Been Loving You Too Long (14 page)

“You’re a sour ass groom, man.
 
Liven up,” Justin urged.
 
“If I was marrying a woman like Ophelia—?”

“Watch it.
 
I’d hate to have to kick your ass.” Vincent said, only half joking.

“Like you could... I’m just saying that she’s sweet, she’s funny, she’s a good person, and while I would never dream of poaching on what you have clearly marked as your territory, she’s sexy as hell,” Justin stated emphatically.
 

“You really don’t get the meaning of ‘watch it’, do you?”

Justin chuckled.
 
“You know, you’re not exactly double o seven.
 
It’s been obvious for a long time that you’ve had it bad for her.
 
Everyone knew it, including Thomas. He didn’t do this because he wanted you to suffer or be miserable.
 
He did this because he was afraid you already were suffering and miserable.”

Vincent knew that.
 
Mad as he still was at Thomas for interfering in his life, he understood that Thomas had, even in death, been trying to do what was best for him.
 
For his own sake, he didn’t mind so much.
 
He was getting more than he’d ever imagined possible, even if it was only for a short time.

He just wasn’t a good bet with relationships, and he knew it.
 
He came from a long line of shoddy track records and it seemed inevitable to him that he would hurt her.
 
That’s all the DuChamps men seemed to be good for when it came to relationships.
 
“When’s your meeting with Stanley?” Vincent wanted badly to change the subject.

“I’ve gotten a reprieve.
 
Kaitlyn goes first.
 
Hers is next week and mine is two weeks after that.”
 
Justin rose to his feet, taking another sip of his beer.
 
There was more than half of it left, knowing Justin he’d decided before he even sat down just how much of the liquid he would allow himself to imbibe.
 
“I’m gone, man.
 
I’ll see you at the wedding tomorrow.
 
Cut yourself some slack, would you?
 
This could be the best thing that ever happened to either of you, if you give it half a chance.”

“I’ll take it under advisement, oh wise one,” Vincent replied, and watched his brother walk out.

His brother had his own demons, but for the moment, Justin seemed to have them well in hand.
 

Turning back to his bourbon, Vincent sipped the sweet, smooth liquid, the taste of it a reminder of the man they’d just buried.
 
He’d nearly finished the glass when he felt someone settle into the chair beside him.
 

“Hello, handsome.
 
How about buying me a drink?”

Vincent stared at the upturned and lovely face of Melina Tate and felt absolutely nothing.
 
Still, he didn’t have it in him to be completely rude to her.
 
Signaling to the bartender, he asked, “What are you having?”

“A Sloe Screw…To start with.”

Vincent didn’t say anything, but he saw the bartender roll her eyes as she walked away.
 
He fought back the urge to smile.
 
“Why are you out by yourself tonight, Melina?”

“Well, I had a date, but he was a total bore, so I ditched him and came here for a drink instead. What are you doing here all by yourself?
 
No gorgeous women fighting to keep you company tonight?”

Seeing it as an opportunity, Vincent came out with the truth. “I’m enjoying my last night as a single man.”
 
He watched her face fall, saw the disappointment blooming in her eyes.
 
She hadn’t known, he realized.
 
Somehow, Claude had slipped and not told her about the wedding.
 
“I’m sorry. I thought you would’ve heard by now.
 
Ophelia and I are getting married tomorrow.”

“Ophelia Broulliard?
 
Thomas’ caretaker?
 
Vincent, you’re mad!” she exclaimed.
 
“There’s no way a woman of her background could be any help to you in business. You need a woman who understands what it means—to network and to woo prospective clients.”

Which was exactly what she was trying to do to him, he thought.
 
Rather than saying something offensive, he replied, “I’m marrying Ophelia because of who she is, not because of what she can do for me...And as for her ability to schmooze with prospective clients, she has an innate charm that serves her very well.”

“I see.” She accepted the drink from the bartender.
 
She downed it quickly.
 
“Well, I hope you’ll be very happy together—and if you decide that you’d like to experience the innate charms of another woman? Give me a call.”

He didn’t respond, just watched her walk out feeling vaguely uncomfortable.
 
He didn’t know what her angle was, but he doubted that it had anything to do with her desire for him.
 
There was something else going on and somehow or other, he knew it came back to Claude.
 

CHAPTER SEVEN

The sun poured in through the windows.
 
Lying face down in the bed, wearing not a stitch of clothing, Ophelia groaned.
 
The sound seemed to echo and amplify in the room to the point she thought her ears would bleed.

Everything hurt.
 
Her whole body hurt. She reeked of booze and something else she couldn’t identify.
 
Slowly, to avoid breaking in half, she rolled onto her back.
 
Her stomach kept rolling, doing somersaults, it seemed.

Closing her eyes in an attempt to reduce the spinning of the room around her, she prayed not to throw up.
 
She had an awful feeling that was a prayer that would not be answered.

“Good morning.”

“Oh, my God!
 
Not so loud,” she whispered.
 

Vincent’s answering chuckle was muffled.
 
“I think you had a very good time last night.”

“You’ll have to ask someone else.
 
I don’t know. This can’t be good.
 
I’m dying, aren’t I?”

Vincent laughed again, louder this time, but tried to muffle the sound when he saw her wince.
 
Taking her hand, he placed two ibuprofen in it and handed her a glass of some unknown liquid.
 

“What is that?”

“That would be Ruby’s hangover cure.
 
She sent some over this morning.
 
I think she expected me to be the one needing it, not you...Though she’d be proud—very proud.”

“Of the fact that I got so drunk I remember nothing and that I’m a split second away from tossing my cookies all over my future husband?”

“No.” Vincent made a great pretense of shifting out of her range.
 
“That you, Ophelia Broulliard, did something you weren’t supposed to.
 
She would say that it’s about damned time...Take the damn pills.”

Ophelia struggled to sit up, tucking the sheet beneath her arms to hold it in place.
 
Modesty was pointless, but as she was feeling less than her best, she needed the armor.
 
Cautiously, she sniffed at the oddly colored contents of the glass, then quickly pulled back.
 
“That’s disgusting.”

“But effective.”

“What’s in it?” she demanded.
 

“Eye of newt, tongue of bat, maybe a little graveyard dust.”
 

Ophelia’s stomach wobbled alarmingly.
 
“Oh, no.
 
Don’t say things like that!”

“If you hold your nose, it isn’t so bad,” he offered.
 

Ophelia popped the ibuprofen that he handed her in her mouth and then held her breath as she quickly downed the contents of the glass.
 
It burned like fire and tasted like she’d possibly licked the street after a Mardi Gras parade.
 
“Sweet lord.”

“Precisely. Now, I was told by Kaitlyn to get you up and into the shower or she would see me dead.”

“What has gotten into her?
 
She’s being almost nice and so helpful.”

“She likes weddings. Always did.
 
Planning things makes her happy.
 
She’s not good at being idle.”Holding up a robe, he added, “Now, slip this on, and if you can make it to the bathroom under your own steam, I’ll leave you to it.
 
If you can’t, I’ll wait here while you shower—you kind of reek.”

“I know. What is that smell?”

“Kaitlyn said it’s the body oil that the male strippers used.”

“Oh, no.
 
No!”

He smiled at her obvious distress and took pity on her.
 
“Apparently, it didn’t come from copious lap dances. Even drunk, you drew the line at that, so I heard. No, it was when Kaitlyn required assistance in getting you to the limo. Um—they carried you out Cleopatra style.”

Vague memories began to filter in and they made her wish for the comfort of amnesia.
 
They’d gone to one of the clubs where Brenna’s burlesque troupe frequently performed.
 
“I think I undressed someone with my teeth.”

Vincent cocked an eyebrow at her.
 
“I hope that’s a skill you retained.
 
It sounds promising.”

Struggling into the robe, Ophelia finally managed to get herself covered enough to get out of bed.
 
The room swayed alarmingly and she clutched Vincent’s arms to steady herself.
 
“This is so not good.”

“Yeah,” he agreed.
 
As unsteady as she was on her feet, there was no way he could leave her to shower alone, or even sit in the bedroom while she took care of things.
 
He was going to have to stay with her.
 
Even reeking of booze and coconut oil, with her hair a godawful mess and makeup that didn’t appear to be hers smeared on her face, he still wanted her.
 
But if she puked, it would definitely put a damper on the mood.
 
“Please, don’t throw up on me.”

“Quit talking about it,” she warned.
 
“You keep mentioning it and it will happen.”

Leading her into the bathroom, he tried very hard not to laugh at her misery.
 
He’d had more than his share of hangovers in life, but it was that his very prim Ophelia apparently tied one on in epic proportion that made it so very amusing.
 
Turning on the spray, he adjusted the temperature, and then began to strip.
 

“What are you doing?” she hissed.
 
“I am not showering with you!”

Vincent looked at her pointedly.
 
“The minute you let go of my arm, you had to lean against the wall.
 
You really think you can stand up in here by yourself for long enough to scrub the stripper oil from your body— and your hair?”

“It’s in my hair?”

“Yeah, along with some other stuff I just don’t know about. I think maybe you rolled in the street at one point.”

Ophelia shuddered delicately.
 
“Fine, but no sex.”

“Under normal circumstances, I’d probably be disappointed.”

Ophelia wanted to glare at him, or respond with some witty remark that would flay him to the bone.
 
Instead, she closed her eyes with a whimper.
 
“Don’t ever let them take me anywhere again.
 
Please, for all that’s holy, keep those evil witches away from me.”

Vincent nodded as he untied the belt of her robe and stripped it from her.
 
Even expecting to see her naked, knowing that he was going to be confronted with every glorious inch of her, it still left him reeling.
 
Looking at the floor to avoid looking at the parts of her that tempted him enough to ignore her present condition he saw the small pouch on a thin leather cord tied around her ankle, adorned with beads and feathers, and possibly a chicken bone.
 
“Why do you have a gris-gris satchel tied around your ankle?”

“Why do I have a marching band playing in my head? The answer to every question about my current condition can be summed up by stating that your sister hates me and tried to kill me with alcohol!” she shot back.
 
Even as she said it, vague memories crept in of the three of them walking down St. Ann Street and into a voodoo shop.
 
“I don’t know—but if it’s supposed to bring me good luck, it isn’t working.”

Vincent shook his head.
 
“You’re a bitchy drunk.”

“I’m not drunk, I’m hung-over!”

“Get in the shower.” He walked her to the enclosure. Once inside, he shut the glass doors and turned Ophelia toward the spray.
 
He ignored her whimpers of protest.
 
After the first few minutes, she stopped grumbling.
 
When she reached for the shampoo on her own and began to lather her hair, he breathed a sigh of relief.
 
“Have you got this?”

“I’m not going to fall over— but puking isn’t outside the realm of possibility yet.”

“Right. I’m getting out.
 
I’ll be in the bedroom if you need anything.”

“I’m sorry,” she muttered.

“What for?”

“For being surly and hung-over...and stinky.”

“You smell better now and I’ve been surly and hung-over plenty of times myself. I’ll wait to make sure you’re okay.”

“Thank you.”

Stepping out of the shower, painfully aroused and disgusted with himself for it, Vincent wrapped a towel around his waist and headed to the bedroom.
 
He needed a few minutes to get himself under control before he could even think of putting his pants back on.
 

If it was possible to die from having a permanent erection, he was well on his way.
 
Tonight, he promised himself, it would happen, assuming Ophelia recovered sufficiently from her hangover.
 
Of course, that thought wasn’t going to help him get into pants any time soon.

Forcing his mind onto other, safer, topics, he did manage to get dressed and was seated on the bed when Ophelia emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later.

She looked green.
 

“Sit,” he said.
 

“Oh, this is so bad…”
  

“Maybe you should just go ahead and throw up. You might feel better.”

“I already did.
 
Crackers.” She sighed.
 
“I need crackers.”

“Right,” he said and headed for the kitchen.

Kaitlyn was already there, directing traffic and ruling over everything with an iron fist.
 

“Why the hell did you let her get that drunk last night?”

Kaitlyn shushed him with a harsh glare. “Do not raise your voice,” she said, her own voice pitched low and slow.
 
“I did not let her get that drunk—I was too drunk myself to be responsible for her.
 
You can blame that redheaded hussy for all of this.”

Realizing that Kaitlyn was in nearly as bad a way as Ophelia, Vincent shook his head in disgust at the both of them.
 
Retrieving the crackers from the cabinet, he also grabbed a bottle of ginger ale from the refrigerator and took both back upstairs.
 

Ophelia was still sitting on the edge of the bed where he had left her.
 
She was making a weak attempt to comb her hair.
 

Taking the comb from her, he gave her the crackers and the soda and then moved behind her to take over the task.

“I am never drinking again—never!
 
Not as long as I live.”

“You may be the only person I know who’s ever uttered those words and actually meant them.”

“This is awful.
 
Why do people do this and call it a good time?”

“At least you can say you’ve officially sewn the one wild oat you possessed,” he offered.
 

Smacking at his hands, Ophelia pushed him away.
 
“That isn’t funny.
 
I have more than one wild oat.”

Vincent chuckled. “Really?
 
How do you intend to prove it?”

“I didn’t hear you complaining about my lack of wild oats yesterday afternoon,” she challenged.