The Supermodel's Best Friend (A Romantic Comedy) (37 page)

She shook her head. “Maybe later,” she said
softly. Her body came to life under his touch. Her mind… well, it
couldn’t remember anything bad about him either.

He lifted her arm, kissing his way down to
her wrist. When he got to her watch, a sporty rubberized black
thing that clashed with the pastels of her wedding uniform, he
looked up at her with a smile. “I’m surprised Fawn let you wear
this.”

“I shoved it down my bra. Just put it back
on. I like to know what time it is.”

His smile broadened. “So organized, my
Lucy.”

He bent his head again. His lips brushed
along the pale skin of her inner wrist, arousing a shiver.

“Remember,” she began, her heart pounding,
“how I said we had until Sunday to be together?”

Without moving his lips away from her skin,
he looked up at her. Voice dropping, he responded, “Yes?”

“It’s only Saturday,” she whispered.

He closed his eyes for a moment as if in
prayer. Then stood up and hauled her up into his arms. “I love a
girl who knows her days of the week.”

She laughed, gasping, wriggling in his arms,
all the while hearing the word
love
reverberate in her
skull.

Lifted up against his chest, she was able to
see over his shoulder. Where the other large Girard man was
standing.

“Excuse me,” Alan said, turning to go.
“I—I’ll talk to you later, Miles.”

Still holding her in his arms, Miles swung
around. His gaze dropped to Lucy’s, the conflict ravaging his
face.

“Of course you can talk now,” she said,
shimmying her way down his body to the ground. “I’ll just take a
little walk.”

“Are you kidding?” Miles clasped her hand and
wove her fingers through his. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Alan managed a sad smile. “Good thinking,
son.” He ran a hand through his gray hair. “This will just take a
moment.”

“First let me explain—” Miles began.

“No. Enough of that. We both know what she
was doing, and I’ve told her that. I’m sorry.”

“No, Dad, don’t say that. I never
should’ve—”

Alan stepped forward and gripped his
shoulder, anger resurfacing in his eyes. “Enough. There’s more to
say, but not that, and not now.” His gaze moved to Lucy. “Maybe you
can cheer him up. I’ve got a flight to catch.”

No, not now. They were so close.
“Are
you sure you have to leave so soon? I’m sure Miles would love to
spend some more time with you,” she said. “It’s only Saturday.”

Miles squeezed her hand.

“Can’t,” his father said. “But I’ll be back.”
He put both hands on Miles’s shoulders, smiling tightly, and then,
as if shoved by an invisible hand from behind, he lunged forward
and embraced him.

Lucy slipped her hand free and watched the
two large men in their tuxedos hug each other quickly but
forcefully. Wiping her eyes, she struggled to think of another day
she’d cried as much.

Blinking and scowling through tears of his
own, Alan stepped back and tugged down his jacket. “Top of the
Mark, next Saturday, seven.” His eyes darted to Lucy. “Beautiful
redheads encouraged to attend.”

“You’re coming back to San Francisco?” Miles
asked hoarsely.

“That’s where my son is, isn’t it?” Alan
said. “Well? Will I see you there?”

“Yes. Sure. Of course.”

Then he turned his questioning gray eyebrows
on Lucy.

That’s the billion-dollar question, isn’t
it?
she thought.

Before she could construct an answer, Alan
bent down and kissed her cheek. “I look forward to it,” he said
before he strode away.

* * *

“Well,” Miles said. He reclaimed Lucy’s hand
in case she had some crazy idea about running away.

She looked up into his face. “That was
beautiful.”

He touched her cheek. “Were you crying?”

“Anybody would.”

No, not anybody,
he thought. “Old age
has definitely mellowed him out. That right there was more emotion,
except for anger, than I’ve ever seen him show in my entire life.”
Lifting her hand, wanting the softness of her skin under his
fingers, he traced the band of her ugly black watch. “Then again,
maybe it was just the champagne.”

“I’m sure that was it.”

He kissed his way up her inner arm until he
got to the tiny silk sleeve of her dress. With one finger, he
pulled it down to completely expose her round, lightly freckled
shoulder. “Nice try getting rid of me, by the way. As if I’d rather
hang out with my old man than you.”

A flush rose up her neck, stained her cheeks.
She glanced past him. “Everyone will be coming in here any minute
to watch them cut the cake.” Her voice wobbled.

He cupped her face in his hands and kissed
her gently. “I like cake.”

“Oh,” she sighed.

He felt her shaking. Big green eyes stared
into his. He caressed her hot cheeks with his thumbs, savoring
their softness. He kissed her again, slipping his tongue into her
mouth while his fingers dove into the short, silky waves of her
hair.

She pulled back. “Any minute. People. Here.
Lots of them.”

The cake was about the size of Huntley’s
Porsche and sat on a rectangular table big enough for a shipload of
Vikings. With the tip of his shoe, he lifted up the edge of the
tablecloth and felt for empty space underneath. Plenty of room.

He grinned at her.

“No way.”

He stroked her cheek, cupped the back of her
head, brushed her earlobe with his lips. “Admit it. You want a
little fun. Just this once.”

“I am not getting under—”

His lips found the sensitive spot under her
ear while his right hand slipped under the gaping pink silk of her
dress and stroked her nipple until it puckered. “No one will know.
Just us.”

“You’ve had an emotional upheaval.”

Squatting down, he lifted the tablecloth.
“All the more reason to lighten up a little.” He slipped a hand
under her skirt and caressed her calf. “Or a lot.”

He kept his expression playful, but he was
shaking. This was the moment, this was the time. Raw, emotional,
connected—she might never let him get this close to her again after
they went home.

“I can’t believe I’m going to do this.” She
shook her head and dropped to the ground. Her cheeks were pink, her
eyes bright and alive. She reached up and caressed his thigh before
she disappeared.

With renewed urgency, he crawled in after her
and tugged the tablecloth down. Hunched over, his head bent at an
angle under the table and his inflexible leg muscles complaining,
he had a brief, sobering moment of doubt.

No bed.
Maybe a little planning is a good
thing.

But then Lucy pushed him down until he was
flat on his back under her hands, and his doubt vanished. The table
was long enough for him to stretch out his legs and gaze adoringly
at her.

He ran a hand along her waist, up to the
delicious mouthful of her breast. The neckline of the bridesmaid
dress was low, and her breasts pushed up high. His fingers slid
under the silk and lace and found a taut, tender nipple.

She groaned and pressed her lips against
his.

He sucked her tongue into his mouth,
continuing his caress. “Admit it. You don’t always have to plan
everything.”

She found his own nipple and pinched it. “How
do you know I didn’t plan this?”

Choking back pain and laughter, he moved his
hands down to lift her skirt. He heard the approving moan in the
back of her throat.

Suddenly she pulled away, her body going
rigid. “Uh-oh,” she said softly.

Then he heard them. Voices nearby, getting
louder. The dance music had stopped. And a voice over the speakers
was saying something about…

Cake.

“Too late now,” she sighed into his ear, then
stuck her tongue in.

He shivered. Turned his mouth to capture
hers, loving the feel of her on top of him. Solid, womanly, hot,
real. The kiss went deeper, less playful.

More and more voices around them.

It was so hot, knowing they were surrounded
by people who didn’t know they were there. He hadn’t thought she’d
really get under the table with him. Just teasing. But now that he
felt her warm skin under his palms… smelled her scent… heard the
little gasps of her breath…

* * *

Well, this wasn’t on my list,
Lucy
thought.

She wriggled against his chest. The tile
under her knees was hard, but his body took most of her weight, and
being in his arms again was a powerful anesthetic. The flowers in
her hair fell around Miles’s head, tugged out by his roving
hands.

The crowd got louder. Larger. The tablecloth
was too thick to let in much light—or air—but at least it promised
a certain amount of privacy.

Yeah, right. If anyone heard them and
happened to look under the table… what a view. She’d never live it
down. Everyone had a camera. Some of these people even owned
newspapers. Cable channels.

She smiled. Never in her life did she think
she was capable of having this much fun. Miles did this to her.
Turned her on. Lit her up. Unlocked her. She might never have the
chance to feel like this again.

She wouldn’t think about that. And since they
were stuck under the table until the last piece of
fondant-encrusted dessert was served, they might as well enjoy
it.

“What are you wearing?” he whispered,
struggling with the control-top chemise under her dress.

She reached down and rolled the tight elastic
fabric up over her hips to her waist. “Shhh.” Thighs finally free,
she spread her legs wider and wiggled against him, her skirts
falling back down over them. A little privacy, anyway.

His hands journeyed up her calves, over her
knees, up her thighs. He slipped a finger under the waistband of
her panties. The way he touched her—confident, familiar—made all
the blood pool in her belly. Lower. His fingers were surprisingly
agile and quick, gliding under the satin, sliding down between her
legs.

There wasn’t enough air. The way he was
looking at her, hot but tender—

She leaned down, kissed him. His whiskers
were rough against her chin. He tasted like fine champagne.

And he was stroking her. “Relax,” he
whispered against her lips.

Sucking in a breath, she rested her cheek
against his chest, all her attention drawn to the hot demands
between her legs. Something about how wrong it was, what they were
doing, how he was in a tuxedo flat on his back and she was sprawled
on top of him with his hand up her dress…

Right under the cake…

With two hundred well-heeled people
surrounding them, not knowing they were there…

He rolled her sideways so some of her weight
was in the crook of his arm. Kissing her open-mouthed, he pushed
her legs wider apart. Gently, quickly, his finger moved in and out,
circled her, stroked.

She was going to come faster than she thought
physically possible.

Vaguely, she heard people talking, clapping,
laughing. Glasses clinking. Plates rattling.

Miles slipped his tongue between her lips.
His fingers, down lower, moved faster.

The tension built, spiraling higher. She
clung to him. Pressed against his hand. It was too much, too fast.
He was pushing her too high.

“Let go, Lucy,” he whispered.

She broke. He swallowed her cry with his
mouth, eased her back to earth, caressed her gently.

On the other side of the tablecloth, the
crowd cheered and clapped.

“To Huntley and Fawn!” a cry went up.

Miles patted her. Wrapped his arms around her
and pulled her back on top of him, kissing her.

“To us,” he said.

After several minutes, still dazed, Lucy
rubbed her cheek along Miles’s jaw. “You can’t be very
comfortable,” she whispered.

“I’m fine.” He slipped his hands down her
sides, caressed her hip. Shifted his pelvis. “Mostly.”

Now that she was coming back to earth, she
realized how crazy they were. “They’re still out there,” she
whispered.

“Just the staff. The rest sound like they’ve
moved back to the tables. Chowing down.”

She rested her head on his chest and
listened. He was right. The hum of the crowd was farther away. “How
are we going to get out of here?”

He tangled his fingers in her hair. “What’s
the hurry?”

She hesitated, not wanting the moment to end.
But it had to. “Doesn’t the best man give a toast?”

Miles jerked up, dislodging her. “Damn!”

She got her feet underneath her and struggled
to get into a squat beside him. Balancing on top of his broad
hugeness may have saved her dress from the worst damage, but there
was quite a bit of dust and grass on the silk. She brushed it
roughly. “Hold on, you can’t just crawl out of here.”

He gave her a quick kiss. “Got to give that
toast. I spent all night writing it. When I wasn’t thinking about
you.”

She kissed him back. He tasted so good.

But he broke away with smile, reaching for
the tablecloth.

“Wait! I can’t go out there like this,” she
said, looking down at her dress.

“Stay. I’ll be right back.”

“I can’t stay here. For one, I want some
cake.”

A hand appeared, lifting the tablecloth
higher. “Hello?”

Lucy scrambled back and ducked her head under
her hand.

“Shawn! My man!” Miles flashed Lucy a grin.
“Don’t worry. Shawn’s cool.”

The tablecloth went higher, and the staffer’s
furry face appeared. A fresh breeze blew under the table. “Mr.
Girard. The groom was wondering if you were ready to speak, or if
you need Mr. Sargeant to step in.”

“I’ll be right there. Tell Alex to
chill.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, nodding as he
disappeared. His gaze had never moved from Miles, as though not
noticing the tousled woman squatting right next to him with her
dress bunched over her knees.