The Wedding Favor (15 page)

“About last night,” he said, “here’s all you need to know. Winnie’s a fuckhead. Your mama’s a shrew. And your toe’s broken in two places.”

He stroked her cheek as he spoke. So gently, so sweetly. She didn’t know how to deal with such compassion. A tear rolled down her cheek.

He brushed it away with his thumb, brought his lips to her ear. “And one other thing I almost forgot. Honey, you’ve got great tits.”

She socked him. “Tyrell Brown, you’re a complete shit! I can’t
believe
you took advantage of me that way.”

He rolled away from her flying backhand, choking with laughter. “Admit it, sweetheart. When you woke up you were checking me out, trying to remember if we did it last night. And you weren’t too upset about it, either.”

“You’re an asshole.” She crossed her arms. Her toe throbbed to a disco beat.

Whatever. She had bigger problems than Ty copping a feel. Like how she’d explain to Matt why she’d blown off the rehearsal party. How she’d get through the day without informing Winston that he was a fuckhead, or get down the aisle in the gorgeous Jimmy Choos she’d had dyed to match her dress.

And most of all, how she’d get out the words she needed to say to Ty.

Fast, that’s how.

She covered her face with her hands. “Thank you for everything you did for me last night,” she said into her palms. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t hidden me in here. I really appreciate it.”

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, “Sorry,” he drawled, “I couldn’t hear you mumbling through your fingers like that.”

She slapped her hands on the mattress. “You’re impossible!” She swiveled her head to glare at him. He wore an innocent expression. Too innocent. “I said thank you,” she squeezed through her teeth. Then she swallowed hard. “And I think I need some help getting to my room. If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all.” He swung his legs off the bed. “Probably best if I put some clothes on first, just in case your mama’s waiting for you.”

He picked up his jeans off the floor and pulled them on, left them open while he moved around the room, looking for his boots, scooping up yesterday’s T-shirt and tossing it in the laundry.

She bit her lip. He was doing it on purpose, of course. Showing off his abs. His back. All that lean muscle rippling and bunching and stretching and flexing as he opened the armoire and fished around for a shirt. Even after he found one, he walked around with it trailing from his hand.

It was dangerous to stare too long at the sun, but damn it, she couldn’t look away.

When he finally finished dressing, he walked to the bed. “Time to get up, sweetheart.” He whipped back the covers, and that’s when she remembered the most humiliating thing of all—she was wearing her ugliest panties.

W
hen Vicky tried to yank her T-shirt down over those nasty panties, Ty let out a chuckle.

“Don’t worry, honey,” he said, lifting her with one arm under her knees, the other under her back, “it’ll be our secret. I can’t have people knowing I slept with a woman in granny panties.”

“We didn’t sleep together,” she huffed.

“What do you call it?”

“You know what I mean. We didn’t
do
anything. Well,
you
did. You looked at my breasts.”

“It was definitely the highlight.” He tucked her into his chest. When she curled her arms around his neck, the breasts in question smushed against him and made him hard. Again.

“But you just looked, right?”

“That’s right, we just looked.”

She stiffened. “We?”

“Me and a couple of janitors at the hospital. They took some pictures, but I didn’t let them touch you.”

For ten seconds she was silent. Then, “Har har. You almost got me.”

He laughed.

With a little help from her, he got her through both doors and into her room without bumping her foot. But then, just as he was lowering her to the bed, his fingers grazed her tickle spot. She yelped. Her body straightened like a ruler, then folded like a hairpin. And she squirted right through his arms.

“Damn it, Vicky!” He’d played varsity football—serious business in Texas—and in four years as a wide receiver he’d never had as much trouble holding on to a sleet-slicked football as he did hanging on to Vicky when she went into a tickle spasm.

She’d landed half on the bed, half off, and if her caterwauling was any indication, she’d bumped her broken toe on the way down. Scooping her up, he laid her gently on the bed. “Hush, now, before your mama comes running.”

That threat worked. She simmered down to a whimper, which was even more pitiful than her yowling.

“Hang on, honey. I’ll get you a pain pill.”

He made the round trip to his bathroom in under thirty seconds. Found her calmer, but her face was tearstained. He’d seen it that way too often to suit him, and he could trace every teardrop back to Winston Banes. He should have hospitalized the fucker when he had the chance. Then Vicky never would’ve broken her toe.

Well, it was spilled milk now. He shook a pill into her hand. She looked like she wanted to argue about it, but he menaced her with a look and she swallowed it down.

“Now let’s get you dressed.” All business, he strode to the armoire, rifled through the sundresses. “How’s this one?” Huge white flowers splashed on a black background. He looked over his shoulder. She shrugged. He tossed it on the bed.

“I’ll bet you want some new panties, too.” He pulled open a drawer. And hissed a breath through his teeth.

It was like Victoria’s Secret had disgorged its entire inventory, a wonderland of silk and satin just begging him to plunge in to his elbows. He didn’t fight it, running his fingers through red lace, black silk, hot pink satin. “Shit,” he muttered, angling his body to block her view.

“White,” she called from the bed.

“White. Hmm.” Sifting through zebra stripes and leopard spots, fingering every skimpy scrap, he untangled a white pair from the others, barely enough lace to cover his palm. He held them up. They had little satin bows on each hip. “These okay?”

“Fine. Now get your mitts out of my underpants.”

He snorted. “Like I’ve never seen panties before.” Tossing them at her head, he used the diversion to push a scrap of red lace into his pocket. “Now get yourself dressed while I get you some breakfast.”

“I’ll go with you. I have to apologize to Matt and Isabelle.”

“I’ll bring them up here.”

“And I have to talk to Winston.”

“What the hell for?”

“To pretend I’m giving him another chance.”

At his snort of disgust, she held up a quelling hand. “Seriously, Ty, I didn’t go through all this so Mother could ruin everything at the last minute.” She glanced at the clock. “The wedding’s in six hours. I can tough it out for that long. That pill will definitely help.”

The smile she gave him slid a little off center.

Oh boy. “Vicky, honey, those pills knocked you on your ass last night. You couldn’t even remember whether we had sex or not.”

Her smile got loopier. “Maybe we did. Maybe I jumped you in your sleep.”

Oh boy. Things were going downhill. Stepping to the bedside, he folded the kitteny comforter over her, gave her his badass stare. “You stay put. I’ll bring you some food. And some coffee. Then we’ll talk about going downstairs.”

Out on the terrace, everyone except Ricky and Annemarie was seated around the table. The looks they gave him said they thought they knew what he’d been up to. Jack and Lil each lifted an eloquent eyebrow. Isabelle gave him a knowing smile. Matt thunked his mug down on the table.

Adrianna, who was speaking to Pierre, cut off in mid-sentence to glare. And Winston pushed back his chair. Two strides put him directly in Ty’s face.

“You son of a bitch. What have you done with Victoria?”

Ty didn’t even hesitate. He was short on sleep, sexually frustrated, and seriously caffeine-deprived. It all added up to a short jab to the mouth.

Winston staggered backward, barely keeping his feet. His hand went to his lip; he goggled at the blood. “You sucker-punched me, you bastard!”

Ty smirked. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

“Kill you!” Winston roared, and charged.

He caught Ty in the gut with his shoulder, carrying him backward into the breakfast cart. Over it went. Croissants spiraled through the air, the coffeepot shattered. Ty landed in the middle of the mess, pinned on his back by one pissed-off preppie with murder on his mind.

Winston was stronger than he looked—and he looked plenty strong—but with a twist and a roll, a quick knee and a head butt, Ty managed to wriggle free. Gaining his feet, glass crunching under his boots and sticking out of his back, he grinned insanely.

Finally, he was having fun.

Winston scrambled upright. “Tell me where she is!” he roared. “Tell me, or I swear I’ll kill you!”

Ty spread his arms wide. “Bring it on, Winnie, my man. Let’s get the party started.”

Winston curled his fists, eyes blazing with fury and indignation. Everyone waited, holding their breath. Both men balanced on their toes.

And into that tense silence, a feminine voice warbled out. “Good morning, everybody!” All eyes swung to the door.

Poised on one foot, arm looped around Ricky’s neck, Vicky grinned out at her startled audience.

Forgetting about Winston, Ty put his hands on his hips. “What the hell are you doing out of bed? I told you I’d bring you some breakfast.”

Winston rounded on Vicky. “You
slept
with him?”

She giggled. “Slept with him?” She giggled some more.

Winston went purple. Ty cut in sharply. “She’s doped up, asshole, can’t you see that? She broke her damn toe.”

Winston’s eyes dropped to her foot. “Is that where you were last night, Victoria? At the hospital?”

She rolled her eyes hugely. Giggled again.

“Yes, that’s where she was,” Ty snarled out. “I took her to the ER. They drugged her up and I put her to bed.”

Winston’s head snapped around. “Did you take advantage of her?”

Ty narrowed his eyes. “If by ‘take advantage’ you mean did I screw around on her while we were engaged, no I didn’t.”

Winston’s eyes darkened. He took a step toward Ty. And Jack spoke up from his place at the table.

“Listen up, Winston,” he drawled mildly. “I’ve known Ty a long time. He might not look like much, but he’ll shatter your jaw without breaking a sweat. Think about that. You really want to drink your meals through a straw for six months?”

Heavy silence followed. Winston simmered visibly, grinding his teeth, flexing his fingers. Ty baited him with a smirk, hoping bad judgment would carry the day.

The scales could have tipped either way.

Then a demented giggle cut the silence. “Look.” Vicky pointed at his coffee-soaked crotch. “Ty wet his pants.”

It shattered the tension as nothing else could have. Everyone laughed. Everyone but Winston.

Even Adrianna cracked a smile. “Oh, for goodness sake, Ricky, bring her over here. Let’s get some coffee into her.”

T
y scowled at the T-shirt in his hand. It was one of his favorites, perfectly broken in. Balling it up, he hooked it into the trash can. Isabelle had picked the glass out of it—and out of his back—but what with the holes and the bloodstains, it was ruined.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, she’d laid on a tongue-lashing while she was at it, harping on little things like broken crockery, which he rightfully tried to pin on Winston, and bloody lips, which he sincerely argued were well deserved. Not to mention Vicky’s sorry condition. Like he hadn’t spent half the night at the ER trying to help her out.

His explanations fell on deaf ears.

He slung his jeans onto his growing pile of dirty clothes. The damn things were coffee-soaked from ass to knees. No wonder Vicky thought he’d pissed himself.

Of course, if she weren’t so looped, she’d have known better. His conscience pricked him. It was his fault she was wrecked. Knowing what a lightweight she was, he should’ve halved the dosage.

At least she couldn’t get into too much trouble out on the terrace. Winnie had gone to his room to lick his wounds, and Cruella had backed off too, probably realizing that even her venom was no match for Vicodin.

What Vicky needed was food, and he damn well hoped she was getting some. He peeked out the window, saw her sitting at the table, hair fanned around the shoulders of her black and white sundress, bad foot propped on a chair. Sure enough, Matt and Adrianna were plying her with croissants and coffee, but she was too busy to eat, gabbling away at Isabelle and Lil, probably implicating him in all sorts of crimes.

Good Lord.

Knuckles rapped on his door and Jack came in without waiting for an invitation. He walked straight into the bathroom, lifted the seat, and unzipped. “So, what happened last night? You sleep with her?”

Ty snorted loudly. “Not in any sense of the word. She was drugged up and dead to the world. And there was no chance of getting any
actual
sleep with Ricky banging the stripper six ways to Sunday till the sun came up.”

Jack grinned. “So that’s why you’re loaded for bear.”

“Damn right. That, and Brescia’s sick.” His throat tightened when he said it.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Clancy thinks it’s bloodworms.”

“Well, shit.” Jack wasn’t smiling anymore.

“Yeah,” Ty said. Then he let it drop. There was nothing else to say. “Anyway, I was all set to take my shitty mood out on Winnie.” He tugged yesterday’s jeans on, aimed a surly look at Jack. “Why’d you have to go and spoil it?”

Jack zipped up. “Couldn’t be helped. My wife’s in a delicate condition. Can’t have her exposed to wanton violence.”

“Uh-huh,” Ty grunted skeptically. “In other words, she told you to shut me down.” He wagged his head. “Time was, you were the first one on his feet when a fight was brewing. Now you’re whipped.”

Jack slapped his shoulder, unapologetic. “You’ll get another crack at old Winston. He’s not giving up on your girl.”

“She’s not my girl.”

It was Jack’s turn to say, “Uh-huh.”

Ignoring him, Ty pawed through his drawers, hoping he might find a T-shirt he’d forgotten about. “This whole fake flirtation was a stupid idea. I should’ve told Isabelle right off that I can’t stand Vicky, and for good reason. Then, by God, it would’ve been me going at it with the stripper last night.”