The Stand-in Groom (Wrong Way Weddings Book 3)
Page 16
Max would supposedly stay at a plush Paradise Beach hotel, and that was Leigh’s destination. Her editor thought the lead was solid enough to authorize travel expenses.
Leigh hurried back to her car, trying to believe the weather report she’d heard just before leaving Miami, where she worked out of Celebrity's East Coast office. But if this was only a rain squall, she was Lady Gaga.
Torrential rain, driven by the wind, blanketed the windshield and swept across the on-ramp with the force of a giant fire hose as she crept back onto the highway. She wanted to wait out the storm in some nice dry place, but the prince was notorious for keeping on the move.
“If you’ll tell your real story to a sympathetic reporter,” she said, rehearsing her appeal, “it might stifle some of the silly rumors.”
She had a more immediate problem: the taillights ahead of her had vanished in a wall of water. She dropped her speed to a crawl, wondering whether it was worse to hit the car ahead or be rear-ended because she was going too slow.
Traffic was slooshing to a stop. Flashing red lights were visible through the downpour, and she realized cars were leaving the highway. A policeman in a tent-like slicker was waving everyone off to the right.
Never one to docilely obey, she rolled down her window far enough to shout at the cop.
“What’s wrong, officer?”
“Highway’s flooded. Keep moving, please.” He made an impatient gesture and looked as if he wanted to give her car a kick to get it going.
She complied. She was an intrepid reporter, not a fool.
Her sense of direction was about as reliable as the weather, so she followed the taillights ahead of her, hoping the driver knew an alternate route north. She certainly didn’t, and there wasn’t any place to stop for a map check.
The cars gradually thinned out, making her wonder where all the highway traffic had gone. Apparently this was an old state highway, neglected after the interstate was built. No traffic was visible in the oncoming lane, but she felt safer moving slowly through the downpour, not having to worry about passing.
Suddenly a great black shape streaked past her on the left, throwing up a ton of water. Her small car rocked sideways, and Leigh’s heart did crazy flip-flops. She saw the aggressively bright taillights of the dark sedan as it cut in front of her, then her right front wheel skidded off the pavement onto the rain-softened shoulder.
“What the devil!” Max saw the car he’d passed slide off the pavement, and for an instant he was afraid it would roll.
He brought the rented sedan to a stop and flipped on the emergency lights, unwilling to risk pulling onto the narrow shoulder. Dashing out into the rain, he was relieved to see the driver hadn’t lost control. The axle of the little convertible had sunk in muck, but it was a mishap, not a tragedy. Still, he couldn’t just leave the driver there alone.
Damn!
He’d pulled too close to the car’s rear trying to read the bumper sticker, then been forced to pass because the convertible was moving slower than any car should on a highway.
The real blame should go to the American habit of putting signs on their bumpers. The single sentence on the back of this jalopy was ludicrous: My other car is a limo.
He wouldn’t forget that one in a hurry; it had resulted in one more glitch in his plans. What else could go wrong on this trip? Darcy’s defection still rankled. She’d promised not to let him down this time, but his distant American cousin hadn’t changed since she’d thrown sand in his face when they were toddlers playing on the beach.
His American mother’s cousin was always too busy playing to pay attention to her daughter—unlike his own parents, who’d been stem but loving. He still missed his mother, who’d died seven years ago in a car accident when he was twenty-five.
Sometimes, though, he wished his father would remarry, instead of worrying so much about his son’s single status.
He reached the convertible and opened his mouth to offer assistance, but he didn’t have a chance to speak.
“You ran me off the road. Look at this!” The driver got out in the rain and gestured furiously at her tires, so mired in mud it was obviously futile to try driving the vehicle out.
He knew a calm reasonable response was his best defense, but all he could do was stare at the red-caped woman who was soundly berating him.
He’d never seen such a beautiful face.
Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and plastered to her head by the rain, but she didn’t need salon-perfect hair to give an illusion of beauty.
She possessed the real thing: exquisite bone structure, dramatically slashed brows and a perfect nose, straight and a trifle larger than the pert little knobs Americans seemed to prefer, but very much to his liking.
When she stepped closer to continue venting anger—and perhaps fear at the close call—he looked into a unique shade of hazel eyes set off by long dark lashes. Her lips were full, especially the bottom one, suggesting a mouth made to give pleasure.
It was a shame she was also brash and rude, common enough faults in American women but highly regrettable in such a sensual creature.
“It’s too bad you weren’t driving your other car,” he said mildly.
“What?”
“Your limo.”
“You were close enough to read my bumper sticker through the rain?”
“I enjoy a good joke,” he said, not wanting her to think he was too naive to appreciate the humor of it. He surprised himself by caring about her opinion of him. “What can I do to assist you?”
“Push my car out of the mud.”
He walked the length of the vehicle, pretending to consider the possibility, but of course there was none.
“I’m afraid you’ll need a tow truck.”
“Do you have a phone in your car?”
“No, I don’t. I’ll be happy to drive you to one.”
“Oh, great. I can stay here and watch my car sink in muck or go off with a total stranger.”
She sounded so dejected he was ready to forgive her for distracting him with a bumper sticker—but not for calling him an idiot.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Max Frederick.” He offered her a wet hand—Americans liked their palm-to-palm ritual.
She only stared, and Max had seen that expression of recognition before—too many times. He should have given her another name, instead of the one he used when he traveled.
“Max for Maximilian?” she asked suspiciously.
He barely nodded, mesmerized by the way she ignored the rain pelting her face and head. He couldn’t think of any woman of his acquaintance who would stand in a downpour without worrying about how she looked.
Did this one realize she was a ravishing beauty in any circumstances, or was she free of vanity? The answer seemed important, but this wasn’t the time or place to explore it.
Also by Lori Wilde & Pam Andrews Hanson
WRONG WAY WEDDING SERIES
The Groom Wager
The DIY Groom
The Stand-In Groom
The Royal Groom
The Makeshift Groom
About the Authors
Pam Andrews Hanson
Before teaming up with Lori Wilde, Pam Andrews Hanson co-wrote more than fifty novels with her mom, including romance and cozy mysteries. She is a former journalist and currently teaches freshmen composition in a university English department.
Lori Wilde
Lori Wilde is the New York Times, USA Today and Publishers’ Weekly bestselling author of 90 works of romantic fiction.
Her books have been translated into 26 languages, with more than four million copies of her books sold worldwide.
Her breakout novel, The First Love Cookie Club, has been optioned for a TV movie.
Lori is a registered nurse with a BSN from Texas Christian University. She holds a certificate in forensics, and is also a certified yoga instructor.
A fifth generation Texan, Lori lives with her husband, Bill, in the Cutti
ng Horse Capital of the World; where they run Epiphany Orchards, a writing/creativity retreat for the care and enrichment of the artistic soul.