpicked for him—was open at the throat, setting off his tanned skin and sun-streaked hair. He could have been on a billboard advertising expensive whiskey, a slinky woman hanging from each arm, the image of privileged debauchery.

It wasn’t fair. It. Was. Not. Freaking. Fair.

“Well, Ty,” Lil said before he could get a word out, “where’s your money? Real or fake?”

He didn’t even have the decency to blush. “As a firm believer in a beneficent God, I put my twenty on the genuine article.” Lil and Vicky snorted in unison. “I take that to mean you girls aren’t believers. Well, it’s not too late to put your money where your mouth is.”

Lil reached into her purse and pulled out a twenty. Not to be outdone, Vicky opened her own purse. “All I’ve got is a fifty.” She fanned it at Ty. “Too rich for your blood?”

“Not at all. You can give it to your brother, he’s holding the bets.”

“
Matt?
” She couldn’t believe it. “He’s getting married tomorrow!”

“He’s still got eyes in his head. And in case you’re wondering, his money’s on fake too.”

“So you’re the only one betting on real?” She smirked. “Inside information?”

He smiled easily. “Years of experience.”

That was undoubtedly true. He’d probably handled hundreds of breasts of all shapes and sizes. After all, he’d gotten his hands on hers less than twenty-four hours after he’d walked through the door. And she didn’t even like him.

The look on his face said he knew what she was thinking. He dipped his head so only she could hear. “I knew yours were real.”

Her cheeks heated, but she summoned a “duh” look. “When I decide to pay money,” she said like he was a dunce, “I’ll go bigger than B-cups.”

His eyes flew wide open. His jaw unhinged. Then he grabbed her arm so quickly she gasped, and with a muttered “Excuse us,” he hustled her across the room.

Too stunned at first to say a word, she found her voice as he propelled her into the lobby. “What the
hell
are you doing?” she hissed. “Let go of my arm!”

Ignoring her, he spotted the coatroom, unused on this balmy evening. He bustled her inside and shut the door.

She shook her arm free. “Are you
out
of your
mind
?”

“Are
you
?” he shot back. “You can’t seriously be thinking of a boob job.” He made it a statement.

In fact, she’d never once considered a boob job, but she wouldn’t tell him that now. Instead, she glared. “And why not?”

“Because they’re fine like they are, that’s why not.” His eyes dropped to the B-cups in question. His jaw hardened. “Shit.”

Instinctively, she backed up. He followed her. Her back hit the door.

His left hand flattened on the door beside her head, half caging her. His gaze roved up, along her throat, to her lips, parted in surprise. “Fuck.” He squeezed it out through gritted teeth.

He was wired, more tense than usual. Electricity sizzled just under his skin. She held her breath as his right hand came up. With the back of his knuckles, he grazed her breast through the thin silk of her dress. Her nipple hardened to a nub.

Over it he skimmed. Again, and again. Then he opened his palm and cupped her, his thumb drawing a tight circle over the peak.

Her breath hitched. She put out her tongue to wet her lips. And his eyes, already dark, went black. His mouth, those full and luscious lips, opened just a little. A whisper came out. “Fuck.”

And then he was on her, kissing her, and it wasn’t gentle like before, but hard and greedy. His hand kneaded her breast; his other hand dropped to her hip, fingers digging into her ass, yanking her pelvis against his rock-hard erection.

She knew she should stop him. Now, before it was too late. And she would. She would. But first she had to get her hands inside his jacket, slide them over the muscles bunching in his back, his shoulders. Oh God, he was hard everywhere, and she was burning up, kissing him like she’d never kissed anyone, putting her whole body into it, lips and tongue, grinding against him.

Releasing her breast, he flattened her to the door with his chest, his groin, his rigid thighs. His fingers dug into her hair, bobby pins pinging on the floor as he tore it apart. His other hand slid from her hip to her thigh, bunching her dress until he found her skin. His thumb hooked her panties.

This was it. She moaned in her throat.

He dragged his lips across her cheek, rasped in her ear. “Please tell me you’ve got a condom in that bag.”

“No. No!” It was both an answer and a cry.

A shudder ran through his body. He muttered a curse, flattened his palms on the door.

And then he took a giant step back.

Her dress dropped into place; her arms fell to her sides. Furious, frustrated, she fisted her hands in black silk. “Damn you, Tyrell Brown! I can’t believe you don’t have a condom on you!”

T
y raked his fingers through his hair, dragging it back from his face till it hurt.

“What do you mean, you can’t believe it?” he squeezed out through his teeth. Jesus, he was hard as a spike.

“Aren’t you supposed to be some big lover? You and Jack McCabe, cutting a swath through Texas? Girls tearing your clothes off whenever you turn around!” She waved her arms. “So why don’t you have a freaking condom in your pocket?”

He steadied himself with a hand on the wall. Closed his eyes. Christ, he was actually in pain.

And Vicky, she was hyperventilating. She’d kept her voice down so far, but in a minute she’d be raving. A minute after that, Matt would be crashing the door, Adrianna right behind him.

He really didn’t need that now, with guilt and worry gnawing his guts, and hunger for this woman strangling his balls.

Opening his eyes, he forced himself to look at her. And the sight almost undid him. Flushed face, tumbled hair, wrinkled dress—she was so fucking hot. Another shudder ran through him.

With an effort, he grabbed ahold of his frustration, turned it into something he could use.

“As a matter of fact,” he informed her, “I usually do carry a condom. But I didn’t think I’d need one tonight. I thought you’d be able to control yourself.”

“
Me?
” Her voice squeaked. “This is on
you
! You dragged me in here like some . . . some
caveman
, and started feeling me up,
again
, knowing full well that you weren’t prepared. That’s  . . .” She flapped her arms again. “That’s
irresponsible
!”

“
You’re
calling
me
irresponsible?” He held up a finger. “First you fish for compliments by threatening a boob job. Then, when you’ve got me all worked up about it, you shove your tongue down my throat. As if you didn’t know where
that
would lead.” He pointed the finger at her. “And all along you knew you weren’t prepared. Now
that’s
irresponsible.”

Red flags stained her cheeks. She filled her lungs to let him have it . . . and his eyes dropped to her breasts again. The angry points of her nipples thrust toward him accusingly.