The Wedding Favor (4 page)

“Shit.” He rose stiffly, let the tiny seat snap up against the wall.

She took
O
from his hand, rattled a box of Tic Tacs at him. “Do us all a favor.”

“Hell.” He shook half the box into his palm, shot them into his mouth.

“Now go.” And she shooed him out of the galley.

T
y dropped into his seat like a ton of bricks.

“Good morning,” Victoria said, the best she’d come up with after an hour of rehearsing. It was innocuous, gave nothing away. Left it to him to set the tone.

He didn’t waste any time. His head whipped around like a snarling dog’s.

“Don’t push me,” he snapped. She jerked back. He bared his teeth. “Don’t look at me. Don’t breathe on me. Don’t fuckin’ talk to me.” He slammed his seat belt together, locked his arms across his chest, and shut his eyes. Shut her out.

Victoria could only gape. Of all the reactions she’d anticipated, this wasn’t among them. Snarling fury a hundred times worse than yesterday radiated from his spring-loaded body. He looked . . . lethal.

Afraid he’d feel her staring, she yanked her wounded gaze away, trained it out the window. The sky was cloudless now, as clear as crystal. Far below, the ocean caught the sunlight and winked it back at her.

Gradually, her pulse retreated. But her mind continued to churn.

She’d meditate, that’s what she’d do. Center herself. Block his negativity. Knowing he’d sneer only made her feel better about it.

Closing her eyes, she summoned the image of a single candle. Slowed her breathing. Four counts in, four counts out.

Thoughts intruded, a procession of worries. The trial, her mother, Tyrell, the wedding. Gently, surely, she nudged each one out. The candle held her focus. Her mind settled.

“Ms. Westin.” Loretta’s voice cut through to her. “Ms. Westin, we’re getting ready to land. Please put your seat up.”

She peeled open her lids. Glimpsed Ty glaring murder at her.

But this time she was ready. This time, the injustice of it pissed her off. Instead of flinching, she met him glare for glare and had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen. A dozen cutting remarks danced on her tongue. She bit them back. It was enough that he knew she wasn’t cowed. A battle of words would bloody them both and she’d only end up feeling guilty for hurting him.

But for what she’d done in court, she no longer felt guilty. She’d had time to work through it, to accept that even though Jason Taylor was a heartless son of a bitch who thought his money should buy him out of any tight spot, including manslaughter, he was still her client—or rather his insurance company was—and she was sworn to defend him. She, Victoria Westin, attorney at law, had only been doing her job.

And damn it, she’d done it with a lot more compassion than any other lawyer would have shown. Not only had she never once accused Ty of lying, something she couldn’t bring herself to do, and which, she’d rationalized, would only have won him the jury’s sympathy, but she was as sensitive as possible when she asked him if maybe, just maybe, he’d imagined that conversation with his wife.

She’d had no choice, the question had to be asked. It would have been malpractice not to ask it. But where another attorney would have kept at him, circling around from every direction, badgering, prodding, trying to wear him down, to trick him into admitting that he couldn’t be sure, she’d asked him only once. Just once, and then she’d left him alone.

Not that she hadn’t tried to raise doubts through other witnesses. She’d brought in a parade of doctors and nurses, none of who saw Lissa wake up, and all of whom testified that in their professional opinions it was unlikely that she would have done so. She’d also put a psychiatrist on the stand to explain how emotional and physical strain could affect the human mind. How it might cause a grief-stricken man who was desperate for a last word with his beloved wife to imagine such a conversation. To believe with his whole heart that it had happened.

She was only doing her job, and she wasn’t sorry about it. In the end, the jury believed him anyway. And she wasn’t sorry about that either.

Last night she might have told him so. Now, forget it. He could think what he liked; she was done worrying about Tyrell Brown. Ten minutes after touchdown, she’d never see him again. And good riddance.

T
yrell was of the same mind. Every muscle in his body itched to get away from the blue-eyed bitch on wheels. When the plane taxied to a stop at the terminal, he was the first one on his feet, yanking his bag out of the overhead, turning on his cell phone like every other idiot.

For something to do, he checked his voice mail while they waited for the Jetway. And he was glad he did. As always, Isabelle’s flirty French accent triggered his smile.

“Ty! I can’t
wait
to see you! Call
the minute
you get in. I scheduled a five o’clock fitting for your tux, so you’ll have to go straight from the airport.” His smile dissolved into a scowl. Isabelle giggled. “Stop frowning, I know you are! Trust me, you’ll look amazing and all my girlfriends will go crazy for you.”

He rolled his eyes. She’d surely set him up with one of them; she always did. Oh well. If tumbling a French beauty would make her happy, he’d be glad to oblige. After all, that’s why he was here, to see that she was happy. And to check out her fiancé—Matthew J. Donohue III. They hadn’t met yet, but Ty already knew he wasn’t good enough for her. Nobody was.

The door opened and the first-class passengers began moving forward. Ty glanced at Victoria. She was standing up, carry-on in hand. Grinding his teeth at his own good manners, he took a step back to let her into the aisle in front of him.

And got a don’t-sully-me-with-your-gaze-you-lowly-turd stare for his trouble.

V
ictoria knew how to sell it too. She’d learned from her mother, the expert at making people feel like she’d scraped them off her shoe. And it got to him, she could tell. She could almost hear the blistering curse run through his brain as he shuffled forward, foiled from striding away in disgust by the barely moving elderly couple in front of him.

Stepping smoothly into the aisle behind him, she had the satisfaction of staring at his stiff shoulders as they inched toward the door.

Loretta stood at the threshold. “Tyrell, you take care now, you hear?”

“I will,” he said, dropping a kiss on her cheek. And then he was out, through the narrow doorway and into the wide-open Jetway.

He hit the gas and left her far behind.

Chapter Four

S
ix feet tall, blond and blue-eyed like his sister, Matthew J. Donohue III grinned down at her. “Awesome place for a wedding, huh?”

Victoria gazed up at the massive gray stone walls of the Château Royal d’Amboise, the eleventh-century castle that lorded over the green banks of the Loire River and the classically beautiful French town.

Totally impressed, she tossed off a careless shrug. “I guess. If you can’t get the VFW.”

Matt laughed out loud. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Uncle Rodney’s third wedding. Eighty guests, twenty mounted deer heads, and Mother catching you in the broom closet with No-Pants-Nance.”

He winced. “Ouch. I blocked out that last part.”

“I’ll never forget it. No-Pants was already a cougar at eighteen, and Mother was
not
happy to find her pouncing on her
innocent
fourteen-year-old son. I can still hear her raving, ‘That’s statutory rape, you mousy little slut!’ ” Victoria rubbed her palms together. “What a great story for the rehearsal dinner.”

Matt didn’t say a word, just held up his index finger, flexed it a few times, and her abdominals contracted reflexively. “Not that I’d ever tell it,” she added quickly. She was insanely ticklish, and Matt exploited it remorselessly.

He grinned. “Come on, I’ll show you the house where you’re staying.” He hefted her bags and set off across the plaza with his long, athletic stride. She fell into a familiar half trot beside him.

“How’d your trial go?”

“I lost. Big.”

“How big?”

“Seven figures big.”

“Ouch. Mom know yet?”

“I texted her. Then shut off my phone before she could call and ream me out.” She darted a wary glance over her shoulder at the hotel, situated in the castle’s shadow.

“She’ll be on the next train,” Matt said. “Her plane was late, or you could’ve ridden down together.”

Victoria grimaced. “So there
is
a way my trip could’ve sucked worse.”

“Bad flight?”

“The. Worst. Ever. I don’t want to talk about it. I’m working on repressing the memory.”

Together they trudged up a steep hill, talking of other things, honoring their unspoken rule to leave work at work. Vicky never discussed her cases, Matt never discussed his clients, and yet they never ran out of interesting things to talk about.

Turning right onto a side street, they passed several imposing chateaus, each set back on its own generous acre. Matt turned into a curving driveway and they followed its sweep up to the door of a sprawling two-story chateau built from the same gray stone as the castle.

“Beautiful,” Victoria said, following him up the stone steps. “And ancient.”

“Five hundred years old,” he said, “and the decor is semi-authentic. You’re gonna love it.”

“Who wouldn’t?” she murmured, stepping through the ornately carved front door and into the vaulted center hall.

Turning in a slow circle, she soaked it in; wide-beamed ceiling, plaster walls, faded tapestries, brass sconces. A curved staircase rose to the second floor. “It’s straight out of an Alexandre Dumas novel.”

Matt beamed. “We were kind of screwed hotel-wise, moving the wedding to Amboise at the last minute. But with everything Isabelle’s got planned, renting this place actually works out better. It houses the whole wedding party, and then some. And hey, it’s amazing.”

“Yeah, it is.” Wandering through an open door, she let out a low whistle. Bookshelves lined the walls, floor to ceiling. A large casement window set into the back wall poured sunlight across two leather club chairs.

“Don’t bother,” Matt said when she reached for a book. “They’re in French.”

“So? I took French.”

“Yeah, in
tenth grade
.”

She made a face, let him prod her out of the library and through another door across the hall. “This is the living room, or whatever they call it in French.”

She ran her hand over one of the leather sofas that filled the space before the fieldstone fireplace, fitting comfortably into the medieval decor. “Imagine sitting here four hundred years ago, sipping brandy by the fire on a rainy evening while the wind rattled the shutters.” She could see herself in that picture.

Matt snorted. “Last time you drank brandy you puked on Mom’s white chaise longue.”

She spared him a withering look. “I was sixteen, and that was the
first
time I drank brandy, not the last.”

“Seriously? You could stomach it again after that pukefest?”

“Winston’s an aficionado. He dragged me to some tastings.”

“Oh.”

The fact that Matt left off teasing her spoke volumes about his feelings toward Winston. He still hadn’t forgiven himself for introducing them at a Harvard alumni function, and she knew he was worried that she’d be miserable at the wedding, that it would remind her that she’d be married herself by now if Winston hadn’t cheated on her.

She didn’t want Matt dwelling on her problems. She wanted him to enjoy the weekend, so she’d do her best to convince him that she was enjoying it too. “Is Isabelle here?”

The mention of Isabelle brightened him again. “She’s in Paris, meeting up with an old friend. They’ll come in tomorrow.” He waved as they passed another door. “That’s the dining room. Kind of gloomy, lots of old portraits frowning down at the table.” He kept her moving. “There’s a conservatory out back. Kitchen, too, not that you need to know about that. You’ve got a cook. Maids too. The whole nine.”

She blinked in surprise. “My, my.”

“They come with the rental, so it’s not as extravagant as it sounds, especially with the whole wedding party staying here. Except me, that is.” He grinned. “I’ve got the bridal suite at the hotel. Groom’s prerogative.”

Unexpectedly, her throat tightened. He was a groom. Her hotshot stockbroker brother, one of Manhattan’s most eligible bachelors, her defender, champion, and best friend, was a groom.

The wave of emotion that swamped her was lost on Matt. “Come on,” he said, loping up the sweeping staircase, “you gotta see your room.” At the top, he led her down a four-doored hallway. “These are all for the wedding party.” He gestured to the first door on the right. “Isabelle’s cousin Lilianne’ll be in here. With her husband . . . Jack McCabe.”

He paused to let it sink in.

Victoria’s eyes bugged. “
The
Jack McCabe? No way!”

“Way.” He grinned. “Isabelle’s afraid we might get some paparazzi. Cool, huh?”

She had to admit that it was. Jack McCabe was a celebrity, having caught the media’s fancy with his former band the Sinners. For almost two years, he and Lil had kept a low-profile living in Italy. But once in a while the press still caught his scent.

“What’s he like?” she asked.

“Nice guy. Wouldn’t want to piss him off, though. He made a point of telling me that Isabelle is family, and he takes care of his family. He was smiling when he said it, but I’ve got to tell you, it was a little intimidating.”

He opened the next door. “This one’s yours.”

Stepping inside, she caught her breath. It was a room from a fairy tale. Flocked white wallpaper, white marble fireplace, white lace curtains framing casement windows. And a queen bed covered with a white chenille bedspread as soft as kittens.

Matt plunked her bags on the bedspread. “You can put your stuff in those,” he said, nodding toward an antique armoire and bureau. “Your bathroom’s through there.” He waved at a narrow door. “It’s the size of a closet, which is what it used to be.” Then he crossed to the window, pushed it open. “Check this out. It’s why I hoseyed this room for you.”

Stepping up beside him, Victoria gasped again. Half an acre of magazine-ready formal gardens spread out below her window. At the center, Cupid rose from a marble fountain ringed by spring flowers in pink, white, and hyacinth blue. Velvety green lawn spread out in a wide swath around it, dotted with blossoming cherry trees that shaded a variety of wooden benches, all sprinkled with fallen petals. More flowerbeds, not yet in full bloom, lined the rose-covered fences that obscured the neighboring chateaus. “Wow,” she murmured, dazzled by the colors.

Directly below her window, a flagstone terrace stretched the entire width of the chateau, holding a huge farm table that would easily seat twelve and had to be centuries old. Blazing pink azaleas framed the terrace, with more lining a flagstone path that led away from the terrace to a pergola blanketed in grapevines, utterly private and perfectly romantic.

“Gosh, Matt.”

“I know. Crazy, right?”

She tore her gaze away from the gardens, eyed him narrowly. “Okay. Now give me the bad news. Who else is staying here?”

“Well, Ricky’s across the hall from Jack and Lil.” Ricky was the best man, wide receiver to Matt’s quarterback through four years of varsity, and like a second brother to Victoria.

“The other groomsman’s across from you. He’s that old friend of Isabelle’s I mentioned. More of a surrogate brother, I guess. I haven’t met him yet, but he’s friends with Jack too, going back to when they were kids—”

“Quit stalling, Matt.” She stared him down. “I saw another hallway with four more doors.”

He shifted from one foot to the other. “Well, Isabelle’s in one room, obviously. And Annemarie, who’s a friend of hers from high school—”

“Mother’s staying here, isn’t she?”

He swallowed. “Isabelle put her here without asking me.”

Victoria plopped on the bed.

“I’m sorry, Vic. Mom looked at the hotel online and mentioned something about how small the rooms are. Isabelle panicked. She sent Mom pictures of this place and she loved it.” He sat beside her, massaged her shoulder with one hand. “The good news is she’s bringing a guy. He’ll probably keep her busy.”

She groaned. “They’ll be doing it down the hall.”

“Maybe not. He’s getting a separate room.”

“When has that stopped her? Remember the Hamptons?”

“S
orry,” Matt said again, and he truly was. Their mother, who never gave him grief about anything, was unremittingly hard on her only daughter. Always disapproving, always critical.

And Vicky let it get to her, big time. No matter how well she did in school, what she accomplished professionally, how many people told her she was a star, the only voice she heard was her mother’s.

Then that idiot Winston came along. How he wished for a do-over on that, so he could un-introduce them. But it was too late, the damage was done.

The crazy thing was, everything had seemed to be great between them. Winston acted like he really cared about her. And he was good for her. He got her out of her apartment, took her to new places. She seemed really happy when they got engaged, and she threw herself into the wedding plans.

Then the dick cheated on her, and to make matters worse, when she gave him the boot he went running to Adrianna, professing remorse. And unaccountably, Adrianna actually took his side, accusing Vicky of disappointing him in some way. She even badgered Vicky to take him back, to the point where Matt had intervened.

That was nothing new, he’d intervened often over the years. But now he was getting married. With a wife and, hopefully, kids of his own, he wouldn’t always be around to stick up for Vicky. Now, more than ever, she needed to stand up for herself.

He’d asked Isabelle’s advice and, wretched over housing Victoria and Adrianna under one roof, Isabelle had decreed that what Vicky needed was a man who would boost her ego. An easygoing, fun-loving guy who wouldn’t be fooled by the cool and distant woman Vicky often pretended to be. A guy who’d recognize and care about, maybe even love a little, the warm, funny person she really was.

And, Isabelle had assured him, she knew just the man for the job.

“T
yrell, will you
stand still
.” Isabelle Oulette rolled her big blue eyes. “Raoul’s trying to pin your inseam.”

Ty threw her a look of distress, stage-whispered, “He’s grabbing my nuts.”

Raoul huffed. “In your dreams, monsieur.”

Ty backpedaled fast. “Hey man, I was just kidding. Go easy with those pins down there, will you?” He mouthed to Isabelle,
You didn’t tell me he speaks English.

She mouthed back,
You didn’t ask
, and stifled a giggle.

Isabelle giggled a lot. Which led people who didn’t look past her blond curls, designer-clad curves, and occasional wide-eyed gullibility to mistake her for a scatterbrain. But those who knew her knew she was a force of nature.

She’d proven it once again by channeling her inner Napoleon to organize every detail of her wedding weekend with the relentless efficiency of a military campaign. As a result, she had nothing left to do on the Wednesday night before the wedding except to entertain, and be entertained by, the man she loved like a brother.

As usual, he was being a pain in the butt.

“Kinda tight across the shoulders, isn’t it?” He flexed back and forth.

“It’s a tux,” she reminded him, “not a T-shirt. Vidal designed it exactly to your measurements. If you’d stop fidgeting, you’d be fine.”

“But it’s supposed to be comfortable. You promised.”

“Comfortable for an
adult
. For a groomsman, not a toddler.”

He managed to look hurt. She wasn’t buying it. “I refuse to feel sorry for you, Ty. You look like a movie star.”

Raoul stepped back for a moment to survey his work, and Ty made a break for it, hopping down off the tailoring platform. “You’re right, honey. Looks good, fits fine. Now help me get it off.”

Resigned, Isabelle slid the jacket off his shoulders and passed it to Raoul. When Ty continued to stand there, looking much too innocent, she folded her arms. “You can manage the rest on your own.”

Turning her back on him, she caught sight of the cashier, a stacked brunette who’d sidled into the fitting room to ogle the tall, rangy American with the luscious smile. Isabelle pointed to the door. The girl slunk out grudgingly.

“Why’d you go and do that?” Ty griped.

“You don’t need an audience to take off your pants.”

“Maybe I’m practicing to be one of those Chippendales.”