The Wedding Favor (17 page)

What, oh what, was she going to do now?

T
y tucked a long lock of blond silk behind Vicky’s ear, let his gaze roam over her upturned face. She had the damnedest blue eyes. Like an October sky on a warm, breezy day when there wasn’t a cloud in sight.

Right at the moment those blue eyes were glazed. Her lips curved up at the corners, a contented smile she probably didn’t know she wore. Yup, his little cowgirl had taken a ride straight to heaven and she was having a hard time coming back down to earth.

Too bad he couldn’t let her drift awhile, but they were already late. Isabelle would peel a stripe off him if they messed up her schedule. He’d make it up to Vicky later. Whisk her out of the reception and into his bed—where he wouldn’t have broken light bulb sticking in his back—and rock her world all night long.

Finally, the weekend had taken a turn for the better.

“Vicky honey?”

She didn’t respond. Her languid gaze had taken a turn of its own, and truth to tell, she looked kind of terrified. Color bloomed in her cheeks. But there was no time to smooth her feathers now. He got his hands around her waist, carefully avoiding her ribs—he didn’t need a tickle fit with her knee resting on his nuts—and shifted her to the side so he could sit up.

“Sugar, we’ve got to go.”

It took a minute to sink in. Then, “The wedding!” she cried, bouncing to her knees. They both started to stand, and—“Aghh!”—her toe whacked his knee. Tears welled in her eyes.

“Aw, sweetheart.” Lifting her in his arms, he set her gently on the bed. She brought her foot up to cradle it, trying hard not to cry, and her eyes landed on her dress, flattened on the floor. The brimming tears spilled over.

He scooped it up, shook it out. “It’s not as bad as it looks, honey. Just let me clean myself up and then we’ll take it from there.”

Closing himself in the bathroom, he took care of business, then did a quick check in the mirror. His bowtie was cockeyed but easily straightened. His jacket was fine once he brushed off the glass. And the torn tab of his trousers—that memory prompted a smile of male satisfaction—was easily concealed under the cummerbund, a device he’d previously scorned as useless but that now took on a whole new meaning . . .
cum
merbund. His smile widened to a grin.

Then he opened the door and got a load of Vicky, and his grin faded.

He went into crisis mode.

“Okay, honey. First thing you’ve got to do is wash your pretty face and get some stuff on it.” Her nose was red as a clown’s, and her lips, fetchingly puffy from having the hell kissed out of them, needed some color. Her red-rimmed eyes would probably take a miracle.

Hoisting her by the arms, he hustled her into the bathroom as fast as she could hop. Standing behind her, he met her eyes in the mirror. “You can do it,” he said bracingly, and fled the scene of the accident.

Digging through the armoire, he came up with an iron. No ironing board, but one sweep of his forearm pushed everything on the dressing table back against the mirror. He went at the dress, and by the time Vicky emerged, it was wrinkle-free. His mama would be proud.

But there was one big problem.

“Honey, you got any safety pins?”

“What for?” she asked, rooting through her underwear drawer. She came out with some pale yellow panties that caught his eye. His gaze slid to the mangled peach ones she still wore.

“Um.” He’d forgotten what he meant to say, and who could blame him? She had, without a doubt, an absolutely perfect ass. Smaller than he usually went for, but tight as a drum, round as an apple, and built to model tiny lace panties.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Well?”

He pulled it together. “I don’t want you to panic, sugar, but we’ve got a little tear.”

“What!” She flew across the room as fast as she could hop.

Their scorching quickie must have driven the rending sound that preceded it clean out of her head, because when he showed her the split seam—starting just below the zipper and running eight inches down over what would be the curve of her bottom—she muttered a curse and took off for the bathroom again, reemerging with a tiny sewing kit.

“Honey, I don’t think we have time—”

She cut him off. “The fabric’s too delicate for safety pins, especially at a stress point like the seat.” She threaded a needle, all business. “Turn it inside out and hold it taut.”

Quick as lightning, she stitched it up, although in his opinion it was a half-assed job. His mama would
not
have approved. But he wasn’t about to say so at ten minutes to four. In the distance, the church bells tolled, welcoming the wedding guests. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

She bit off the thread, a show of teeth that for some reason got him hard again. Then she slapped her hands on his shoulders. “Down,” she snapped out, “and try not to trip me this time.”

“It wasn’t my fault—” he began, but she cut him off again.

“Just
do it
.”

Well, enough was enough. “I’ll
do it
all right.” And wrapping one hand around the back of her head, he kissed her hard on those swollen lips.

For one split second, she resisted. Then she let out a whimper and melted like butter. Her palms slid up his chest, over his shoulders, into his hair. She leaned into him, putty in his hands. He could take her again—and gladly would—if only they had more time.

With an effort, he gentled the kiss. Then slowly, a centimeter at a time, he pulled back, broke it off. And smiled down into blue eyes gone glassy again.

Now that was more like it.

Together, they got her into the dress and he zipped it up, saying a reluctant farewell to silky lingerie and silkier skin, already envisioning unzipping it again in just a few hours’ time, when he’d put that lost-in-space look back into her eyes and keep it there for fourteen hours. Until he had to board the train and start for home.

The thought jarred him. Tomorrow he’d be going back to Texas, never to see her again. A couple of days ago that was his fondest wish. Now it felt . . . weird.

But there was no time for introspection. Vicky was checking her hair in the dressing table mirror. She’d piled it into a loose knot of some kind, with two tendrils curving around her cheeks like parentheses. She fiddled with it nervously.

“It looks great, honey. Let’s go.”

She shook her head, distressed. “It’s a mess. I can’t do a thing with it.”

He paused. Took a moment. Caught a tendril and let it slide through his fingers. “I like it this way,” he said, softly, and watched her eyes widen, then flutter. Nervously, she smoothed her hands down the dress.

“I like the dress too,” he said. “You look like a movie star.”

Her gaze fell, but her telltale skin flushed a pretty pink. He grazed a knuckle over her bare shoulder, and a shiver shimmied through her. The damnedest things about her got him hard. Her teeth on that thread. That little shiver. Christ, he hadn’t been like this since . . . Lissa.

Her memory blew through him like an icy wind, chilling him to the bone. He dropped his hand. “Ready?”

She let out a breath, as if she’d been holding it. Hopped to the bed and picked up the tiny purse that matched her dress. “Ready.”

He took a moment to look her over, coolly, just to verify that she was in one piece. And in spite of himself, warmth flooded his chest again. She looked so damn cute that he wanted to laugh at her, with her bad foot held up behind her, the drop-dead dress and fuck-me hair almost—but not quite—ruined by the granny sandals.

But on second thought, her knitted brow told him she expected to be laughed at. Or criticized. And he needed her to understand once and for all that he wasn’t her mother, and he wasn’t Winnie.

So he held back the laugh on the chance she’d misconstrue it. Gave her a sexy, slow smile instead.

“Come on, gorgeous,” he drawled. “Your carriage awaits.” And he scooped her up in his arms.

Chapter Fifteen

N
o grand romantic gesture goes unpunished. The castle was farther away than Ty remembered, the steps up to the chapel narrower, and much, much steeper. And Vicky, well . . . “Honey, remember what I said about you being on the skinny side?”

She lifted her head from his shoulder, squinted at him dangerously.

He huffed out a breath. “Let’s just say that I’ve come to appreciate it.”

That made her laugh.

“And to give you fair warning,” he went on, “when Isabelle gives me shit for being late, I’m telling her the truth. That you dragged me down on the floor and nailed me.”

She whopped her bag against his shoulder. “You can’t tell her that! What if Winston finds out? Or Mother?”

“What if they do? Before they can shoot off their mouths, the wedding’ll be over.” He paused a beat. “But if you’re really worried, I might be persuaded to take the blame.”

“What’ll that cost me?”

His forehead crinkled like he was thinking about it. “Historically speaking, a woman’s best bargaining chip has always been sex.”

“We just had sex!” Her color rose when she said it.

Biting down on a grin, he gave her a pitying look. “What we had, honey, was a quickie. It was nice—in fact, it was fucking fantastic—but what I’m talking about is the kind of sex that takes all night. The kind where you come a bunch of times and I come a bunch of times, and neither of us gets more than a catnap in between. The kind where we have to sneak down to the kitchen for snacks to keep up our strength.”

She was quiet for a minute. He braced for the explosion.

Then she said, “Oh. Okay.” And she let out this little humming sigh that stiffened his cock like a hit of Viagra. Sweat popped out on his brow. His gait hitched as he battled the urge to ditch the wedding and carry her straight back to bed.

In the end, he made himself walk the last fifty feet to the chapel, but he didn’t trust himself to say another word.

V
icky caught her lip in her teeth. To hell with her lipstick, she’d just committed to a sex-a-thon with Ty!
What was she thinking?

Not that she didn’t want to go through with it. She did. Oh boy, did she.

But insecurity racked her. She knew her way around the basics, but her only acquaintance with the advanced stuff came from books and, okay, a few movies. Compared to Ty’s encyclopedic sex life, her experience wouldn’t fill a pamphlet.

And that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of it was that she couldn’t orgasm with a man. She needed privacy. She needed to concentrate. She needed to get it just right or it slipped through her fingers. So to speak.

Men just didn’t understand that. They wanted to make her come, to be the hero, and when they couldn’t, they got pissy. They put the blame on her, and made condescending cracks to salve their egos. They called her uptight and frigid and sexually stunted, names that stuck in her mind like burrs and pretty much assured that she’d never be able to come with any man, ever.

Until Ty, that is. Wow, what a trip. Her insides still quivered. But it was probably just an aberration. She’d been carried away, rocked by passion like never before. Not thinking, just going with it, letting it happen.

Ty was different, she couldn’t deny it. He wound her up, pissed her off, made her laugh, stirred her up in every way.

But
she
wasn’t different. She was the same old Victoria. And when she got in bed with him tonight, all her neuroses and fears and deficiencies would come with her. What would happen then? Would she revert to form? Would he realize that she was only half a loaf and let her down easy?

Or it would it be like today, when she’d shed her hang-ups like last winter’s coat and finally let herself go?

There was no way to know until it happened.

For the moment she had to focus on her brother’s furious fiancée, waiting for them outside the chapel with arms akimbo. She fired both barrels at Ty.

“
Where have you been?
”

Seeing Isabelle’s tight lips, the spots of color in her cheeks, Vicky knew she should feel guilty. But she couldn’t muster it. After all, Isabelle had a lifetime of great sex ahead of her with Matt. Vicky’s one quickie with Ty might be the best sex she’d ever get.

Now he worked his magic on Isabelle. “It’s my fault, honey, and I promise to make it up to you.” His smile would’ve disarmed a nuke.

Isabelle was no match for it. She flapped a hand. “Oh well. Weddings never go off on time anyway.”

And that, Vicky thought, explained why their romance had fizzled. Isabelle was too nice for the likes of Tyrell Brown. He needed a woman who wouldn’t fold like paper when he whipped out that killer smile. Who’d call bullshit on him when he laid on the charm. Who’d shake up his comfy little world and make him work a little.

Not that she had anyone particular in mind.

A
n hour past sunset, the reception was in full swing. Dinner was long over, the cake had been cut and served, and the band was hitting its stride. Under the huge open tent, lit only by fairy lights and the votives that flickered on tabletops, bodies packed the dance floor.

Up on the dais, at the long table where the wedding party was seated, Vicky sat alone with her foot propped on a chair, watching the dancers. As “Blue Suede Shoes” came to a rousing close, Matt looped an arm around his new wife’s waist and dipped her low. Flushed and glowing, she let her head fall back dramatically until Matt swept her up again as everyone, including Vicky, burst into applause.

The band signaled a break and the dancers drifted from the floor, the happy couple making their way to Vicky. Jack and Lil joined them a moment later, sweaty and smiling, then Annemarie, towing Ricky by the hand. An attentive waiter appeared with champagne. Matt raised his glass.

“To my wife,” he said, looking, if possible, even happier than when he’d said, “I do.” “Isabelle, the moment I saw you walk into Tiffany’s, sparkling brighter than anything in the store, I knew you were the woman I’d marry. I fell in love with you that day, I love you even more today, and I’ll love you for the rest of my life.”

Isabelle’s giggle tinkled like chimes. Looping her arms around his neck, she whispered something in Matt’s ear that made him laugh out loud, and Vicky’s heart swelled. He deserved every bit of happiness Isabelle brought him.

Fingers grazed her shoulder as Ty sat down beside her. His hand came to rest on the back of her chair. Together they watched the newlyweds whisper back and forth, oblivious to everyone else.

“They’re a family now,” Ty murmured. “They come first with each other.”

“I’m glad for them.” Vicky meant it, but her voice held the same wistful note. They both felt the loss, and sharing it relieved some of the ache in her heart. She angled toward him. “We were lucky to have them for as long as we did.”

Surprise lit his eyes. Hadn’t he known she was lonely too?

He lifted a hand, traced her jaw with one finger. “Honey, I’m feeling pretty damn lucky right this minute.”

The tenderness in his tone caught her off guard. It set butterflies fluttering in her stomach. Rendered her speechless.

A slow smile touched his lips, telling her he’d read her mind again. Telling her he was going to kiss her.

She wanted him to kiss her.

Before he could make good on the promise, Isabelle spoke up, her voice full of mischief. “So, Ty, would you like to explain why you were late for my wedding?”

He dragged his gaze from Vicky. For a long, slow moment he blinked lazily at Isabelle, while first one side of his mouth, then the other, kicked up in a smile. Another long, slow moment passed and he didn’t say a word, leaving them to divine the meaning of his smile while heat bloomed up Vicky’s neck. Then one by one, their gazes flicked to her. Matt’s brow furrowed. Isabelle’s lips pursed knowingly. Jack grinned. Lil rolled her eyes. And Annemarie did something under the table that drew Ricky’s attention back to her.

Another long, slow moment later, Ty leaned over and spoke in her ear, his voice pitched low so only she could hear. “Remember what you owe me for this,” he drawled. Her butterflies swooped and plunged. Then he leaned back in his chair and said, truthfully, “Isabelle, honey, it’s embarrassing to admit, but a clothing emergency came up, a bad one. So bad it required a needle and thread which, as you can imagine, I didn’t have on me.”

He stroked a thumb along Vicky’s shoulder. “Luckily, Vicky here had a couple dozen of those little sewing kits you get in nice hotels. She stitched things up quick as could be, but still and all, it held us up. I’m real sorry about that, but believe me, sugar, it beat the alternative.” He rolled that smile over Isabelle again. “Didn’t figure you’d want anybody’s ass, no matter how fine, hanging out in the wedding photos.”

Isabelle stifled a grin, and it occurred to Vicky that her new sister-in-law was likely conjuring up a memory of Ty’s fine ass. And who could blame her? It was eminently memorable.

Gently, his thumb stroked her shoulder blade, back and forth. Something so simple, so G-rated, shouldn’t be so sexy. But it was. Her lips curved of their own accord. He smiled back at her, whiskey eyes crinkling irresistibly.

The sound system took over for the band, a change in tempo from Elvis to Chopin. Ty’s smile deepened. His palm, warm and lightly callused, cupped her shoulder, making the butterflies turn somersaults. “Dance with me?”

“I wish I could,” she said, and meant it from the bottom of her heart. She would have given anything not to be hobbled by her toe, because when she danced with Ty, all of their sharp edges smoothed out. As if their bodies knew the secret of compatibility that their brains were just learning.

“Trust me,” he said. He lifted her foot off the chair, lowered it gently to the floor, then pointed to his own feet. “Climb on.” She gave him a skeptical look. He grinned. “Sweetheart, if I could lug you through the cobblestone streets of Amboise, I can sure as hell cart you around this itty-bitty dance floor.”

“But your boots look . . .” Ignorant of cowboy boot lore, she searched for the appropriate adjective. “Expensive?”

“You got that right, honey. So I won’t argue if you want to leave your shoes under the table.”

Her bare feet molded to his boots. Balanced like that, she couldn’t help but cling to him. He held her just as tightly, arm strapped across the small of her back. The music carried them around the floor, and if they weren’t as graceful as they’d been on the terrace, they were more in tune in other ways. Less antagonistic; more horny.

“I see you brought your friend,” Vicky smirked, referring to the now-familiar erection sandwiched between them.

“Wouldn’t go anywhere without him.” He rubbed his cheek against her temple. “You seemed mighty fond of him yourself a few hours ago.”

His words, and the silky, sexy tone he uttered them in, sent a bolt of heat due south. She had to swallow twice before replying. “Anthropomorphizing your penis? What would the philosophers say about that?”

“Fuck the philosophers.” His breath was hot in her ear. “You started it, honey, and when it comes to sex, I can go along with most anything. You want to think of it like a three-way—you, me, and my cock—that’s okay with me. As long as both of us get to fuck you, it’s all good.”

Her breath hitched. Dirty talk as foreplay was a new experience. Her college boyfriend had lacked the imagination for it, and Winston, her only other lover, hadn’t bothered much with foreplay of any kind.

She had to admit, she liked it. And she was determined to give it a try.

“Sounds interesting.” Her lips had gone dry. She touched them with her tongue. “Who gets to be on top? Out of the three of us, I mean.”

He pulled her closer, if that was possible, caught her earlobe in his teeth. “It’s a long night, sugar. We’ll all take a turn.”

His voice was honey heated to the boiling point. Her heart did a double thump, then broke loose into a gallop. His teeth tugged at her earring, possessive, not painful. His bristled jaw scraped her cheek, a thoroughly masculine sensation that triggered answering spasms in her pelvis.

Oh yes, she liked this dirty talk. She couldn’t match his steamy drawl, but the heat coursing through her veins infused her voice with a sexual rumble she hardly recognized as her own. “Me first,” she growled close to his ear. “Then you and your friend can do whatever you want to me for the rest of the night.”

She scored big with that one. His teeth bit down; his arm clamped her to his hard-on.

But she never got to enjoy it, because a sharp intake of breath made her look up over Ty’s shoulder, where Adrianna gaped at her. From her appalled expression, she’d overheard Vicky’s remark. And Winston, her partner, stared at Vicky too. His expression was harder to read, but mingled with rage and disdain was definite interest.

The look on her own face must have been as spectacular—shock, dismay, a fiery flush—because Ty spun them in a circle to follow her gaze. Seeing Winston and Adrianna, both frozen in their tracks, he unloaded a slow smile.

“Winnie,” he drawled, “you don’t want to sneak up on me like that. I might get twitchy. Give you another bloody lip.”

Fury flushed all other emotion from Winston’s face. “Let’s take it outside right now,
cowboy
. We’ll see whose jaw is wired shut.”

Ty’s smile widened to a grin. “Tempting as that sounds, I’ve got other plans.” He shrugged. “Maybe in the morning. If I can drag myself out of bed.”

Winston sneered. “Yeah, now that the trial’s over you can quit pretending to mourn your wife and get back to fucking anything with tits.”

Ty’s jaw tightened but his smile didn’t falter. “If you’re afraid I’ll show you up, Winnie, that horse already left the barn. You have a good night, now, you hear?”

Vicky was sure her own face was flushed as dark as Winston’s. She couldn’t look at her mother, whose jaw had fallen.

Ty danced her across the floor to their table. She sat down dumbly, staring at her lap. He sat beside her, stroked a knuckle along her jaw.

“Vicky.” He sounded more serious than he usually did. “I’m sorry, honey, I shouldn’t have said that. He pissed me off and my tongue got out in front of my brain. But sweetheart, you haven’t done anything to be embarrassed about.” His knuckle kept up its slow cruise, curving under her chin, tilting her head up until she met his eyes. “You’re a beautiful woman, and you have a gorgeous body. It’s yours to do with as you please, and what pleases you is nobody else’s business.”