The Wedding Favor (8 page)

Outrage widened her eyes. “I was
not
trying to climb inside your shirt! And you were feeling up my
back
.”

He looked pitying. “Vicky, honey, it’s not possible to feel up a
back
. It’s sad to think your experience is so limited that you got turned on by my hand resting there, but believe me, that was not sex.”

They’d kept their voices low but she was close to cutting loose, so he tugged her into his arms for another dance, waltzing her out of range of Matt and Isabelle, who’d joined the small group on the terrace.

She didn’t pull away, but she hissed like a cat. “I didn’t say it was sex!”

“Well, sweetheart, maybe the rules are different in New York, but where I come from, feeling up is foreplay. So is grinding your pelvis into the man you’re dancing with. Now, as far as that goes, being a gentleman, I’m willing to make allowances for your sheltered upbringing. But if you want some advice, you’ll be careful with those signals you’re sending out. Another man might call you a tease.”

Her chest heaved against his, because of course he’d pulled her in tight again. God, he got such a kick out of stirring her up.

“Tyrell Brown,” she squeezed through her teeth, “you are either the dumbest man I’ve ever met, or the biggest fattest liar. Either way, I’m
not
attracted to you, and I’m
not
trying to tease you. That boner of yours—and yes, I can still feel it down there—is your doing, not mine.”

“And it’s turning you on, isn’t it?”

Her breath caught, a sexy little sound of surprise that zinged through his groin. She started to raise her head, probably to bite out his heart and spit it on the ground, but his hand shot up and pinned her face to his chest. “Easy there, sugar. We can’t have you pulling my clothes off out here in public.”

“In your dreams.” It came out “In your threamth” since her cheeks were flattened by his palm.

He swallowed a laugh, filled his voice with regret. “I know this’ll be hard for you to hear, and I’m sorry about it, I truly am, but I can’t have sex with you tonight.” She sputtered into his shirt. “It’s not that you’re not pretty, in a skinny, smarty-pants kind of way. It’s just that, well, under the circumstances we don’t need the complications. You falling head over heels, I mean.”

That did it. The fingers resting on the back of his neck, the same fingers that had toyed with his collar during the last song, turned into pincers. The Vulcan death grip shot a pain through his shoulder that made him drop his hand from her face. She reared back.

“You”—she gnashed her teeth—“are an idiot.”

“Smile,” he said. “Your brother’s right behind you.”

Chapter Seven

T
he nerve! The insufferable egomaniac actually thought she wanted him!

So maybe, in a weakened moment, suckered in by soft music, romantic lighting, and a truly spectacular erection pressing precisely against an erogenous zone, she had, fleetingly, wanted him. That still gave him no right to
think
it.

This was what she got for letting her guard down for one minute around Tyrell Brown.

Matt tapped her shoulder. “Mind if I cut in?”

Sucking a steadying breath, she aimed a last, scorching glare at Ty, then turned around to smile at her brother. “Not at all.”

Having danced together for years in the classes Adrianna had insisted upon, brother and sister fell easily into step. After a moment she no longer had to force her smile. “Hey you. Nice party.”

He grinned. “It’s all Isabelle. All I had to do was show up.” He paused a moment. “You okay? Is Tyrell coming on too strong?”

“Of course not.” And because she knew how much he wanted her to enjoy the weekend, she made herself add, “He’s a perfect gentleman. Why do you ask?”

He shrugged. “Just some stories I’ve heard about him and Jack. They ran together before Jack got married, you know. Never any shortage of women around.”

“Is that so?” Jack McCabe was legendary for the women he’d gone through. But Ty had been married, and after that he’d been grieving. If she’d read him right on the witness stand, he still was.

“Isabelle claims Ty was crazy about his wife and hasn’t gotten over losing her,” said Matt. “Who knows how a person might react to that kind of grief? Maybe it helps to jump in and out of bed with beautiful women. I don’t know, and I hope I never find out.”

Against her will, Vicky searched out Ty, spotted him waltzing in the grass with Isabelle, dipping her lightly, grinning at her squeal of delight. Torchlight glinted off the gold streaks in his hair, and off his silver belt buckle, and off the pearly snaps on the Western shirt that fit him just right. From that distance, in that light, it was hard to cast him as a star-crossed lover. But that’s what he was. He’d lost the love of his life.

And now his heart would be breaking again, because he was losing Isabelle to Matt. Oh, they’d always be friends. But he’d fallen to second place in her affections. Unfortunately, Vicky could sympathize with that.

As much as she disliked having anything in common with the jackass, as she shifted her gaze back to her brother, her very best friend, she knew exactly how Tyrell felt.

B
ittersweet. Ty hadn’t known what the word meant. Now, watching Isabelle walk away from him, letting go of a love that was wonderful and precious but had passed its time, he understood.

Bittersweet meant feeling joy and heartbreak at once. It swelled the chest and left a hole in it at the same time.

Shaking it off, he glanced around, not looking for Vicky. Which was a good thing, since she was nowhere to be seen. She wasn’t on the terrace, where the quartet had left their instruments for a short break. Or on the lawn. Or at any of the tables. He took a few steps backward—just to stretch his legs—and glanced under the pergola. It was dark in there, but he didn’t sense any movement.

Maybe he should go inside the chateau. Find the bathroom, or just wander around not looking for Vicky.

Then he spotted Adrianna Marchand striding toward him and he froze, filled with dread but unwilling to show weakness by fleeing like he wanted to.

“Mr. Brown,” she said, closing in. “I hoped we might have a chance to talk.”

Up close, she was stunning. Deep blue eyes, stylish blond hair, a body like her daughter’s. Beautiful, for sure. But an iceberg. No wonder she’d caught four husbands. And no wonder three of them didn’t stick.

He hooked his thumbs in his pockets, cocked his head to one side. “I can’t imagine what we’d have to talk about,” he drawled.

His indolent pose didn’t seem to impress her. “I assume Victoria’s already explained that she’ll be handling the appeal in your case.”

As a matter of fact, she hadn’t. “Whatever,” he said, putting on a bored face.

“I’m sure she also mentioned her fiancé.”

He quirked a brow. “You mean the guy who can’t keep his pants zipped? Yeah, she mentioned him. In the past tense.”

“Their separation is only temporary, I assure you. Victoria will accept his apology.”

“His apology? How will that go? ‘Sorry you found out I fucked around on you, Vicky. Next time I’ll do a better job of hiding it.’ ” He wagged his head in disgust. “What kind of mother wants her daughter to marry a creep like that?”

Adrianna’s eyes frosted over. “You know nothing about me, Mr. Brown. And despite your cozy display with my daughter on the dance floor, you know nothing about her either. She needs a man like Winston.”

“No woman needs a man who cheats on her. Your daughter least of all. She’s smart, gorgeous, and she’s got a damn fine sense of humor. She can have anybody she wants.”

“If you believe she’ll want you, you’re mistaken.” She scraped cold eyes from his hair to his boots, twisted her lips into a hard smile. “You’re not her type, Mr. Brown. Don’t let this sham flirtation go to your head. When the weekend is over, you’ll never see Victoria again.”

Now that just pissed him off. Not that he had any notion of seeing Vicky again. Even if he was having fun tormenting her, that didn’t spell long-term relationship. And anyway, he hated her guts.

But he wasn’t letting her bitchy mama off that easy. Instead, he curved his lips into his patented bone-melting smile, let his eyes go warm and buttery. Her own eyes widened on cue.

He gave her a moment to think about it.

Then he dropped his head, shifted his weight slightly, so all of a sudden he was crowding her. Her breath caught, and he leaned in closer, until his lips almost brushed her hair. In a drawl as thick and sultry as sweaty sex on a summer night, he spoke into her ear.

“I wouldn’t bet on that, honey, if I was you.”

I
t had to hurt, having a pole up your ass like that. Made for good posture though. Ty had never seen a spine as straight as Adrianna Marchand’s as she stalked away from him.

It occurred to him that he’d promised to charm her. Well, there were only so many ornery, abrasive women a man could be expected to dazzle in one weekend, and he had his hands full with Vicky. Isabelle would have to find someone else to sweet-talk Matt’s mother.

He took another look around, not for Vicky. Which was a good thing, since she still wasn’t anywhere in sight.

Then his ears picked up a whisper beckoning from the pergola. “Pssst. Pssst.”

Had she snuck in there when he wasn’t looking?

Casually, like he had no particular destination in mind, he ambled over, stepped underneath. And out of the darkness, two arms pulled his head down and locked around his neck. Pillowy lips vacuum-sealed his mouth. An eager tongue speared inside. And a bolt of lust shot from his brain to his cock.

Christ, Vicky really
did
want him! Without stopping to question it, he closed his hands on her ass, yanked her hard against his groin, and plunged his tongue into her mouth with equal abandon.

He’d lost his mind, and he didn’t care. Pulse pounding in his ears, cock straining for freedom, he dragged her down to the grass, aiming to take her hard and fast before either of them could think it through.

She tumbled with him willingly, tangling him up in her arms and legs. He pawed her dress up over her ass, shoved his hands inside her thong, snapped it like a thread. She moaned and squirmed, rubbing against his hard-on. He dragged his lips across her jaw, buried his face in her throat. And—what the fuck!—sucked in a noseful of
Annemarie’s perfume
!

He reared back, but her ankles chained his thighs. With one hand she opened his jeans, snaked the other down inside, and wrapped her fingers around his pulsing cock.

Goddamn him for a horny fool! If he’d thought about it for even a second he would have realized that the ass in his hand was too round to be Vicky’s. The heaving chest was bigger too, three times bigger, and the frantic panting, at least the part not coming from him, had a definite French accent.

With superhuman willpower, he unfastened his hand from her bare breast—how it got there, he couldn’t recall—and locked it around the arm she’d shoved halfway down his jeans.

“Slow down there, honey,” he said against her swollen lips.

“But you’re so hard,” she moaned, making him harder.

“I sure am.” He could hardly breathe. “And that’s a real good grip you’ve got there.” He tugged on her arm. “Come on, now, sweetheart. Let go before it’s too late.”

She held on, stroking expertly.

He changed tacks. “You don’t want to waste a good hard-on, do you, honey? Not when we can put it to better use in one of those feather beds.”

That slowed her down. “Now?”

“Soon.” He tugged her arm again. If she didn’t let go this time, it was all over.

Reluctantly, she released him. He gasped out a breath, part relief, part regret. Rolling onto his back, he lay still, afraid to adjust himself yet. The slightest touch might set him off.

Beside him, Annemarie rose up on her knees. His vision had adjusted to the faint light inside the pergola and he could see her naked breast, a creamy globe. He couldn’t look away. Deliberately, she cupped it, took the weight. Licked her thumb and ran it across the nipple. Blew on it lightly so it stiffened, while his dry mouth went drier. Then she slipped it inside her dress.

A sexy sound in her throat pulled his gaze up to her mouth. Her tongue peeked out; she stroked it over her lips. Leaning down, closer, closer, until those lips were just an inch from his, she said in a smoldering accent that no man with a throbbing hard-on could be expected to resist, “Your bed? Or mine?”

He swallowed once. “Let’s make it yours, honey. And hurry.”

Chapter Eight

T
y exited the chateau through the front door, then crept around the side to the garden in the back. Hugging the shadows, he scanned the crowd, if twenty people could rightly be called a crowd.

Pierre and Adrianna danced on the terrace. Matt and Isabelle clustered around a table with a small group of friends. Others were scattered in twos and threes around the fountain or on benches under the trees.

No sign that he’d been missed.

Moving briskly across a narrow strip of grass to the pergola, he ducked quickly into its shadow, pausing just long enough to rake his hair into a semblance of order and give his zipper a final check. Then he hooked his thumbs in his pockets and strolled casually out into the torchlight.

He’d hadn’t gone ten steps when Vicky came barreling down on him. She slammed on the brakes six inches from impact, nostrils flaring.

“
What in the world did you say to my mother?
” she hissed in a furious whisper.

He knew better than to break into a grin, but damn, he loved to see her fired up. Catching her arm, he tugged her toward the terrace. “Come on, let’s dance.”

“
Dance?
” She dug her heels in. Literally, so they divoted the grass. “I asked you a question!”

“And I’ll answer it. On the dance floor.” He tugged again. She huffed out an aggravated sigh and followed him.

Up on the terrace, he gathered her in and they flowed seamlessly into the waltz. He let himself relax into the rhythm. Why did it feel so good to dance with a woman he couldn’t stand?

Circling the flagstones, he kept one eye on the door. After having second thoughts on the way to meet Annemarie, he’d thrown himself on Isabelle’s mercy. She’d promised to run interference, but since she’d already sent Annemarie off on one trumped-up errand that evening—which explained where Annemarie had disappeared to at dinnertime—there was no telling whether it would work again.

Which meant she might pop out that door any minute, expecting to cash in on his promise to bed her. He’d barely escaped their last encounter with his virtue intact; he couldn’t risk being alone with her again. Which meant he had no choice but to stay glued to Vicky all evening. Whether she liked it or not.

At the moment, she wasn’t so hot on it. “Well?” she demanded, blue eyes sparking under lowered brows. “What did you say to make my mother so mad? She’s spitting nails, and she won’t tell me why.”

He’d already figured out that the only way to play it with Vicky was to turn the tables, keep her off balance. If he gave her an inch, she’d lawyer him into a corner he’d never get out of.

“The question you should be asking,” he said tartly, “is what your mother said to me.”

She glared some more. Then, “Okay, I’ll bite. What did my mother say to you?”

“The first thing she said is that you’re handling the appeal. Why didn’t you tell me that?”

She lowered her eyes. Some of the starch went out of her. “I didn’t think you’d want to talk about the case. And anyway, it’s not really ethical for us to discuss it.”

“Okay then, we won’t.” That suited him. “She also told me that you and Winston are a match made in heaven.”

That put the starch back in her. Her head whipped up. “She said that?”

“Not in so many words, but that was her drift.”

He could almost hear her teeth grind. “Do you know she made me promise to give him another chance, or else she’d tell Matt and Isabelle about you and me? What kind of mother blackmails her child? What kind of mother wants her daughter to marry a cheating swine?”

“That’s exactly what I asked that got her all riled up.”

Vicky’s mouth fell open. “You did? You asked her that?” Her lips curved into a spontaneous smile.

It softened her, that smile. She looked so amazed and so vulnerable that he had to look away. Jesus, hadn’t anybody ever stuck up for her before?

“That was . . .” She paused, cleared her throat. “I’m sure that’s what got under her skin.”

No need to add that he’d as much as told Adrianna he was planning to seduce her daughter.

“Yeah, she’s got a temper,” was all he said.

Vicky was quiet after that, her body swaying with the music, her cheek resting on his chest. He rubbed his jaw against her hair, not because it felt so silky, but because he had an itch. Her fingers fiddled with his collar again.

He was glad she wasn’t letting his erection bother her, because it was there to stay.

I
f only they could keep dancing, Vicky thought.

If they kept dancing, she wouldn’t have to face her mother’s bullet-hole stare, or regret Matt abandoning her, or worry about running into Winston at some cocktail party in New York. She could let her head rest where it was, against Ty’s broad chest.

He didn’t seem to hate her so much when they were dancing. Oh, he made fun of her, obviously thought she was a tight ass. But he also smiled at her.

That smile mesmerized her. It was a loaded weapon. When he aimed it at a woman, he could make her do crazy things. Like drink too much wine. Care about the difference between rationalism and empiricism. Toss out her inhibitions and have sex on an airplane.

That last one still hurt, his rejection on the plane. But in truth she was partly to blame. She should have learned her lesson with Winston, and rejected Ty before he could reject her. She wouldn’t be so foolish again. Not with him, or any man.

But she had the rest of her life to worry about that. Right now, just for a while, she’d pretend that Ty was holding her close because he liked how she fit in his arms. That the erection against her hipbone was more than a knee-jerk reaction to estrogen proximity—

“Ah, there you are,
chéri
!”

The sexy French accent cut into her daydream. Vicky lifted her head to see Annemarie steaming toward them, chest cleaving the small crowd like the prow of an icebreaker.

Moving in on Ty like Vicky was invisible, she curled her arm around his waist, went up on her toes to “whisper” into his ear. “Forgive me for deserting you,
chéri.
Isabelle begged me to do an errand for her. I could not refuse.”

“Well now, honey, she’s the bride, after all.” Ty’s tone was magnanimous. “If there’s anything else you need to help her with—”

“No more.” She slashed a hand through the air. “I have done my share. Others can take their turn now.” She pointed a look at Vicky before turning back to drool on Ty. “You and I, we have . . . how do they say in the movies? Unfinished business.”

The phrase hit Vicky like a cold blast from a hose. “Unfinished business” could only mean that Isabelle had interrupted an assignation between these two—which explained the hard-on that wouldn’t quit.

Her whole body stiffened. While she’d been spinning a stupid romantic fantasy around him, the two-timing slime was only killing time with her until he could get Annemarie naked! Would she never learn?

Forcing her lips into a face-saving smirk, she tried to step back so they could get on with their rendezvous.

Unaccountably, Ty held on like a drowning man. He started to babble, unreeling a string of excuses about having an early day tomorrow . . . a round of golf . . . some nonsense about yoga, of all things. His drawl dripped with regret.

Vicky’s jaw hardened. He must be punishing Annemarie for running out on him and his hard-on. Well, she was damned if she’d be a pawn in his stupid sex game. Slapping her hands on his shoulders, she gave him a shove.

He didn’t budge. In fact, his grip tightened. One arm banded around her lower back, the other around her shoulders, all while he wagged his head dolefully at Annemarie, who could only stare back at him wide-eyed, as if she’d lost the ability to translate the excuses rolling off his tongue.

She recovered quickly, though, and promptly took matters into her own hands. Hooking her fingers in his belt, and putting her back as well as her well-developed quadriceps into it, she tried to yank him backward toward the door. But her efforts were useless too. He was stronger than both of them put together, and with his legs rooted and his arms locked, none of them was going anywhere.

The standoff might have lasted all night if Isabelle hadn’t pealed out, “Lilianne! Jack!” All eyes swung to the door.

Wow
, was Vicky’s first thought,
they really
are
gorgeous
.

She’d seen a hundred pictures of Jack and Lil McCabe—on TV, in the
Post
, in her guilty pleasure
People
—but they were even more striking in person. Especially Jack, standing in the doorway in faded Levi’s and a chest-hugging white T-shirt, with his jet black hair sweeping back from his chiseled face and astonishing jade green eyes.

Vicky’s mouth actually watered.

Lil was a beauty too, of course, with her own raven’s hair curling past her shoulders, framing lovely pale cheeks and big violet eyes. She wore a loose peasant top over her jeans, with Jack’s arm—and what an arm it was—looped protectively around her waist.

A waist that was—stop the presses—sporting a definite baby bump.

Isabelle rushed forward to throw her arms around them. Matt shook Jack’s hand, kissed Lil’s cheek. And the next thing Vicky knew, the four of them were turning her way.

Predictably, four sets of eyes locked on Annemarie’s hands, still latched in Ty’s pants. From there they moved to Vicky’s, pressed against his chest. Isabelle’s mouth formed an O. Matt’s jaw went rigid.

Only Jack and Lil looked unsurprised. Lil gave Vicky a sympathetic smile. And Jack got a load of Ty’s rueful expression and busted out in a laugh.

“W
ell, shit,” Ty muttered under his breath. It figured Jack would show up at the stupidest moment of his life. He’d never hear the end of it.

Resigned to the inevitable, he dropped his arms and let Vicky go, then calmly unhooked Annemarie’s fingers from his jeans. Ignoring Jack, he wrapped Lil in a hug. “Hey, gorgeous. How you feeling?”

“Fat and sassy,” Lil said with affection. She let her smile encompass Annemarie and Vicky, then quirked a brow at him. “Looks like you’re in demand.”

He turned his palms up. “What can I say? One of me just isn’t enough.”

Vicky let out a snort. He let it roll off his back. She didn’t worry him at the moment.

Isabelle, on the other hand, worried him a lot. By the look on her face, she’d moved past astonishment to frustration, on her way to all-out fury. She’d be mad at him for a month, and he knew he deserved it. After promising to make sure everyone had a good time, so far he’d managed to outrage Adrianna, sexually frustrate Annemarie, aggravate Vicky, and piss off the groom.

And it was only Thursday.