Victoria Westin, an attorney in her mother's law firm,
is assigned a case in Texas solely to discredit a hunky
rugged Texan who pulled the plug on his wife's support
system to avoid the insurance company paying him a seven
figure settlement against their client. Their client was
driving the car that caused her to be on life support. The
macho Texan, Tyrell Brown, won his case against the tight
ass blonde bitch-on- wheels attorney he has come to hate
while being cross examined by her in court.
Immediately catching a plane for France, Ty is to be a
part of the wedding for his very good friend, and ex-
girlfriend, Isabelle. Sparks fly and wits are challenged
when guess who is sitting beside Ty? Upon arrival in
Amboise, both are horrified to find they are at the same
wedding. The groom is none other than Vicky's brother.
Making a pact to keep their association secret for the sake
of a peaceful wedding for the affianced couple, the outward
friendliness is definitely not what goes on in private as
they continually needle and coerce, bringing out the very
worst in each other. Vicky even has to deal with her ex-
fiancé when he is invited by her judgmental mother to the
wedding in hopes Vicky will change her mind and forgive
Winston his bonking Vicky's secretary on her desk. The
week Ty and Vicky spend together under their pretended
farce is one agitating time of discord mixed with earth
moving heated lust. Their sex-a-thon will have its
repercussion when the trial is up for review upon learning
of their conflict of interest. No way does Ty want the
worst enemy in his life, if only his body didn't tell him
differently. Convincing Vicky he is nothing like her ex
might be something he'll never get her to believe.
THE WEDDING FAVORis such an amusing and funny story.
Strap in for
some really hot sex and really quirky episodes. I
absolutely
loved it all the way through and couldn't put the book down
until I had the whole thing read! Cara Connelly is so very
talented at including very funny and awkward situations
between two unlikely characters.
The plot is one of the
freshest and most terrific I have had the pleasure of
reading in some time. This is a must read for anyone who
loves strong-willed characters who are laced with
stubbornness and a tale you can laugh out loud over while
reading. Totally spellbinding! I can't wait for her new
book to come out in the fall of 2014.
Before the Wedding
Tyrell Brown wanted to get the hell out of Houston and
back
to his ranch. Instead, he's stuck on a flight to France
for
his best friend's wedding. To top it off, he discovers
he's
sharing a seat with Victoria Westin, the blue–eyed,
stiletto–heeled lawyer who's been a thorn in his
side
for months.
At the Wedding
Victoria can't believe it! How can she be at the same
wedding as this long, lean cowboy with a killer smile? So
what if they shared a few in–flight cocktails, some
serious flirting, and a near–miss at the
mile–high club? She still can't stand the man!
After the Wedding
The wedding disaster's in the rearview, but the sizzle
between these two is still red–hot. They tried to
be
on their best behavior in France, but back in the states,
all bets are off....
Excerpt
“That woman,” Tyrell aimed his finger like a gun at the
blonde across the hall, “is a bitch on wheels.”
Angela set a calming hand on his arm. “That’s why she’s
here, Ty. That’s why they sent her.”
He paced away from Angela, then back again, eyes locked
on the object of his fury. She was talking on a cell
phone, angled away from him so all he could see was her
smooth French twist and the simple gold hoop in her right
earlobe.
“She’s got ice water in her veins,” he muttered. “Or
arsenic. Or whatever the hell they embalm people with.”
“She’s just doing her job. And in this case, it’s a
thankless one. They can’t win.”
Ty turned his roiling eyes on Angela. He would have
started in – again – about hired-gun lawyers from New
York City coming down to Texas thinking all they had to
do was bullshit a bunch of good ole boys who’d never made
it past eighth grade, but just then the clerk stepped out
of the judge’s chambers.
“Ms. Sanchez,” she said to Angela. “Ms. Westin,” to the
blonde. “We have a verdict.”
Across the hall, the blonde snapped her phone shut and
dropped it in her purse, snatched her briefcase off the
tile floor and, without looking at Angela or Ty, or
anyone else for that matter, walked briskly through the
massive oak doors and into the courtroom. Ty followed
several paces behind, staring bullets in the back of her
tailored navy suit.
Twenty minutes later they walked out again. A reporter
from Houston Tonight stuck a microphone in Ty’s face.
“The jury obviously believed you, Mr. Brown. Do you feel
vindicated?”
I feel homicidal, he wanted to snarl. But the camera was
rolling. “I’m just glad it’s over,” he said. “Jason
Taylor dragged this out for seven years, trying to wear
me down. He didn’t.”
He continued striding down the broad hallway, the
reporter jogging alongside.
“Mr. Brown, the jury came back with every penny of the
damages you asked for. What do you think that means?”
“It means they understood that all the money in the world
won’t raise the dead. But it can cause the living some
serious pain.”
“Taylor’s due to be released next week. How do you feel
knowing he’ll be walking around a free man?”
Ty stopped abruptly. “While my wife’s cold in the ground?
How do you think I feel?” The man shrank back from Ty’s
hard stare, decided not to follow as Ty strode out
through the courthouse doors.
Outside, Houston’s rush hour was a glimpse inside the
doors of hell. Scorching pavement, blaring horns. Eternal
gridlock.
Ty didn’t notice any of it. Angela caught up to him on
the sidewalk, tugged his arm to slow him down. “Ty, I
can’t keep up in these heels.”
“Sorry.” He slowed to half speed. Even as pissed off as
he was, Texas courtesy was ingrained.
Taking her bulging briefcase from her hand, he smiled
down at her in a good imitation of his usual laid-back
style. “Angie, honey,” he drawled, “you could separate
your shoulder lugging this thing around. And believe me,
a separated shoulder’s no joke.”
“I’m sure you’d know about that.” She slanted a look up
from under thick black lashes, swept it over his own
solid shoulders. Angling her slender body toward his, she
tossed her wavy black hair and tightened her grip on his
arm.
Ty got the message. The old breast-crushed-against-the-
arm was just about the easiest signal to read.
And it came as no surprise. During their long days
together preparing for trial, the cozy take-out dinners
in her office as they went over his testimony, Angela had
dropped plenty of hints. Given their circumstances, he
hadn’t encouraged her. But she was a beauty, and to be
honest, he hadn’t discouraged her either.
Now, high on adrenaline from a whopping verdict that
would likely boost her to partner, she had “available”
written all over her. At that very moment they were
passing by the Alden Hotel. One nudge in that direction
and she’d race him to the door. Five minutes later he’d
be balls deep, blotting out the memories he’d relived on
the witness stand that morning. Memories of Lissa torn
and broken, pleading with him to let her go, let her die.
Let her leave him behind to somehow keep living without
her.
Angela’s steps slowed. He was tempted, sorely tempted.
But he couldn’t do it. For six months Angela had been his
rock. It would be shameful and ugly to use her this
afternoon, then drop her tonight.
Because drop her, he would. She’d seen too deep inside,
and like the legions preceding her, she’d found the hurt
there and was all geared up to fix it. He couldn’t be
fixed. He didn’t want to be fixed. He just wanted to fuck
and forget. And she wasn’t the girl for that.
Fortunately, he had the perfect excuse to ditch her.
“Angie, honey.” His drawl was deep and rich even when he
wasn’t using it to soften a blow. Now it flowed like
molasses. “I can’t ever thank you enough for all you did
for me. You’re the best lawyer in Houston and I’m gonna
take out a full page ad in the paper to say so.”
She leaned into him. “We make a good team, Ty.” Sultry-
eyed, she tipped her head toward the Marriott. “Let’s go
inside. You can . . . buy me a drink.”
His voice dripped with regret, not all of it feigned. “I
wish I could, sugar. But I’ve got a plane to catch.”
She stopped on a dime. “A plane? Where’re you going?”
“Paris. I’ve got a wedding.”
“But Paris is just a puddle-jump from here! Can’t you go
tomorrow?”
“France, honey. Paris, France.” He flicked a glance at
the revolving clock on the corner, then looked down into
her eyes. “My flight’s at eight, so I gotta get. Let me
find you a cab.”
Dropping his arm, she tossed her hair again, defiant this
time. “Don’t bother. My car’s back at the courthouse.”
Snatching her briefcase from him, she checked her watch.
“Gotta run, I have a date.” She turned to go.
And then her bravado failed her. Looking over her
shoulder, she smiled uncertainly. “Maybe we can celebrate
when you get back?”
Ty smiled too, because it was easier. “I’ll call you.”
Guilt pricked him for leaving the wrong impression, but
Jesus, he was itching to get away from her, from
everyone, and lick his wounds. And he really did have a
plane to catch.
Figuring it would be faster than finding a rush-hour cab,
he walked the six blocks to his building, working up the
kind of sweat a man only gets wearing a suit. He ignored
the elevator, loped up the five flights of stairs – why
not, he was soaked anyway – unlocked his apartment, and
thanked God out loud when he hit the air conditioning.
The apartment wasn’t home – that would be his ranch –
just a sublet, a place to crash during the run-up to the
trial. Sparsely furnished and painted a dreary off-white,
it had suited his bleak and brooding mood.
And it had one appliance he was looking forward to using
right away. Striding straight to the kitchen, he peeled
off the suit parts he was still wearing – shirt, pants,
socks – and balled them up with the jacket and tie. Then
he stuffed the whole wad in the trash compactor and
switched it on, the first satisfaction he’d had all day.
The clock on the stove said he was running late, but he
couldn’t face fourteen hours on a plane without a shower,
so he took one anyway. And of course he hadn’t packed
yet.
He hated to rush, it went against his nature, but he
moved faster than he usually did. Even so, what with the
traffic, by the time he parked his truck and went through
all the rigmarole to get to his terminal, the plane had
already boarded and they were preparing to detach the jet
way.
Though he was in no frame of mind for it, he forced
himself to dazzle and cajole the pretty girl at the gate
into letting him pass, then settled back into his black
mood as he walked down the jet way. Well, at least he
wouldn’t be squished into coach with his knees up his
nose all the way to Paris. He’d sprung for first class
and he intended to make the most of it. Starting with a
double shot of Jack Daniels.
“Tyrell Brown, can’t you move any faster than that? I got
a planeful of people waiting on you.”
Despite his misery, he broke out in a grin at the silver-
haired woman glaring at him from the airplane door.
“Loretta, honey, you working this flight? How’d I get so
lucky?”
She rolled her eyes. “Spare me the sweet talk and move
your ass.” She waved away the ticket he held out. “I
don’t need that. There’s only one seat left on the whole
dang airplane. Why it has to be in my section, I’ll be
asking the good Lord next Sunday.”
He dropped a kiss on her cheek. She swatted his arm.
“Don’t make me tell your Mama on you.” She gave him a
little shove down the aisle. “I talked to her just last
week and she said you haven’t called her in a month. What
kind of ungrateful boy are you, anyway? After she gave
you the best years of her life.”
Loretta was his Mama’s best friend, and she was like
family. She’d been needling him since he was a toddler,
and was one of the few people immune to his charm. She
pointed at the only empty seat. “Sit your butt down and
buckle up so we can get this bird in the air.”
Ty had reserved the window seat, but it was already
taken, leaving him the aisle. He might have objected if
the occupant hadn’t been a woman. But again, Texas
courtesy required him to suck it up, so he did, keeping
one eye on her as he stuffed his bag in the overhead.
She was leaning forward, rummaging in the carry-on
between her feet, and hadn’t seen him yet, which gave him
a chance to check her out.
Dressed for travel in a sleek black tank top and yoga
pants, she was slender, about five foot six, 120 pounds,
if he was any judge. Her arms and shoulders were tanned
and toned as an athlete’s, and her long blond hair was
perfectly straight, falling forward like a curtain around
a face that he was starting to hope lived up to the rest
of her.
Things are looking up, he thought. Maybe this won’t be
one of the worst days of my life after all.
Then she looked up at him. The bitch on wheels.
He took it like a fist in the face, spun on his heel and
ran smack into Loretta.
“For God’s sake, Ty, what’s wrong with you!”
“I need a different seat.”
“Why?”
“Who cares why. I just do.” He slewed a look around the
first class cabin. “Switch me with somebody.”
She set her fists on her hips, and in a low but deadly
voice, said, “No, I will not switch you. These folks are
all in pairs and they’re settled in, looking forward to
their dinner and a good night’s sleep, which is why
they’re paying through the nose for first class. I’m not
asking them to move. And neither are you.”
It would be Loretta, the only person on earth he couldn’t
sweet talk. “Then switch me with someone from coach.”
Now she crossed her arms. “You don’t want me to do that.”
“Yes I do.”
“No you don’t and I’ll tell you why. Because it’s a weird
request. And when a passenger makes a weird request, I’m
obliged to report it to the captain. The captain’s
obliged to report it to the tower. The tower notifies the
Marshals, and next thing you know, you’re bent over with
a finger up your butt checking for C-4.” She cocked her
head to one side. “Now, do you really want that?”
He really didn’t. “Sheeee-iiiiit,” he squeezed out
between his teeth. He looked over his shoulder at the
bitch on wheels. She had her nose in a book, ignoring
him.
Fourteen hours was a long time to sit next to someone you
wanted to strangle. But it was that or get off the plane,
and he couldn’t miss the wedding.
He cast a last bitter look at Loretta. “I want a Jack
Daniels every fifteen minutes till I pass out. You keep
‘em coming, you hear?”
* * *
This can’t be happening. Victoria Westin shut her eyes
and counted to ten, opened them again . . . and he was
still there. She’d actually believed that her day
couldn’t suck any worse, but now Tyrell Brown was sitting
beside her, wrestling with his seatbelt and cursing under
his breath.
Up close like this, he seemed a lot bigger than he had in
court. Maybe it was the jeans and cowboy boots, or the UT
shirt stretched across his chest, showing off his arms.
She’d only seen him in a suit, and while he’d been a lean
and imposing six foot two, he hadn’t looked like this,
like he could snap her in half without breaking a sweat.
Now he looked more than capable of it.
And if she was reading his body language right, that's
exactly what he wanted to do.
Not that she blamed him. The person she blamed was her
mother. Adrianna Marchand, of Marchand, Riley & White,
the premier civil defense law firm in New York City.
Adrianna, who was a senior partner, had stuck her, a
lowly associate, with an unwinnable train wreck of a case
and then refused to let her settle it.
“The plaintiff has nothing but his own word to prove that
the deceased ever regained consciousness before she
died,” her mother had said in her most pedantic tone.
“Surely, Victoria, you can convince six jurors of
questionable intelligence that he’s highly motivated to
lie. Nine million’s a lot of motivation for a jerkwater
rancher. Shake him up. Trip him up. If you can’t think of
anything else, then bloody well smile at him.” She
smirked at her daughter. “Your smile flusters any idiot
with a penis. And frankly, after five thousand in
orthodontics, it ought to.”
But Adrianna had been wrong about all of it. The jurors
were two doctors, a college professor, a newspaper
reporter, a retired judge, and a grad student, all of
whom were unquestionably intelligent. The “deceased,” as
Adrianna euphemistically termed Lissa Brown, had been a
bright, young, universally loved, kind-hearted rescuer of
abused animals.
And the “plaintiff,” who was sitting beside her right
now, had a 50,000-acre cattle ranch, a Ph.D. in
philosophy, and the saddest eyes she’d ever seen. The
sympathetic jury had hung on his every word. As a result,
when Jason Taylor’s five-year sentence for drunk driving
and vehicular manslaughter was up next week, he’d have to
sell most of what he owned to satisfy the verdict.
Her mother was going to kill her.
If Tyrell Brown didn’t do it first.
* * *
Somehow, while she was brooding, they’d reached cruising
altitude. Now the flight attendant, who was apparently
friendly with Tyrell, asked for her drink order.
“Club soda with lime,” she managed to get out.
Ty made a sound of disgust, then snarled at Loretta, “I’m
still waiting for my Jack Daniels.”
“And you’ll wait a little longer,” she shot back. But her
pat on his shoulder as she walked by belied the bite in
her tone. Vicky shivered. Maybe Loretta would help him
hide her body. They could probably fit her in a trash bag
if they folded her up tight.
When Loretta returned with their drinks, she handed Ty
his whiskey without a word. Passing Victoria her club
soda, she smiled. “What brings you to Texas, honey?”
Victoria’s hand shook. She covered it by taking a sip,
then said, curtly, “Work,” hoping Loretta would take the
hint and quit trying to converse. She couldn’t understand
these Texans, they’d talk to anyone, poke their noses in
anywhere.
“What’s your line?” Loretta went on, undeterred.
Ty threw back his drink, waved the empty glass in front
of Loretta’s nose. “Stewardess,” he sneered, “how about a
refill here? You’re not getting paid to flap your jaw.”
Loretta arched a deadly brow. For a long moment, they
eyed each other. Then, deliberately, she took the glass.
“Be right back, honey,” she said to Victoria, without
once breaking glares with Ty. Then she turned, slowly,
and walked away.
For an instant, just an instant, Victoria and Ty were
united in their relief.
Then she opened her book and pretended to lose herself in
it. He flipped through the Skymall catalogue with the
same intense concentration.
Of course, she wasn’t really reading. How could she,
bombarded by the waves of resentment rolling off Ty? He’d
relived his worst nightmare on the witness stand, and it
was clear to everyone in that courtroom, including her,
that he’d never recovered from his wife’s death. Even
though he’d won his case, his heart had been raked over
the coals in the process. And she’d been holding the
rake.
From the corner of her eye, she watched him nervously. He
was really putting away the whiskey. What if he got drunk
and went postal? She’d be the first to go.
To her horror, his head whipped around as if he’d felt
her watching him. She flinched.
Had she really thought his eyes were sad? Beautiful, yes,
root beer brown shot through with gold. But they were
murderous. She snapped her gaze back to her book, praying
she hadn’t set him off.
* * *
Of course, Ty wasn’t really reading either. How could he,
when Victoria Westin was sitting there in his seat, so
cold and controlled. There was no heart in the woman, no
heat, no compassion. Was she even alive? Maybe she was a
vampire.
Still, he wasn’t altogether proud that he’d made her
flinch. As if he’d ever hit a woman. In his thirty years
he’d been in more fights than he could count – fists,
knives, even guns a time or two – and he liked to think
he’d struck fear into a few hearts.
But never a woman’s.
If he didn’t hate her guts so much, maybe he’d apologize.
But he did, and he wouldn’t. He crossed his arms. Better
yet, she should apologize to him for thinking he’d ever
lift a hand to her. Sure, he wanted to twist her head off
like a bottle cap, but he wouldn’t really do it.
She had a lot of nerve making him feel like a bully.
Loretta finally showed up with a second Jack Daniels,
waited while he knocked it back on top of the first, then
stalked off with the empty glass. He scowled at her
receding back. For sure, she’d make him wait for the next
one.
* * *
“Beef for you,” Loretta slapped it down on Ty’s tray
table, “and Ms. Westin, here’s your vegetarian entree.”
Ty gave her a grin. “Why, thank you, Loretta, honey.” She
ignored him, but he didn’t mind. They were two hours into
the flight and his jagged edges had smoothed out
considerably. He’d gotten the wedding gift out of the way
– matching massage chairs from the Skymall catalogue –
and while he was at it, polished off his third and fourth
Jack Daniels. Now, deep into his fifth, he was feeling
more philosophical about life in general, and his
situation in particular.
Glancing over at Victoria’s steamed veggies, he wondered
idly why anyone would pass up filet mignon for broccoli
and rice.
Without meaning to, he asked the question out loud.
Victoria fumbled her cutlery. Cautiously, she turned her
head to look at him. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you
said.”
Her wariness made him feel like a dick. And now that he’d
gone and opened his big mouth, clamming up again would
only make things worse. So he took a stab at his usual
laid-back delivery.
“I said, why chew on leaves and twigs when this filet
here melts like butter?”
“Beef’s bad for you,” she said, then flushed bright red.
Ty bit back a smile. She’d obviously just recalled that
he owned a cattle ranch. Cocking one brow, he said
lightly, “In Texas them’s fighting words, but seeing as
we’re considerably east of Texarkana, I’ll let it slide.”
He forked another bite into his mouth, washed it down
with a slug of whiskey. Then, because she was looking at
him like she expected more, he aimed his fork at her club
soda. “Liquor bad for you too?”
“I don’t drink when I fly. It diminishes oxygen intake.”
Ty’s eyes widened. He broke out in a smile. “Well hell. I
should be flopping around like a fish on land by now.” He
sucked down the last drops in his glass, caught Loretta’s
eye and pointed to it.
* * *
Victoria pinched off a smile before it could form. She
didn’t trust this new, affable Tyrell Brown. True, the
whiskey seemed to have mellowed him. But he was
unpredictable. He could strike out in an instant.
Still, she couldn’t look away from him. His smile – which
she’d never seen in court – was an appealing flash of
full lips and white teeth that crinkled his eyes and
transformed his handsome face into a heartstopper. With
his tawny hair, streaked like a surfer’s, a little too
long and usually mussed, it was no wonder his attorney
had such an obvious crush on him.
Loretta appeared with his drink. “Loretta, honey,” he
said, “tell this young lady here that you’ve got plenty
of oxygen on this plane.”
Loretta tilted her head to one side. “Tyrell, am I gonna
have to cut you off?”
“I’m serious. She thinks,” he waved his glass at
Victoria, “that if she has some wine with her leaves and
twigs, she’s gonna run out of air or something.”
Loretta turned to Victoria. Deadpan, she said, “We’ve got
plenty of oxygen on this plane.”
Victoria’s smile slipped its leash. “What a relief.”
“So,” Ty grinned at her, “what’ll you have?”
She started to say that she didn’t want anything, then
decided it would be simpler just to give in. “I’ll have a
cabernet,” she told Loretta. After all, she could pretend
to sip it. At least she wouldn’t seem like such a dork.
Beef’s bad for you . . . liquor diminishes oxygen intake.
Good grief.
“I knew it,” said Ty, “I knew you’d pick red wine.
Antioxidants, right?”
She lifted one shoulder, a silent admission. God, she
really was a dork.
He nodded, smugly. “Yeah, I got this.” He ticked it off
on his fingers. “Yoga twice a week for flexibility.
Pilates on the weekends for your core. Daily meditation,
fifteen minutes morning and night, to keep you centered.
Monthly massage to release toxins and stimulate your
immune system.” He dropped his voice confidentially. “Or
that’s what you tell yourself. Truth is, it just feels
good.”
She laughed. He was funny. Handsome and funny, a killer
combination.
And he’d nailed her routine. It sounded so . . . so
regimented when he reeled it off in that laid-back drawl.
Loretta brought the cabernet. Deliberately, Victoria took
a big swallow, then another. So what if the airlines
reduced the percentage of oxygen in the air to save
money. Look at Tyrell. He was three sheets to the wind
and he was breathing just fine.
Another glug, and she got up the nerve to say, “Core
muscles, daily meditation. You’ve been reading your Oprah
magazine.”
He held up a hand. “Only for the articles. I swear I
never look at the pictures.”
She giggled, something she never did. She hadn’t eaten a
thing all day, and the wine had already gone to her head.
She ate a quick bite of stirfry, too little too late.
Ty sipped his whiskey. “Met her once. Oprah, I mean. She
had a sit-down with some cattle ranchers back when she
stepped in a pile of shit, taking that dig at beef on her
show. My Daddy ran the ranch back then. He brought me and
my brother along to hear what she had to say.”
“And?”
He shrugged. “Seemed like a nice lady. Well-spoken.
Sincere. I liked her. Even if my Daddy didn’t.”
She took another long swallow of cabernet. It was
delicious. She really should drink wine more often. After
all, it was loaded with antioxidants.
Another swallow, and she said, “I met Dr. Phil. On a
plane, just like this.” She flicked her hand back and
forth between them.
“Dr. Phil? No shit. He give you any free advice?”
“He told me I should break up with my fiancé.”
He held up two fingers to Loretta. Angled his body toward
Vicky, just a fraction, and she noticed that she’d done
the same, just a little bit, just enough to wrap the
first delicate threads of intimacy around them. She took
another sip.
“And did you? Break up with him?”
“Not right away. But I should have. He ended up cheating
on me, which Dr. Phil predicted.” Another swallow. “Of
course, my mother blamed me for it.”
Ty's eyes widened. “She blamed you for his cheating?
Why?”
“Why does she blame me for anything?” She snorted a
laugh. “That’s what I should’ve asked Dr. Phil. Why does
my mother hate me? And why do I keep trying to make her
love me?”
And this, she thought, is why I shouldn’t drink.
She went back for another sip anyway, realized her glass
was empty just as another round arrived. Ty plucked the
empty from her fingers and handed her a fresh one. She
smiled at him. He had such expressive eyes. She couldn’t
imagine why she’d ever thought them murderous. They were
maple syrup and butter, liquid and warm, and focused on
her like she was the only woman in the world.
She angled a little more in his direction.
* * *
Ty forgot his filet, let himself be pulled in. “What
makes you think she hates you?”
“Where should I start?” She held up a hand. “Okay, I’ll
skip the formative years and go straight to college. I
wanted to go to Williams – small, rural, with a great
theater program. But no. According to my mother, as an
actress the only line I’d ever have to learn is, ‘Can I
take your order?’”
She took a pull on her wine. “Just because her own mother
took off for Hollywood and never came back, I can't be
trusted anywhere near a stage. Apparently I’m too
impractical, too . . .” she fluttered her fingers,
“flighty to know what’s good for me. So Mother decided my
future for me. It had to be Yale, and it had to be pre-
law.” She sipped, shrugged. “I gave in, of course. I
always do.”
Ty swirled his drink, tried to imagine his folks pushing
him in a direction he didn’t want to go. They wouldn’t.
And if they’d tried, he’d have dug in his heels. An hour
ago, he’d have bet his ranch that confident, in-control
Victoria Westin would do the same.
“You’re an adult now,” he said. “Tell her to whistle up a
rope. Take yourself back to school and study what you
want to.”
She looked baffled. “What I want to? I don’t even know
what I want anymore.” She shrugged again. “It’s too late
now. I’m stuck with the law, like it or not.”
“Well, do you like it?” In the courtroom she’d seemed so
cold and aloof, nothing like the warm-blooded woman
beside him now. Even her blue eyes had heated up, from
arctic ice to warm October sky. With her brow knit over
them as she considered his question, she looked
approachable and vulnerable and, well, pretty too.
“It has its moments,” she said at last. “Probably like
being a cop or a firefighter. You know, hours of tedium
punctuated by moments of stark terror.” When he chuckled,
she said, “Okay, it’s not life or death, but it’s still
months of boring paperwork and preparation, and then the
trial – which is the terrifying part – is over in a
couple of days.”
She paused to hit the wine again, and it must have dawned
on her that trials were bound to be a sore subject,
because her eyes widened, her swallow turned into a gulp.
Ty could have told her not to worry, because after
working hard to get there for the last few hours, he’d
finally reached the zone he’d been striving for. He was,
quite literally, mind-numbingly drunk. In this state,
which he’d frequented many times in the past seven years,
he could still carry on a conversation and even remember
it in the morning. He could make jokes, wax
philosophical, and fuck like a seventeen-year-old after
the big game.
But he couldn’t think of Lissa.
It was a programmed response that had probably saved his
life, and he’d gotten the ritual down to a science. When
his memories overwhelmed him, he’d drink whiskey steadily
until his fingers started to tingle. Then, and only then,
he’d let himself shut off the part of his mind where she
lived and forget her for a while.
He’d reached that place half an hour ago, and while most
men would be sliding under their tray table, Ty was in
the bubble. For another half hour, he’d be good company.
The best. Then he’d go down hard and sleep for eight
straight.
He’d dream about Lissa, that was the downside. But when
he woke in the daylight, he’d be able to deal with it
again.
“So.” Victoria changed the subject in a hurry. “What’s in
Paris?”
“An old girlfriend’s getting married.”
“You’re going to an ex’s wedding?”
“Weird, huh? Thing is, about three months in, we both
figured out that we like each other a lot, but it wasn’t
going past that.” He shrugged. “We did the friends with
benefits thing for a while. Now we’re just friends.”
* * *
Victoria couldn’t imagine being friends with her ex.
Aside from the fact that he’d crushed her heart like
roadkill, Winston wasn’t exactly fun to hang out with.
They’d have to do whatever he wanted to do, just like
always.
“How about you?” Ty asked. “What’s in Paris?”
“Actually, I’m headed to a wedding too, in Amboise, a
couple of hours outside the city. My brother. Well,
technically my half-brother, from my mother’s second
marriage.”
“Second out of how many? Wait, let me guess.” He closed
one eye, calculating. “Assuming she’s about fifty. . . .”
“Four.”
“Okay, fifty-four, and a looker, I’ll bet.” His smile
said he meant it as a compliment, and her cheeks warmed
in response. “A lawyer,” he went on, “so she’s
financially independent, used to being her own boss. And
based on her attitude about college, a control freak too,
right?”
“Oh yeah, she’s into control.” She swallowed more wine.
He looked thoughtful. “Yeah, I’m gonna say she’s on
number four.”
“Close.” She bobbed her glass in salute, drank again.
“Number four just got kicked to the curb. She’s keeping
his name, though, so she won’t have to change the firm’s
letterhead again.”
“Add practical to her list of virtues.”
Victoria snorted, very unladylike. Her mother would
disapprove. Then she shrugged one shoulder. “To be fair,
she probably wouldn’t be so hard to live with if my
father hadn’t died. He was her first husband. She really
loved him.” She looked down into her glass, swirled the
last inch of wine. “The rest of her husbands, her
boyfriends too . . . well, Dr. Phil would say she’s
trying to fill the hole Dad left.”
“How did he die?”
“Cancer. I was only three, but I remember him. Helping me
blow out the candles on my birthday cake, stuff like
that. And the funeral, I remember that. Mother crying and
crying like she’d never get over it.”
The minute the words were out of her mouth she wished
them back. Damn it, she kept stepping on land mines.
First trials, now tragic death and heartbreak. What next,
drunk drivers?
“So, what do you do with your Ph.D.?” she blurted, hoping
he was too anesthetized to notice another abrupt topic
change.
* * *
Ty noticed, but he rolled with it, untroubled by where
the conversation had been and unconcerned with where it
was going.
The truth was, in the slightly detached manner of the
comfortably intoxicated, he was enjoying himself. Now
that Victoria had come out of her cold hard shell, he
kind of liked her. She had layers. He liked layers. He
liked it when things weren’t what they appeared to be on
the surface. Must be the philosopher in him.
And honestly, with her hair around her shoulders and that
curve-hugging outfit in place of her lawyer suit, she
looked good. He didn’t usually go for the pale,
porcelain-skin type. Too fragile looking. And he liked
more meat on his women. Still, he was a sucker for blue
eyes, and he had to admit that what meat she had was in
all the right places.
Effortlessly, he shifted into flirting mode.
“Mostly I dazzle the ladies with Descartes.” He wiggled
his brows. “Empiricism’s always a turn-on. And
rationalism? Another aphrodisiac.”
* * *
Victoria widened her eyes, playing along. “Philosophy’s
sexy? Who knew?”
His smile was smug. “Make fun if you want to. But I did
my dissertation on the perception of sexual experience
under those two competing doctrines, and trust me, a lot
of women thought that was sexy.”
Sure enough, she felt a frisson herself. She doused it
with the last of her wine.
Propping her elbow on the armrest, she set her chin on
her fist, scrunched her forehead into a pitying moue.
“Please don’t tell me that’s your pick-up line. It’s
pathetic.”
“But effective. Check it out.” He closed his eyes, made a
show of slipping into character.
When he opened them again, Victoria nearly gasped. Ty the
joker had vanished.
In his place was this loose-limbed, sloe-eyed cowboy
straight off the range. Lanky and sexy and in no hurry at
all, everything about him said baby-I’ve-got-all-night-
and-I’m-gonna-spend-it-f**king-you-right.
Taking his time, he dragged his gaze down her body,
languid, smoldering, raising her temperature by ten
degrees, then slowly dragged it up again, lingering on
her breasts, her throat, her mouth, until he locked eyes
with her. Then he smiled, a slow, bone-melter of a smile.
Her heart thumped so loudly he should be able to hear it.
“Honey,” he spread his drawl like butter, “I got a favor
to ask you.” Reaching across the space between them, he
drew one finger down her arm, tucked it into the crook of
her elbow. The slight pressure on her pulse set it
racing.
“I’m doing some research for my dissertation.” He nodded
slowly, encouragingly. “Yeah, that’s right, sweetheart,
it’s college stuff.”
She would have chuckled but her throat had closed tight.
Flecks of orange glimmered in his tiger eyes. How had she
missed those before?
His teeth caught his bottom lip, tugged lightly until it
popped free. “I’m studying the perception of sexual
experience under the competing doctrines of rationalism
and empiricism.” Drawing his finger up her arm again, he
cuffed her wrist gently. “That’s all right, sugar, you
don’t need to know what all those big words mean.” His
voice dropped to a husky whisper. “It’s the sex I need
your help with. Hours and hours. Hot and sweaty–”
She burst out in a shaky laugh. “Okay, I get it.
Philosophy’s sexy.”
He sat back with an I-told-you-so smirk. “So, you want to
know the upshot of all my research?”
Did she? “Uh huh.”
His lips curved in a wicked smile, and his eyes twinkled,
she’d swear they did.
“I concluded that I’m definitely an empiricist – I
absolutely believe that to truly understand what sex’ll
be like with another person, I can’t just think about it
like a rationalist would.”
He paused a beat.
“I have to experience it.”
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