“Ooooh, I love it when you go all shark.” She growled, then ran a hand down the front of his tux. “You look so hot tonight. Maybe later we can, you know ... practice for our wedding night.” She puppy pouted.
He wouldn’t dignify the request with a response. She wasn’t getting anything beyond his reception performance.
The setting sun on the ocean beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows cast an orange hue across the crowded room of four hundred or so. He had to admit the setting was perfect. “Do you know all these people?”
“Only a couple. Some are Charlie’s legal eagle friends, but most are Daddy’s. I think a few of the single guys are Hurst’s old frat buddies. Blech.The New York BeaconandThe Hampton Gazetteare here, of course.NYC Brideand that ragWedding, Inc.”
“Marvelous,” he stated dryly. The press had always been a thorn in the Darcy side. “Where’s Charlie?”
“Over by the windows with a date. I hear she’s lovely, but we haven’t met yet. He thinks she’s an angel, of course.”
“It’s about time he found a nice girl. I was starting to think he swore off viable relationships.”
“He’s certainly not you, Darcy. C’mon, let’s go say hi.”
They squeezed through the crowded dance floor to some hip-hop song when Caroline abruptly stopped, turning around to face him. Like she’d just seen a ghost, she stammered. “Um ... ... not ... um ... now. Maybe after dinner you can meet her.”
“I want to see Charlie, not his date, although I am curious.”
“Now’s not a good time.”
“Of course, it is.”
“No ... you have to trust me, Darcy. It’s not. In fact, I think we should leave and go back to our suite.”
“What are you talking about? I just got here and I’m starving.”
She looked like she was about to cry. “Please, please. Let’s go. I can’t stay here.Youdefinitely can’t stay here,” she begged, tugging on his hand and trying to divert his attention.
“What’s wrong with you?” Dropping her hand, he proceeded to the table by the window only to stop dead in his tracks.
He stiffened. Sucker punched, his breath audibly hitched.
Everyone and everything in the room disappeared in a flash. Only the sound of his heart reverberated in his ears, andCaroline’s tight grasp on his bicep reminded him that she stood beside him.
Backdropped by the setting sun and twinkling tea lights, Lizzy sat beside George Wickham with his arm draped across the back of her chair.
She laughed at something the creep said, and the room took on a blinding brightness, such was the light he’d once fallen for.
Stunning!?like a laser to his heart. Seconds halted as he drank her in. She looked ethereal, wearing a pale pink one-shoulder dress. Her bound chestnut waves cascaded over a bare shoulder. Those luscious lips he well remembered shimmered in the ballroom light. In that spellbinding moment, Lizzy was everything he’d dreamt about during his self-imposed sexual exile. Her long-lashed dark eyes met his, and she timidly smiled at his furrowed brow.
Caroline stammered, “Darcy ... you remember Elizabeth and your old prep school buddy—her fiancé George. And this is Jane, Elizabeth’s sister, Charlie’s girlfriend.”
Focusing on the “fiancé” part, he ignored Elizabeth’s soft hello, narrowing his eyes and shooting daggers at Wickham and the blonde seated beside his friend. “I need a drink,” he blurted, turning on his heel back through the crowd.
Following behind him, Caroline explained. “I didn’t know they would be here! I’m so sorry, Darcy. Please believe me, I only found out yesterday that she was the one who sold Hurst a painting at La Tempera, and now she and Louisa are like best buds. Had I known your ex was invited, I would have ... but I couldn’t ... because ... the contract. I couldn’t tell you without breaking clause 142.9 triplei.”
“What are you saying? Speak plainly.”
“Elizabeth owns the gallery. She’s our art broker.”
“Sheowns the gallery—notWickham?”
“George? That’s a laugh! She’s the sole owner. I found out when I went to the art reception.”
This was more than any sober man could handle. “Where’s the bar!” he shouted, turning around and around until finally a server passed with a tray of champagne. He downed the flute in one long draft.
“Please don’t drink.”
