The Wedding Favor (7 page)

Women must flock to him, Vicky thought as she shook his hand. Not only was he handsome, but his trim waistline showed he was more fit than most men half his age; he positively exuded confidence and well-being, his affluence resting as comfortably on his shoulders as his perfectly tailored sport coat.

And that French accent. Well.

“Matt tells me you’re a litigator,” he said, his diction almost perfect, “and that you’ve just completed a demanding trial.”

Vicky smiled. “Yes, and I’m very glad to have it behind me.”

“Do you enjoy your work?”

The situation called for a polite answer, so she simply said, “It has its rewards.”

Matt chimed in helpfully. “Litigation runs in our family. Granddad was a litigator. And Mom still does trials, even though as a senior partner she doesn’t have to.” He glanced at Vicky’s tight smile. “It’s stressful work, though. A lot of pressure.”

Pierre smiled at Vicky. “I hope you can relax and enjoy yourself this weekend.”

“That would be nice,” she said, knowing it would never happen.

To underscore the point, Tyrell swaggered up, grinning. “Hey, Pierre, long time, no see.”

Pierre gripped his hand, smiling broadly. “It’s good to see you, Ty. Are you well?”

“Right as rain. My folks send their regards.”

“Are they still in Florida?”

“Just bought a condo in Key West. Hanging out with Jimmy Buffett, I hear.”

Vicky flicked an inquiring glance at Isabelle, who’d also joined them. She rolled her big blue eyes. “Ty’s parents are
really
enjoying retirement.”

Ty gave a laugh. “That’s putting a pretty face on it, honey. What they’re doing,” he added for everyone’s benefit, “is recapturing their youth. They rushed down the aisle at seventeen, two steps ahead of my granddad’s shotgun. Before they knew it, they’d put in thirty years riding herd on two hell-raising boys and a few thousand head of longhorns.” He shrugged. “Now they’re making up for lost time. And I’m stuck with the longhorns.”

“What are these
longhorns
?” Annemarie mangled the word.

“Cows,” Isabelle volunteered.

Ty looked pained. “They’re
cattle
, honey.”

“Oh yes! That’s right.” She smiled innocently. “Cows are girls, steers are boys.”

Annemarie’s light bulb went on. “Ah, boy cows. For steak, yes?”

Isabelle nodded. “And girl cows are for milk.” She beamed at Ty, clearly expecting praise.

His aggrieved expression made Vicky bite back a grin. Couldn’t he see that Isabelle was yanking his chain?

By his long-suffering sigh, this wasn’t the first time. “You got the gist of it, honey, that’s what counts.” Then he glanced around the circle. “You all see that article about Isabelle in the
New York Times
?”

“Oh, Ty.” Isabelle flapped a hand. “It was about Vidal, not me. I’m just his assistant.”

“Just his assistant, nothing. You’re the creative genius behind everything he’s done in the last two years.”

Vicky softened toward him, minutely but perceptibly. Believing that Isabelle had failed Cattle 101, he was determined to show her strengths.

Pierre must have recognized his effort too, because he dropped a friendly hand on Ty’s shoulder and joined in. “Isabelle, Vidal has often said that you inspire many of his designs. He wouldn’t give credit unless it was due.”

“He’s damn stingy with it, if you ask me.” Ty was indignant. “He should’ve made you a partner by now.”

Adrianna appeared and put in her two cents. “I couldn’t agree more.” She smiled at Isabelle. “You won’t get the credit you deserve until you go out on your own.”

Vicky bristled on Isabelle’s behalf. Nothing was ever good enough for Adrianna.

Amazingly, it didn’t ruffle Isabelle. “Thank you for the vote of confidence,” she said, “but I still have a lot to learn.”

And with no more than that, she shifted into hostess mode, introducing Adrianna to her father, then Annemarie and, last but not least, Tyrell.

Vicky held her breath as her mother smiled and extended her hand to Ty. He shook it briefly but didn’t smile back. From a guy who handed out smiles like candy, it was an obvious snub. But no one else seemed to notice, and Vicky breathed easy again.

The staff began gently herding the guests toward the buffet table set up at one end of the terrace, and her group coupled up and drifted away, Pierre strolling with Adrianna, heads angled in conversation; Matt cuddling Isabelle against his side.

Annemarie tried to move Ty along too, one arm linked through his elbow, stupendous breasts prodding his arm.

He wasn’t budging, though, and when he offered his other arm to Vicky, she took a dark delight in the irritation that flared in Annemarie’s eyes. The woman was Isabelle’s friend so she must have redeeming qualities, but Vicky hadn’t seen them.

Linked together, the three moseyed toward the terrace at Ty’s usual snail’s pace, Annemarie gabbling away in her pidgin English, Ty making appropriate responses, and Vicky ignoring them both, her attention centered on the carving station. Thanks to Ty’s surprise arrival, she’d had no appetite for lunch. Now her stomach growled loudly.

Detaching from the pair when they reached the food, she loaded a plate with asparagus and fingerlings, piled on some thinly sliced rare roast beef—she deserved a guilty pleasure given all she had to contend with—then retreated to a private table behind the pergola where she could indulge in peace.

But it wasn’t to be. The first tender bite of beef hadn’t hit her tongue when Ty plunked his plate on the table. “I hate to tell you this,” he said, dropping into the other chair, “but there’s a rumor going around that beef’s bad for you.”

Meeting his smirk with a baleful stare, she deliberately placed a forkful in her mouth. Chewed it slowly. Followed with a long swallow of Cabernet.

“Beef,” she then said in her most pedantic tone, “is a religion in France. It’s impossible to avoid, and if eaten sparingly is an excellent source of protein.”

He raised his glass. “And if washed down with a good Cabernet is damn delicious.”

She didn’t bother denying it. Instead she cocked her head. “You look different. Oh, I know what it is. You’re not wearing your stripper.”

He unfurled a lazy grin. “She’s clingy, but that can be a good thing.”

“Clingy? No, Saran Wrap is
clingy
. That woman is
shrink-wrap
.”

“You’re just mad because she insulted your shoes.”

“And you’re just dense if you think that crack had anything to do with shoes.”

“Are you saying she was taunting you?” He looked astonished. “Now why in the world would she do that?”

“Gee, I can’t imagine. Maybe she’s just a meanie.”

“Doesn’t seem mean to me. In fact, she seems real nice.”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure she’ll be
real nice
to you all weekend if you ask her.”

He leaned back in his chair, regarded her thoughtfully. “It pains me to say this, but I’m beginning to think you’ve got yourself a sarcastic streak.”

“Who, me? Get out.”

“I mean it. Those were some nasty comments you made back there. That thing about Brokeback Mountain. Us cowboys can get real touchy about that.”

She let her amusement show. “You should’ve seen your face.”

“I’m sure I looked stunned. Who’d have thought that in France, of all places, I’d be facing a juvenile crack like that?”

She smirked unrepentantly. “If the shoe fits . . . or in this case, the boot . . . Which reminds me, how’s your foot?”

“Oh, it’s fine, just fine.” He eyed her mounded plate. “Though you might want to count up those calories before you pack ’em in.”

That made her sit up straight. “What does
that
mean? You think I’m
heavy
?”

“
I
don’t, but then I’ve spent my life around large animals. Cattle, horses. Like that. Your average East Coast man might have a different frame of reference, if you take my meaning.”

She stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. Apparently, he didn’t realize that he’d just set himself up for a thousand cracks about cowboys and their barnyard animals. They zinged through her brain so fast that she went momentarily speechless trying to decide which hilarious one-liner to get off first.

Before she could pick one, Matt and Isabelle appeared at their table. Seeing their grins, Isabelle cooed, “Ooh, you two look like you’re enjoying yourselves. Don’t they, Matt?”

“Mmm.” He looked skeptical.

“And Vicky, you look just lovely. Doesn’t she, Ty?”

“Pretty as a painted pony.” The wide smile he gave Vicky was completely sincere.

Biting back a crack about ponies and the cowboys who love them, she flapped a hand modestly. “Honestly,” she said to Isabelle, “if all Texans are as charming as Ty, I’m moving to Austin.”
Not.

Isabelle giggled, plainly pleased that her plan was succeeding. Matt looked less enthused. He studied Vicky with worried eyes.

To convince him that she was having fun, she smiled fondly at Ty. Tilted her head toward the quartet playing a waltz on the terrace. “I’ll take you up on that dance now.”

Without the least hesitation, Ty stood and held out his hand. “Don’t you worry about your two left feet, honey. I won’t let you fall.”

T
wilight transformed the garden from simply lovely to intimately romantic. Fairy lights twinkled in the trees; candles flickered on tabletops. The buffet tables had been cleared from the torch-lit terrace, and several couples danced sedately around the flagstones.

Relishing the prospect of Ty embarrassing himself with the eighth-grade shuffle, Vicky gasped when he tugged her smoothly into his arms. His eyes caught hers, amused, as if he knew what she was expecting. Then his strong hand settled at her waist and he swept her into a waltz like she’d never experienced.

She wanted to be disappointed that he wouldn’t humiliate himself, but how could she be, when they floated so lightly over the flagstones that their steps might have been choreographed, fingers laced together like lovers. She should have known he could dance. The man was supremely coordinated, moving through the world with his deceptively lazy stride, as comfortable in his skin as a cat.

A big cat. A lion. Under that tawny skin he was all lean muscle; it flexed under her hand where it rested along his shoulder. A fine thread of suppressed tension ran through his sinews. He camouflaged it well with his lackadaisical style, but she sensed the vibration. The same tensile quality that allowed cats, especially lions, to look relaxed, even slumberous . . . just before they pounced.

Apparently, it made for fine dancing too, because waltzing had never felt so effortless, so intuitive. So romantic.

After a few turns around the terrace, she did manage to say, “Don’t feel bad, I’m sure you’re a perfectly good line dancer.”

His palm slid around to the small of her back and flattened there, pulling her in until her cheek rested against his chest. She almost stepped back, but it felt too good and she slid her arm around his neck instead, moving with him like water flowing in a stream.

“Isabelle’s watching,” he murmured. “Try to look like you know what you’re doing. It’s not Zumba class, you know.”

She smiled. It was really too bad he was such a jerk or she might actually like him. He could be funny. And his chest was as solid as an oak tree.

T
y was having a hard time remembering that he hated the woman in his arms.

She danced like a dream, supple and sexy, letting him lead, moving with him like she was inside his skin. To tell the truth, even in Texas he’d admired how she moved. Her purposeful stride into the courtroom; her command of the space between the witness, the jury, and the judge.

He’d never admit it, of course, and just the thought of the courtroom should have made him tense up. But he loved to dance, and this slender, pliant woman with her cheek on his chest didn’t seem anything at all like a bitch on wheels.

It probably hadn’t been the best idea to pull her up tight against him, but he hadn’t wanted her to catch him smiling at her crack about line dancing, or staring at the shimmering ribbon of blond that escaped her neat French twist.

And he really didn’t want her to see what he was trying so hard not to see himself—that if he didn’t hate her so much, he might actually like her.

But holding her tight presented its own problems. Maybe she wasn’t stacked like that bombshell Annemarie, but the way her body curved along his, well, there was no denying that her hipbone rocking against his groin was about to cause him some embarrassment.

Still, he didn’t put any space between them. In fact, he let his hand slide a little lower on her back, until his pinky sensed the uppermost curve of her ass. His thumb stroked along the bumps in her spine, easily felt through the fine fabric of her pretty dress. He’d never tell her, but he liked it a lot more than that skin suit of Annemarie’s. Jesus, he could see the pebbles on the woman’s nipples through that thing.

He almost laughed at himself. He must be getting old if a skinny lawyer in a high-necked dress turned him on more than a pole dancer in heat. Jack would laugh his ass off if he knew.

The song ended, and without an excuse to hold on to Vicky any longer, he let her go. Took a step back. And watched her gaze travel down to his crotch.

Why in the hell had he worn his tightest jeans?

Then she looked up into his eyes and a smile spread across her face; her blue eyes crinkled in delight.

Damn it, he needed to nip this in the bud. His brows slammed together. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” he said, “rubbing up against me like that. What did you think would happen? I’m only a man, a
heterosexual
man.” He made himself look scandalized. “And you talk about Annemarie.”

Her mouth fell open. “
You
were grinding against
me
,” she shot back. “And . . . and
feeling me up
.”

“Feeling you up? How could I feel you up when your chest was mashed up against me like you were trying to climb inside my shirt?”