No Perfect Princess (2 page)

Lucky, lucky me.

The morning from hell transitioned into the afternoon. Dress after dress. Perfection upon perfection. Okay, some not so much. The lavender one had to go. Who the hell wore a lavender wedding dress? I suspected Claire tried that one on to see if I was still paying attention. Thank God I’d paused between emails, which had become my new obsession lately. Now that I was on the full-time roster with Stone Global, I needed to be serious about shining there.

The idea of continuing on with Mother—with
Andrea
—had seemed impossible when we returned from Chicago. After all her secrets had been unveiled, I couldn’t even stand being in the same room with her. Even a simple explanation might have helped, though I never gave into the illusion of receiving a full apology. That kind of thing happened in worlds where unicorns descended from heaven to save humanity from the zombie apocalypse.

She’d never come. Never called. Never said another word. And with her silence, had wrecked whatever connection we’d had, however dysfunctional. I sent a formal letter declaring a leave of absence, but she and I both knew I was never coming back. Too many lies, too much deception. I was tired of Andrea Asher’s games and refused to be a pawn in them anymore. Or so I told myself on the good days.

I’d barely had a chance to realize that “woman of leisure” wasn’t a role I enjoyed playing, when Killian approached with the opportunity to stay on permanently with Stone Global’s expanded PR department. It made perfect sense from a couple of angles. The Asher and Associates team had already been working exclusively with SGC, so everything already felt like my home turf. And as they say, blood is thicker than water. Or did it form the ties that bind? Or coagulate if you used hot honey?
Whatever
. It was irony at its best, however you phrased it. Killian, only a Stone by adoption, hired me, the
real
Stone, for the “family business”. To add a
ha
atop of that
ha
, Killian’s lineage was now full public knowledge—and mine, still a carefully guarded secret.

Because I demanded it that way.

I’d had a first row seat for the media’s last feeding frenzy about Stone family news. It had driven Killian Stone, one of the finest men I knew, into months of hiding. Well, last time I checked, my name wasn’t Shark Chum. I’d be damned if I’d voluntarily splash into that same tank.

When Killian opened SGC’s San Diego branch and brought me on, my friendship—and unique sisterhood—with Claire was forged deeper. Sure, we had less in common than most typical “besties” but somehow it worked in our favor. With unanimous backing by the board, Killian named her the director of the new public relations department, with me as her tight wing-woman. She was the first to admit that she still had a lot to learn, so my experience had come into play in ways that made me feel, for the first time in a long time, like my contributions mattered.

So far, it had been a pretty cool gig.

So far.

It wasn’t like we didn’t keep tabs on what was happening over in Mother’s realm. Talia, Chad, and Michael had stayed on with Asher and Associates, since there were only so many positions to fill at SGC without displacing the very capable people who already occupied them. So the five of us got together on a regular basis to talk shop—in a fly-over, let’s-not-mention-names kind of way—and to shoot the breeze or some darts, or often both.

Yes. I just said that.
I
now went to bars with dart boards. And even—wait for it—jukeboxes. Maybe I’d taken a sip or two of beer, as well. The designer shit only. Something handcrafted and all that rigamaroo.

Still.
Beer
.

A girl was capable of crazy shit when given the throw-down by a lopsided grin and a pair of dazzling hazel eyes. Okay fine; and biceps the size of melons. And legs like a damn gladiator. Hey, Perry Ellis could only hide so much—especially when it was fitted over the fine, fine form of one Michael Adam Pearson…

I was yanked—saved?—from my fantasy by Claire pointedly clearing her throat. I looked up, relieved to see her back in casual wear and her own beanie instead of another glob of cotton candy pretending to be a couture creation.

“Thank God,” I blurted. “Is it over? Really, really, over?”

Claire giggled but I was sure karma chimed in with an echo. The bitch loved sticking it to me in fun little ways like this.

Especially when she could get in the last laugh.

As if knowing that was her cue, Claire’s little wedding coordinator breezed out of the dressing room, smart pad in one hand and coffee in the other. I was stunned to see the cup, certain the woman had a caffeine implant lodged somewhere in her body.

Ginny.

Best said with a wince and an insulin shot—or an EpiPen, if one felt one’s throat closing up at the first sign of perkiness.

Ginny.

Ugh.

The little woman grabbed Claire around the waist and twirled her around in a dance out of a bad Broadway musical. “You are going to be the most beautiful bride the world has ever seen. Isn’t she going to be the most beautiful bride the world has ever seen, Maggie?”

“It’s Margaux.”

“Right. Sorry. Why can’t I keep that straight? Oh my goodness.” She whirled and giggled to Claire.
Again
. Claire tamed her response to a polite smile—or was that a smirk?—as I fought the urge to dash into the bar across the street for something that’d make my eyes water and my head swim.

How could a woman who spoke every sentence twice
and
put together GaGa-sized wedding spectacles
not
remember my name?

And just how many months were left until this event?

And how was I not going to take my own life before then?

A moment of weakness. It was the only explanation for why I’d agreed to be Claire’s maid of honor. I wasn’t cut out for this shit. I hated everything weddings stood for. Love, commitment, white lace, promises, a kiss for luck and God only knew what else—

Yep, here came that latte again.

“Claire.” I grabbed her arm.

“Hey,” she answered. “You okay? You don’t look so—”

“I need sustenance.” I jogged my head toward the door. “Lunch break? I know a great sushi place right up the street.”

Ginny let go long enough to clap her hands, giddy cheerleader style. “Perfect. Yes, perfect. We can talk about the menu. Let’s talk about the menu over lunch. You don’t mind if I tag along, do you Marge?”

“It’s
Margaux
.”

“Oh, God. There I go gain. Watch me go, go go!”

Oh how I wished, wished, wished.

“We just have so much ground to cover. It’ll be great to get the extra time. Right. Claire? So much ground to cover. My goodness.”

“Of course, Ginny.” Claire answered before I could invent a way to mix bitchy and polite into the same flat turn-down to the woman. “That sounds like a good plan.”

Daggers. My gaze. Two for one deal, right over the shorter woman’s head, letting Claire know exactly that. In return, she gave me the doe-eyed treatment again.
Not buying it, sister.
Not this time. This one knew exactly what she was doing.

“I need to use the ladies room before we leave,” I snipped. “I’ll meet you out at the car.”

I retreated to the back of the store to do my business and freshen up. When I returned to the parking lot, Claire was leaning against her A8, absorbed in whatever message she’d received on her cell. She held up a finger, a wordless request that I wait before getting in the car. I parked my ass next to her, against the car’s sleek hood, while glancing inside. Ginny was already in the back seat, belt buckled, hands folded in her lap, as prim as a toddler on a preschool field trip. This was
not
going to be the nice, peaceful, raw fish lunch I’d looked forward to.

Stowing her phone in her enormous bag, Claire looked up at me.

“Have you talked to your brother today? He hasn’t picked up his phone for hours.”

I swung out, landing my fist on her arm a little harder than I’d intended.

“Owww! Jesus, Margaux. What was that for?”

I—
gasp
—actually felt a little sorry for the punch. But only a little. “
Ix-nay
on the
rother-bay
, okay-kay?”

She stared. Then some more. How was this possible? The woman rocked the deer-in-the-headlights thing as easily as the cotton-candy-wedding dress thing. Not fair.

“M, what are you—”

“Just don’t call him my,”—time for the clenched whisper—“
brother
—in public.” I darted a glance around. “The last thing I need is to learn some gossip mag photog freak’s been hiding in the bushes around here, waiting to scoop a lead for tonight’s entertainment circuit.”

She paled before joining me in the furtive three-sixty for said reporter. Any detail about the day she was going to take Kil “off the market” was media gold right now—meaning Claire and him—and all the rest of us—weren’t enjoying much privacy anymore. We couldn’t even assume a peaceful street like this was safe ground from the vultures.

“So…you think you’ll ever be comfortable enough to go public with it?” Claire muttered.

“I don’t know, little bear.” I playfully knocked my shoulder to hers. “Tell you what? One thing at a time. Let’s stress about
you
right now.” A moment later, her snicker had me slanting a narrower glare. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You know ‘effective diversion’ should be your middle name, right?”

“That’s two words.”

“Your point is…?”

“Shit.” She
was
the girl preparing to marry the guy with two middle names. Fucking society wanna-bes, thinking they could be royals by giving their spawn a thousand names.
You can call me queen bee; I’ll live that fantasy.
Riiigght. Because that worked out so well for them all the first time around.

“It’s okay, Margaux. I’ve been onto you for a while, you know.” She looked at me sideways while digging through her monstrosity of a purse to find her keys.

I snorted good-naturedly. “I know, baby.”

She winked. “Glad we’re straight, then.”

“But that’s part of the problem now, isn’t it?” I hooked an elbow through hers. “C’mon, honey. Let’s ditch Miss Ginny Sunshine and hit a few bars instead of lunch. I’ve got the mother of all tension headaches coming on, and only alcohol or great sex is going to work it out. And since choice B doesn’t seem to be in my immediate future…”

Her brows shot up. “Wait. I thought things were on the right track with you and Michael. You know how he stares at you, right? Do
not
tell me he isn’t pulling out every single move in his book when you two are alone.”

I didn’t say anything as we climbed into the car. Once I glanced back, confirming Ginny was engrossed in composing an email on her phone, I decided to throw my sister a bone.
How’s
this
for ‘distraction’, Claire Allyn Montgomery?

“Okay, so
that’s
the problem,” I muttered, leaning toward her. “Michael…I’m not sure if he has any moves.” When her forehead furrowed, I rushed on, “He’s not like any of the guys I’m used to ‘dating’.” I threw air quotes around the last word. God forbid that I say “fucking” in front of Ginny. The fallout from her aneurysm wouldn’t be pretty.

“What do you mean?” Claire pressed. “Are you sure? Mare, I’ve seen the man in action at bars and clubs. He’s a panty charmer when he wants to be. There’s definitely game there.”

I let my head fall against the headrest. “That sure as hell doesn’t help.”

“Why?”

I shrugged and dropped my voice lower. “Meh. Forget it. Maybe I’m not the right quarter for his game.”

She tempted the Botox gods again. “No.
No
. I refuse to believe—”

“Well,
believe
,” I retorted. “Sorry, bear, but I know what I know. The guy is so—polite—like all the time.” Heavy sigh. “
So
polite.”

“Define ‘polite’.”

“He treats me like I’m made of china, right? One wrong move and I’ll shatter into a million pieces. It’s…frustrating.”
Go for it. Just tell her.
“I’m used to it—well, I
like
it—on the rougher side, you know? I’m not a hearts and flowers kind of girl. I need down and dirty, fuck me hard and bruise me fast, you know?”

“Guess I do now.”

I rolled the back of my head against the leather cushion. “He may just be from the wrong side of town for me. Or me for him. I don’t know. I…like him. I like him a lot, actually. But he just never makes a move. Like I’m in a glass case…fifty feet over his head.”

“So shatter the glass. You jump first.”

Twisted lips. “Uh-uh. Been there. And I’ll be damned if I go there again. When a relationship
starts
there, I’m already bored. I love the hunt, sister—but only if it keeps me a little scared, you know?”

“Scared?” she echoed. “Are you serious?”

I enjoyed the chance to get back at her with the snicker. “Oh, c’mon, Claire. Killian still scares you a little…in the good ways. Don’t tell me he doesn’t still bring that little rush to your chest, that telltale pulse in your pussy—”

“Margaux!”

“He
does
, doesn’t he?” I took her secretive grin as a
yes
. “I made myself a promise to not do the chasing anymore. I deserve better.”

She nodded while starting the car and pulling out into traffic. “You’re right. You
do
deserve better. You have so much to offer. I’m glad you’ve finally recognized that about yourself.”

I slammed my eyes shut.

Uggghh.
I didn’t want this. I sure as
hell
didn’t need it. Why was everyone so hot to lecture me about how glad they were that I’d turned some mystical corner in my life, and how much “better” I was now than before?

Better than what
?

I wasn’t “better”, dammit. I was the exact same cold-hearted bitch my mother raised me to be. Different factor at the moment? I had a decent guy following me around like a sweet little puppy, when all I really wanted from him was an hour or so of his doggie side, the harder the better. When the hell had it become so hard for a girl to find a good fuck in this town?