The Wedding Favor (9 page)

Chapter Nine

P
ink streaked the eastern sky as Vicky unrolled her yoga mat on the cool flagstones of the terrace. A pair of early-rising sparrows twittered in the cherry trees.

In the pale dawn light, objects in the garden appeared in silhouette. The bulky pergola. The low-slung benches. Cupid rising from the trickling fountain.

It couldn’t have been more tranquil.

Turning her face to the brightening horizon, Vicky spread her bare feet to shoulder width and filled her lungs with the cool, fresh air. Her palms came together as if in prayer. Then she raised her arms high, reaching for the sky, and moved fluidly into the first sun salutation of the day.

Tree pose followed, then downward dog. A few more sparrows joined the chorus.

In the solitude of daybreak, serenity reigned.

Lying on her back, she moved into the plow position, ass pointed skyward, toes touching the flagstones above her head. She heard the terrace door open. Assuming the staff was coming to clean up after the party, she managed to ignore the footfalls, maintain her focus.

Until—

“N
ice
ass
-ana you got there, sugar.” Ty appraised Vicky’s butt with approval.

She whipped her legs down. Snarled up at him. “What in the world are
you
doing up at this hour?”

“Back at you, honey. Don’t you need your beauty sleep?”

Her eyes narrowed.

He kept a straight face. After a shitty night tossing and turning, alternately hating and craving this very woman, he deserved some entertainment. “Not that you need it,” he added belatedly enough to imply the opposite.

“I was here first.” She sounded like a third-grader.

“Tough titties,” he responded in kind. “I’m here now, so shove over and make room.”

Her lips flattened. She stayed where she was, lying on her back glaring up at him. Daring him to do something about it.

He took the dare. Rolling out a lazy smile, he walked his eyes along her supine form, from her head all the way to her toes, lingering on her breasts, the cleft of her thighs, her long, lovely legs. And then he walked them back up again, just as slowly, all the way past her flaming cheeks to her stormy blue eyes.

Bad idea.

Sure, he’d embarrassed her, which was the whole point. But that body-hugging yoga outfit showcased every curve. Now he was fully, and conspicuously, aroused. Again!

Damn it, he did
not
want to be attracted to this woman!

Even worse than his cock saluting her was the unnerving fact that she actually interested him. She was a bundle of contradictions. Half the time she vibrated with tension. Other times, like when he’d stuck up for her with her mama, she melted like ice cream.

And she was so damn unpredictable. Like now. After he’d peeled her clothes off with his eyes, Little Miss Wrapped-Too-Tight should have been scrambling for the door. Instead, she calmly assumed the lotus position and lobbed her first snark bomb of the day.

“Finished writing in your
gratitude journal
already?” Her wide eyes looked so sincere. “Hoping to
remember your spirit
by communing with the birds?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Pick on me all you want, but leave Oprah out of it.”

“Maybe she’ll give you your own column. The philosophical musings of a Cro-Magnon cowboy.”

He couldn’t hold a back a grin, so he turned it into a pity smile. “Your chakras must be out of alignment. It’s making you snippy.”

She raised one brow, didn’t deign to reply. Instead, she did her own eye-walk, from his bed head, past his stubble, over his holey T-shirt and the yoga mat under his arm, down to his bare toes, and all the way back up again.

He had to hand it to her, she knew how to get it done. And she hadn’t batted a lash at the erection tenting his sweats.

Now her eyes flicked back down to that growing problem. “Aren’t you supposed to call a doctor if it lasts more than four hours?”

“That’s only if you take a pill, honey. What you see here is all Tyrell.” He leered. She rolled her eyes.

So much for running her off.

Okay then. With a snap of his wrist, he unfurled his mat a yard from hers. “Seeing as how you’re a control freak, you can lead the class.”

“Forward bend,” she called out without missing a beat. “Legs straight. Lie forward over your knees.” She paused. “Oops, I wasn’t thinking. You probably can’t do this pose with all that wood in your pants.”

“I admit there’s a lot of it, thanks for noticing. But I’ll work around it.” Locking his hands on his ankles, he stretched forward until his flat stomach rested on his thighs, well aware that it would impress the hell out of her.

H
oly crap.
In hundreds of yoga classes, Vicky had never seen any man do a forward bend like that. Ty must have been practicing yoga for years.

Probably seven years, since Lissa died.

Why, she asked herself, must he keep blindsiding her with his stupid sensitivity?

She called another pose, and another, and together they flowed through a dozen more asanas, a weird kind of harmony evolving as they bent and twisted, stretched and rolled.

An hour later they ended the routine in the corpse pose, lying on their backs, legs relaxed, arms at their sides, their breathing naturally synchronized.

Turning her head, Vicky stole a look at his profile. With his eyes closed and without his smile to distract her, she could appreciate how unfairly handsome he was. Strong brow, bladed cheekbones, firm jaw. All suitable for stamping on a coin. Add the sexy touches—ridiculously lush lashes, thick golden stubble, sun-streaked hair that always looked like he’d just gotten laid—and you ended up with trouble.

The man was too good-looking for his own good. Even standing next to Jack McCabe, probably the hottest guy on the planet, Ty shone with his own light.

Not to mention that Cro-Magnon Cowboy was an accomplished yogi. Just another of the man’s fascinating contradictions: new-age caveman.

So who could blame her for being attracted to him? She’d have to be gay not to want him. And though she’d sometimes wished she was—because having a relationship with another woman
had
to be less annoying, right?—she just wasn’t.

Ty’s eyes blinked open. As if he’d heard her thoughts, he turned his head and looked right at her. His lips curved into that smile that made her stupid, and sure enough, stupid ideas popped into her head. Ideas like rolling up against him and taking a bite out of his delicious bottom lip. Stuffing her hand down his sweats and grabbing hold of that hard-on she’d become so familiar with.

Then his eyes widened, his pupils dilated. His delicious smile deepened into something seriously irresistible. And she realized that her stupidity must be written all over her face!

It wouldn’t do. It simply would
not
do.

She forced a smirk. “All done now? Or should we take a minute to tell each other
what we know for sure
?”

S
he wanted him, that’s what he knew for sure.

If Ty had doubted it before, he didn’t doubt it now. And suddenly he knew exactly what his problem was. He’d made his whole attraction to Vicky too complicated, weighing it down with psychological bullshit when all he really needed to do was get her into bed and fuck her out of his system.

Yes, sir, that was the cure for what ailed him. He’d unwrap little Miss Wrapped-Too-Tight. And she’d enjoy every ever-lovin’ minute of it.

The trick, though, was to make her think it was her idea. Rolling up on his side, he propped his head in his hand. “Okay, me first. I know for sure that you’re not as prissy as you pretend to be.”

That put surprise on her face. “How do you know that?”

He trailed his gaze from her eyes to her lips. “Your sassy mouth. You dress yourself up in conservative clothes, playing the part of the Ivy League lawyer. But you can’t disguise your sassy mouth.”

His gaze roved up to her eyes again, wide and blue. A light flush stained her cheeks. This was going to be pitifully easy.

He let his slow drawl do the work. “I like a sassy mouth. You never know what kind of trouble it’ll get itself into. Keeps things . . . interesting.”

Her color rose higher.

“Your turn,” he said, curving his lips. “Tell me, Victoria Westin, what do you know for sure?”

Half a dozen expressions scrolled across her face. He waited to see where the dial would stop, which facet of this complicated woman would win out. Sexy Victoria? Smartass Victoria? Snooty Victoria? So many possibilities, each with its own attraction.

He could admit that now, the
attraction
part, because he was halfway to getting her underneath him, around him, wet and willing and smokin’ hot—

“Victoria.” Adrianna’s frosty tone dropped the temperature twenty degrees. She’d snuck up like a storm cloud, tricked out in silver and black running gear. Ignoring him, she aimed her chilly gaze at Vicky.

“You’re up early. I trust you slept . . . well.” By “well” she clearly meant “alone.”

Vicky showed some spunk. “Actually, I had sex with Tyrell all night. We’re just taking a break before we go another round.”

Adrianna never blinked. “If I didn’t know how much you dislike sex, I might believe you.”

Ty watched the wind go out of Vicky’s sails.

“The men are golfing this morning,” Adrianna went on as if she hadn’t just punched her daughter in the gut. “I need to do some shopping. You can be ready by ten, can’t you?” She ran a critical eye over Vicky, whose cheeks had paled. “Go light on breakfast. You have to get into your bridesmaid dress tomorrow.”

And off she went, leaving the wreckage behind her.

Vicky stood and began rolling her mat, a cool, distant expression on her face. Ty forgot about seducing her, compelled to say something, anything to ease her pain.

“Vicky—” he began, but she cut him off.

“Here’s what I know for sure,” she said sharply, concentrating on her mat. “I have to deal with her insults because she’s my mother. But I don’t have to deal with yours.”

T
y was furling his yoga mat and grumbling under his breath when Jack ambled onto the terrace.

“Golf,” Jack said through a yawn. “I fucking hate golf.”

“Yeah, well, I fucking hate everything about this fucking weekend.”

Jack grinned. “I guess counsel for the defense started the day by tying your dick in a knot.”

“No, she did not tie my dick in a knot.” He positioned his mat to cover up what she
had
done to his dick. “We were getting along fine until Cruella de Vil showed up.”

“She the one who looks like the counselor, but older and colder?”

“Yeah, that’s her. Wearing the puppy-fur coat.” Ty’s lips thinned. “She’s a stone bitch. Hard to believe she’s Vicky’s mama.”

Jack nodded sagely. “Busted up your little seduction, did she?”

Ty glared at him. Jack snorted out a laugh.

“Fuck you,” Ty muttered, and holding his mat in front of him, he strode away.

“T
hanks for taking Mom shopping, Vic. Isabelle’s got tons to do, and I promised the guys we’d play golf.”

“Please tell me you’re not equating shopping with Mom to spending a few hours on the golf course. They are
not
comparable.”

He filled her coffee cup from the pot the cook had left on the farm table. “I know you’re taking one—a really big one—for the team. I owe you.”

“Yes, you do. And I’ll collect.”

He refilled his own cup. Poked through the basket of pastries meant to tide them over until a hot breakfast was served. Pulling out a
chausson aux pommes
, he sank his teeth in, pushed the basket toward her.

She pushed it away. His brows shot up in surprise.

She wrapped both hands around her cup. “I have to get into that dress.”

He licked pastry flakes off his lips. “So?”

“So Mother said I look fat.”

His brows came down hard. “Mom needs glasses. That trial took some serious weight off you. Isabelle’s worried you’re gonna swim in that dress.” He shoved the basket at her. “Now eat a damn croissant.”

Ty pulled out the chair next to her. “Hey, Matt. Where’s your beautiful bride this morning?” He leaned across Vicky and poked around in the basket, helped himself to a croissant drizzled with chocolate, then fished out a second and dropped it on Vicky’s plate.

Conscious of Matt’s gaze, she smiled sweetly. “Thanks, Ty, but I’m really not hungry.” She shoved the plate into the middle of the table.

He dragged it back. “Hunger has nothing to with it, honey. French pastry’s all about pleasure.”

She turned to eye him, her smile pasted on. “You’re sweet,” she said, and pinched his leg under the table so he’d know she didn’t mean it, “but I don’t want it.”

“Sure you do.” That was Matt, siding with Ty. “Don’t listen to Mom. You look great.”

“It’s empty calories.”

“They’re the best kind.” Ty bit into his flaky croissant. “You can’t get pastry like this at home,” he pointed out. “You’re here for what? Four days? Why not relax a little? Enjoy some forbidden pleasures.”

It sounded innocent enough, but she had a feeling he wasn’t talking about croissants. She went in for another pinch, but he caught her hand and trapped it on his thigh.

To her disgust, a shiver tingled up her arm and found its way to her belly. Lust, for God’s sake. What was
wrong
with her?

“
Bonjour
, everyone!” Isabelle sailed onto the terrace and dropped a kiss on Matt’s waiting lips. “Why didn’t you wake me,
mon ami
?”

“I looked in,” he said, “but you were sound asleep. Too beautiful to disturb.” He pulled her down on his lap. She curled her arms around his neck.

Vicky used her free hand to poke a finger in Ty’s ribs. He sloshed his coffee, gave her a sinister look.

Let go
, she mouthed.

Slowly, he shook his head. His hair was still damp from the shower and looked like he’d finger-combed it back from his face. He’d given himself a little scrape with his razor along the edge of his jaw. She wanted to touch it, damn him.