“Nobody messes with Gran,” Peter cut in.
Mrs. Jessup’s blue eyes twinkled. “Did you really threaten to sue them?”
Isabelle snorted a laugh to ward off the heat rising in her cheeks. “Not in so many words. I showed him my business card. I’m an attorney. The manager got the message.”
“Don’t be shy, Iz.” Peter continued working that phone like a madman. “She threatened to sue. His. Ass. It was aces, Mom.”
A wry grin quirked the corners of Mrs. Jessup’s mouth and Isabelle suddenly felt nine feet tall. Amazing how a mother’s approval, even when it’s someone else’s mother, could do that.
“Well, thank you for handling the situation,” Mrs. Jessup turned to Peter. “Where are we, Peter?”
He slid the phone into his jacket pocket. “That was Steve. We’ll do pictures after the ceremony. He’s not gonna let anything start without us.”
Mrs. Jessup nodded. The cool-under-fire presence Peter usually had must have been inherited from his mother. The woman could lead an army into battle.
“All right,” Mrs. Jessup said. “Let’s get organized.” She turned to Gran, still in her bathrobe. “Mother, I’ll help you upstairs so you can get dressed. Peter, you and Isabelle go on. We’ll meet you at church. Maybe they can get the pictures of the bridal party out of the way and it’ll be less we need to do after.” She finally sighed. “It’s always something.”
Something told Isabelle this woman would never be convinced to do something she didn’t want to do. Wouldn’t it have been wonderful to have had Mrs. Jessup as a mother eleven years ago, when her own mother had been convinced to let a child molester go free?
Things would have been so different. Isabelle blew out a breath and stepped over to Peter, who was staring at a potted bush with narrowed eyes.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“See this plant?”
“What about it?”
A moment passed, but Peter didn’t respond. She turned to him and the menacing hatred carved into his face stung her. “Peter?”
“I hate it.” The strength faded from his voice, leaving only slaughtered remnants of the confidence normally found there. Something was very, very wrong.
“Peter, it’s a plant. A fiddle-leaf fig bush actually.”
Nose-scrunching bafflement took over his face. “I’m scared that you know that.” He waved the thought away and gestured toward the bush. “It irritates me.”
Okay then. Peter going crazy. What an interesting concept. She rested her hand on the back of his neck and gently squeezed. “It’s been a stressful hour. Are you okay?”
Another moment passed and he closed his eyes. She imagined him sorting his thoughts into nice little compact drawers. Suddenly, he opened his eyes, threw his shoulders back, rolled his head around and gave it shake. Peter had just glued the broken pieces of himself back together.
“I’m good,” he said.
Such a liar.
Chapter Eleven
“Dance with me,” Peter said, grabbing Izzy’s hand and nearly hauling her ass out of the chair.
The club’s ballroom, with its crystal chandeliers and plush drapes, was loaded down with five hundred guests, and the band had just kicked into the after-dinner music.
“Ow. Peter, I don’t want to dance.”
He did a sideways glance toward the approaching enemy. Shit.
“Please, Izzy.”
He tugged her hand again, had her half off the chair before she started laughing. “What is with you?”
“Hi, Peter,” said an irritating, chirpy voice from behind him. His stomach went south.
Still holding Izzy’s hand, he turned to face Lindsey Patterson. The redheaded, knockout daughter of his parents’ closest friends and the bane of his existence. She pursued him relentlessly, and it had nothing to do with her unyielding attraction to him. She wanted to merge their bank accounts.
His tight-lipped country club face came out of the dusty box and Peter leveled it on her. “Lindsey, how are you?”
“I’m wonderful, but this is our dance.” She aimed her snooty brown eyes at Izzy. “I’m sure your date won’t mind if a couple of old friends share a dance.”
Izzy, seemingly confused, looked up at Peter. Come on, Iz. Help me out here.
“He’s a big boy,” Izzy said. “He can dance if he’d like.”
Not the answer he wanted.
“Great,” Lindsey said, dragging him to the dance floor.
A sick feeling twirled in his stomach. He knew what dance Lindsey would want. Not too fast. Not too slow. Her way of trying to force him into a situation. She’d been doing this to him since high school when their parents had sent them for ballroom dance lessons.
He turned back and caught Izzy’s eye. He hoped she could see the apology there.
“So,” Vic said. “You’ve had a busy week.”
Isabelle sat back against her chair. “You’re not kidding.”
A tuxedo-clad waiter came by and filled coffee cups.
“Are you all right?” Gina, Vic’s wife, asked. Isabelle had never met her before today, but knew enough about her to know she was someone special. She had to be if she convinced Vic, stud of the century, to settle down. Gina’s full mane had been pulled into a hair clip at the base of her neck and the curls sprung wildly out the back. The tiny baby bulge, barely evident under her simple navy sheath, tempted Isabelle to reach over and rub her hand on it.
Some things in life were a mystery, and Gina and Vic as a couple fit that category. Not that she wasn’t attractive or worthy. She wouldn’t necessarily be considered gorgeous, but her warm friendliness drew people in. Gina probably made a great best friend. Maybe the odd union wasn’t such a mystery after all.
Then again, who was Isabelle to judge? She had yet to experience a relationship she couldn’t kill.
“I’m fine,” she said, getting back to Gina’s question. “Peter’s been a big help. It’ll all work out.”
Vic’s gaze was trained on the dance floor. “Monk is doing it again. He’s blowing my mind.”
Gina patted his shoulder and said to Isabelle, “Vic can’t handle seeing Monk ballroom dance.”
Understandable. She couldn’t fathom it either.
Vic laughed. “It goes against everything we believe.”
“He taught us the Viennese Waltz for our wedding,” Gina added.
“I sucked at that.”
“Yeah, honey, you did.”
Isabelle cracked up. Vic didn’t like to fail. But Peter doing ballroom? This she had to see. She turned and found him and the tiny redhead on the dance floor, their bodies moving in perfect sequence. Something inside Isabelle broke apart as she watched their hips roll in an obviously practiced routine. Clearly it wasn’t the first time they’d danced together. The erotic and sensual rhythm brought to mind other things their hips might have done together, and Isabelle’s face burned.
Could she be jealous? Jealous? Of a dance?
Not. Possible.
The music pounded at her ears and she stuck her fingers in them for a second, but the pounding continued. She pressed harder until the whooshing in her head made her stomach tumble. She hated this feeling. This yearning for a man not to be touched by any woman but her.
She turned back to Vic as her conflicting emotions created unshed tears.
Gina, who stood with her hands resting on his shoulders, wrinkled her nose and stared into the crowd huddled on the dance floor. “That little bitch.”
Don’t look. It can’t be anything you want to see.
Of course, Isabelle turned back to see what had Gina riled. How could she not? Lindsey made use of Peter by grinding her hips into him until he finally spun her under his arm. The flaming bitch swung her head back at Isabelle and jerked her haughty chin in a see-what-I-have gesture.
Unable to resist, Isabelle reached down, squeezed her cushioned chair once and let it go. She would not let this witch get to her.
Th
e misery on Peter’s face reached Isabelle, and he kept his eyes locked with hers until an ice chip of understanding cooled her fire. She got the message. This was why he’d been in such a rush to get her on the dance floor. He must have seen Lindsey coming.
“Hey,” Vic said, leaning forward and getting right next to Isabelle’s ear. “You know he hates this woman, right?”
Unsure of how to respond, Isabelle nodded, but she’d only known Peter a few days and although he’d admitted his dislike of the wealthy social circuit, the redhead and her fancy dancing seemed more suited to a man of Peter’s means than a sexually abused train wreck.
“I’m fine.” Isabelle said. “It’s only a dance.”
“I don’t understand some women,” Gina huffed.
“You’re telling me,” Vic said.
“Oh, shut up,” Gina and Isabelle said in unison. Gina added a smack on the arm for effect.
The dance finally ended—thank you, Lord—and Peter made a beeline to the table, his actions bordering on rude by leaving Lindsey standing on the dance floor.
Someone reached for him, obviously to say hello, but he held up a finger and kept moving. A man on a mission.
“Hey,” he said, bracing his hand on Isabelle’s chair and leaning over. “I’m sorry about that. Will you dance with me now? Please?”
She hated dancing, mainly because she didn’t know how. All she could do was shuffle her feet back and forth. Totally inept. “I can’t dance.”
“It’s okay. It’s a slow one.” He took her hand and pulled her toward the dance floor.
The snappy music, an old Sinatra tune from the orchestra, settled her embattled nerves.
Peter twirled her into his arms and slid his warm, calloused hand under the braid of material stretching the length of her back. A working man’s hand. The rough texture of his fingers tickled as he slid his hand down her back, and the skin to skin contact nearly melted her. She didn’t mind.
He pulled her tight against his body leaving not an inch of space between them.
“Have I mentioned I love this dress?” He nuzzled her neck.
Second time today. Peter was a neck man. Isabelle, her breasts tingling, was beginning to think she might be a neck woman.
This she would enjoy. She rested her arm on his shoulder and pressed herself against the solid wall of him seeking comfort from the inadequacy she’d experienced minutes before.
“Lindsey is a pain in my ass,” he said.
“Peter, it’s okay.”
He drew back, his eyes searching hers. “No, it’s not. It’s inappropriate. I tried to talk her out of the rumba, but I knew she’d argue with me and cause a scene. Then I’d get ‘Oh-Petered’ because I couldn’t suck it up and dance with her. I hate these people.”
“I should have danced with you. It happened so fast I didn’t understand.”
He grunted his frustration. “Can we forget it? I don’t want you pissed at me all night.”
She smiled. “Nope. Not me.”
She settled her chin on his shoulder, her feet barely moving, while the other dancers twirled and box stepped around them to “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.”
Yes, she had Peter under her skin. She just didn’t know what to do now that he was there.
“Will you teach me the rumba?”
He laughed and dropped a kiss on the side of her head. “The lady likes the rumba.”
“I like watching you rumba, but not with someone else. I guess I need to learn.”
He leaned back and focused on her. “That’s about the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
The intensity of his stare became too much. Like a piercing spear, leaving her exposed, vulnerable and bleeding. She moved closer, setting her chin back on his shoulder.
“I’d love to teach you the rumba.”
The woodsy scent of his soap lingered and she wanted to be closer. An impossible task considering an inch of space didn’t exist between them.
Not an inch of space.
An epiphany dawned.
This wasn’t just a dance. Not the way he held her. He’d spent the entire dance with Lindsey trying to put space between them, but now, with his feet barely moving, he sent a silent message. This dance didn’t have the drama or technical excellence of the rumba, but the way he snuggled her close to him, whispering to her, spoke of what the dance with Lindsey meant. Nothing.
A lump lodged in the center of Isabelle’s chest cutting off her air. No air. She couldn’t breathe.
“What?” Peter asked, leaning back and drawing his eyebrows together.
Unsure of how to explain it, she reached up and pushed her hand through the hair on the back of his head. Something inside her demanded she get closer, but there was nowhere to go. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
Closer.
She kissed him. Not with the fierceness of the other day. Just a light brush of her lips against his, but it made sense now. Her heart and body had always acted as independent agents, guiding her along the trouble spots. The splitting of her physical and emotional being became her survival mechanism, gave her strength.
Tears oozed from her eyes. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t give herself over. What would be left if she gave it all?
Peter brushed her tears away with his thumb. “Whatever I did, you’re welcome.”
Fun Izzy.
Fun Izzy was trouble.
Chapter Twelve
Peter damn near skipped back to the table. Miraculously, the world inside the despised four walls of the Nosrum Country Club had become a beautiful place. Go figure.
“Izzy,” Gina said. “The prego needs a bathroom break. Come with me.”
Peter pulled his chair from under the table and dropped into it. “Why do women go to the bathroom together?”
“Don’t ask me,” Vic said as they left. “I’m having a hard enough time tonight. There’s all kinds of crazy shit going on here. That whole thing with the redhead? You had to hear the conversation at this table. I mean, kill me now.”
“That’s the one I told you about. She’s a flesh-eater.”
Vic leaned into the chair next to Peter. “What’s the story with you and Isabelle? Isabelle, who never lets anyone call her Izzy.”
Where’s this going? Peter and Vic had only discussed a relationship once, during a crisis, and it was Vic’s relationship, not his.
“Nothing to tell. I like her.”
“Uh-huh.”
Peter shrugged. “What?”
Vic scrubbed his fingers across his mouth. “Here’s the thing with Isabelle. She’s a great girl, right? And that body? Unbelievable.”
Oh, shit. No. No. No. Somehow, in the course of the last ten seconds, the world’s largest wave pummeled him. Vic was about to tell him that he’d shagged Izzy.
Peter didn’t want to know. Absolutely not. He’d just work around it, so to speak. But, son of a bitch, he wanted this woman like he wanted his next breath and the thought of her getting it on with Vic would drive him batshit. Vic had found the promised land before him.
He took a breath before he said something stupid. “Did you…” Peter waved his hand in front of him. “You know…with Izzy?”
Where the hell did that come from?
Vic hesitated. “You want to know if I fucked Isabelle?”
Mr. Crude, at his best.
“Actually, no. Whatever you did before Gina is your business.”
Peter picked up a half-filled water glass, probably Izzy’s, and slugged it.
“I thought about it. Once,” Vic said, as if they were discussing what to have for dessert. “I was here on business five years ago—”
Five years ago? Isabelle was twenty-one-years-old five years ago. A goddamned baby.
“She asked me to spar with her,” Vic continued. “We’re alone, in the gym, and she’s going to town on me. Just kicking my ass. And the more she’s kicking my ass, the harder she pushes herself. I think she likes having control o
f a situation that’s not necessarily in her favor.”
Peter dug his fingers into his forehead hoping the bashing going on in his head would cease. “Vic, I don’t need to hear this.”
“Yeah. Right away. And fuck you for telling me to stay out of it. I told her she could trust you, and I don’t want to be put in a jackpot with her.”
Peter huffed out a breath.
“Anyway,” Vic said, “She was all sweaty and panting from the workout and I started to panic because my baser needs took over. For a split second, I thought about banging her right there on the gym floor.”
The pounding in Peter’s head worsened. His blood pressure must have hit record heights. This conversation had to end before he stroked out in the middle of Stephen’s reception.
He stood, curled his hands open and closed while his blood nearly seeped out of his skin. “Are you out of your fucking mind telling me this? Do you have any idea how inappropriate this is?”
Vic stood and, being four inches taller than Peter’s six-one, peered down at him.
“Hey, dickhead, you asked. Now shut up and listen. I thought about it. For a second. And then it occurred to me. She’s the daughter of a good friend. She’s got issues regarding sex. She trusts me.”
The packed ballroom drew Peter’s attention. Or maybe he couldn’t stand this conversation any more. Having Vic, a guy who, before he got married, would have taken home the gold in the Player Olympics, lecture him, just fried his ass.
“Isabelle,” Vic said, “is not a girl who trusts easily. You cannot fuck her and run. She comes across as strong and self-sufficient, but you could seriously screw her up. She deserves the best life she can carve out for herself, so whatever your intentions are, keep that in mind.” Vic poked him, not so lightly, in the chest. “You get my drift?”
Did he get it? How the hell could he miss it? Vic just told Peter he’d kick his ass if he hurt Isabelle.
And he hadn’t shagged her. Peter’s buzzing pulse quieted and an honest burst of laughter popped out. Relief maybe, because for a few seconds he’d been terrified Vic would tell him Izzy had been the best fuck of his life. Or vice versa.
A Just Deception Page 8
