by Wendy Byrne
He shook his head. “A bachelorette party? I’m brave, but I’m not sure I’m up for this.”
“I didn’t say it would be easy.” She grinned and when he returned the smile, she relaxed a bit.
“Just tell me it doesn’t involve going to any male strip bars, or anything related to penis-shaped cakes.”
She rolled her eyes. “Carla’s from Manhattan royalty and marrying Manhattan royalty. She and Graham went to preschool together. Her mother would faint if that was part of the plan for tonight. The limo’s picking us up in about ten minutes. Can you handle it? All I’m asking is that you keep the mayhem to a minimum and don’t allow any reporters to take pics.”
He gave her the are-you-for-real look. “Why don’t you introduce me to the ladies and I can lay down the law.”
…
While the PI had given Luke the info on Garrett Monroe, the man hadn’t answered all the questions floating around his head. As he’d suspected, the guy came from money. His parents owned several upscale boutique hotels throughout the country. Garrett spent his days traveling the world working to eradicate hunger. A real do-gooder, but no information that linked him romantically with Grace. Why Luke felt some satisfaction in that tidbit of information, he didn’t want to dwell on too long.
Grace’s connection to the charity seemed more difficult to trace. Without being able to dig up her tax records, he couldn’t know for sure.
For now, he focused on this evening as they headed to some place called Sinkers. It sounded like it might have something to do with a boat, but they were heading the opposite way from the river. He wanted to check the internet so he could be prepared, but didn’t have time as he ran interference between the women. First it was a missing phone, then purse, then somebody started crying for apparently no reason, then another two got into an argument and he had to step between them. Then they decided they’d open the sunroof and flash people.
After he wrestled the fifth woman away from that lesson in crazy, he settled back into his seat. They were passing around bottles of something, and he anticipated there’d be some major puking at some point.
As for Grace, she seemed to be the most sober of the bunch—not exactly the spoiled rich society girl he’d imagined—but he probably needed to keep contact between them PG. Considering they had an audience, that wouldn’t be too hard.
One of the women, maybe the bride, since she’d already lost her veil and tiara—he was getting the blondes in the group confused—sat down next to him. “What do you do?” She was drunker than hell, based on the way her words slurred and her eyes kept closing.
“An accountant.”
“Really? You don’t look like one…you…know…one of those.” She patted his leg. “My daddy hates his accountants.”
“I get that a lot.” He wanted to get out of this limo more than he wanted to catch Cyrus Whitaker in the act. Okay, maybe not quite that much—but it was close. “Where are we going to again?”
“S…si…Stinkers.” She laughed as if was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. “I mean Sinkers.”
“What exactly is it?”
She drew her fingers through his hair. “You’re awfully cute you know. What’s the scoop between you and Gracie?”
He was spared from answering that question when the limo pulled over and stopped. He looked out the window and spotted a sign that said Sync-ers, not Sinkers. That didn’t help, and he was very leery how things were going to go down.
“Grace,” he yelled over the chatter of the ladies, who’d started primping the minute the driver pulled over. A few of them had clearly forgotten he was on board as they made adjustments of clothing and underwear. He suddenly had the urgent need to get the hell out of there before the group ganged up on him.
“Talk to the doorman. The reservation’s in my father’s name, Cyrus Whitaker,” she called over the babbling group.
Figures. Just like he thought. She and Cyrus were joined at the hip. Both were all too happy to throw their weight and money around to get what they wanted.
Shaking his head, he slipped out of the limo. The things he did in the name of revenge. But this disaster took the cake.
Since the line winding its way in front of the building consisted of both males and females, he’d felt assured the place wasn’t some kind of male strip club. A burly looking guy with his arms crossed in front of chest policed the crowd. When Luke gave the guy the Whitaker name, he gave Luke the once over. “You’re not Mr. Whitaker, nor his hot daughter.”
The guy’s description of Grace made his muscles tense. “I’m running interference for her and the bridal party.”
“Like some kind of bodyguard?”
Luke gritted his teeth. “Something like that.” All those old insecurities he’d buried about not being good enough, about being lower class, surfaced. Usually this kind of thing didn’t bother him, but right here, right now, the idea crawled up his back like a damn monkey.
He went back to the limo, gathered the women as best he could, and escorted them inside. Music and dance filled the place as they shuffled to their private room, which would make it a whole lot easier to contain them and put out any fires. It looked like they had their own servers—one male and one female—and the drinks had already started flowing.
Grace began handing out black shopping bags and they squealed as they glanced inside. He hoped to God it wasn’t something like dildos or inflatable party guys. Damn, what had he signed up for? Even with their private room, he’d have his hands full keeping curious men and photographers away.
A DJ went up on the stage and welcomed the bachelorette party then started a song.
“When’s my turn?” one of the blondes yelled toward Grace. “I need to get ready.”
“The order number is on your bag. Carla’s up first. She’s the bride,” Grace called while they all started singing along with Sublime’s “Santeria.”
If this scenario weren’t so nerve-wracking, the whole thing would be pretty damn comical. Stuck at a bachelorette party from hell so he could screw over Cyrus Whitaker.
He counted heads. Aww shit.
Fourteen.
The bride had disappeared. He needed reinforcements, but he was SOL on that score.
Finally, the bride returned from the bathroom area dressed in a slinky white dress, her hair pinned up on her head. She stepped onto the stage as Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You” played through the speakers. Considering the woman was drunk on her ass, she did a passable job of lip-syncing. After a group hug, the man announced the maid of honor would be going next. The redhead returned from the bathroom wearing some kind of leather get-up and began to lip-sync to Adele. Based on what he’d seen, Grace had spent a lot of time organizing costumes—as he might have expected from the women in the social circle she hung in.
One by one, they took their turn as the music continued to play. Most were beyond horrible as they tried to dance, and he suspected copious amounts of liquor had something to do with their lack of coordination.
Despite all that, it was fascinating entertainment and the time went by pretty quickly. He kept wondering if Grace had opted out, but he should have known better—she came out of the bathroom in what looked like a dancer’s costume. The white leotard fit her body like a glove. The V-cut front and high legs gave him an amazing view of everything she had. When she broke into lip-syncing Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off,” he chuckled. He’d seen the video a couple of times, and Grace had studied it to perfection. But then again, he’d learned to expect that type of attention to detail from her. Not to mention she’d perfected that shaking her ass thing to an art form.
Shit. She bounded down from the stage right into his arms. “You’re the only one who hasn’t taken a turn.”
“I’ll pass.” She had to be crazy or drunk, or a little of both, if she thought he’d lip-sync to a song.
“You’ve got to. The ladies will be so disappointed.”
“I’m okay with th
at.”
She grasped his shirt, wrapped her arms around his neck. “Okay, then I’ll be disappointed.”
He shook his head and heaved a sigh. He had to be out of his f-in’ mind.
When he got to the front of the stage, he told the guy the song he wanted. “This is for the bride and groom on their wedding night.”
The women went into peals of laughter as Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” began to play.
Luke looked at Grace and grinned. Why again was he doing this shit?
Damn it to hell.
He grabbed her hand and pulled her onto the stage with him. If he was going to do this, he sure as hell wasn’t going to be up there alone. Wrapping his arms around her, he slow danced with Grace through the sultry song.
Playing to the audience was the easy part. If he wanted to win Grace over, he’d do what was necessary.
“This isn’t how you’re supposed to do it,” she whispered in his ear even as she snuggled in closer.
“In case you haven’t figured it out yet, I don’t play by the rules.” If she only knew.
He continued to sway with her while the cacophony of women’s voices faded into the background, and he envisioned they were alone. Her enticing aroma enveloped him with a chaser of the booze she’d drunk along the way. Judging by her missteps, she’d indulged a bit more than he’d originally thought.
When Marvin sang his last note, he kissed her until he couldn’t think anymore. It was only when the ladies started to scream that he came to his senses.
F-in’ A. He’d done it again. Something about Grace kept making him lose his objective. That shit had to stop ASAP.
Chapter Eight
Grace’s head pounded, and she couldn’t pull her head off the pillow when her phone rang. Who could possibly be calling her on a Sunday morning? For a fleeting moment, she thought it might be Luke, but dismissed the thought.
But it was hard to forget how he looked on stage lip-syncing to Marvin Gaye. OMG. Sexy didn’t begin to describe his movements as he seduced her with his slow dance. Some people had a natural rhythm, as opposed to the expensive type she’d acquired through dance classes and recitals.
She sighed and tried to get herself into a sitting position when the front doorbell rang. No. No. No. When she looked at the time, ten o’clock, she knew it couldn’t be her father. He’d still be asleep
Maybe it was Mrs. Harrington.
She threw back the covers and got out of bed, putting on a housecoat over her panties, and shuffled down the steps to the door. When she opened it up and found Luke standing there with a bag in his hand, she wanted to crawl under the nearest rock. But she couldn’t find one big enough. She resisted the urge to hand comb her hair because it was too late—she looked like hell and might as well own it.
“Good morning, sunshine.” He breezed inside. “I brought tomato juice, cayenne pepper, salt, and lime. I’m told it will cure what ails you. Then you can soak in a bath with a little dry mustard and baking soda. I did my research.”
Even her teeth hurt, yet he was smiling.
Note to self: never ever drink Pink Panty Droppers again.
It had hit her when she least expected it. One minute Luke’s arms were around her on the dance floor, the next minute he was carrying her to the limo and then to bed. And now she was paying the price with a hangover from hell, compounded by a much-too-eager-for-his-own-good knight in shining armor. Crazy.
“I’ll try anything that’ll help.” She held her head in her hands while he got to work in the kitchen mixing his tomato juice concoction. “Excuse the mess. I haven’t cleaned up the place since last night.” She sniffed the air and tried to ignore her pounding head. “I might be able to get drunk again on the fumes alone.”
“Small sips.” He handed her the glass with the tomato juice thing and wrinkled his nose. “You’re right. It’s pretty ripe around here. I’ll open a couple of windows.”
“Thank you. Did you stop by for a good old-fashioned round of told-you-so’s?” As she began to sip, her body started to rebel. Wouldn’t that be retribution if she hurled in front of him. She drew in a deep breath and willed her stomach to calm the hell down.
He smiled and steadied her when she swayed. “I wanted to make sure you got some pampering today after the fiasco last night.”
“Yeah,” she commented as memories surfaced. “Did Carla really break off her engagement to Graham?” Grace gulped back the memories, along with a pretty steamy one of Luke and her making out on stage. She wanted to hide her face in her hands, but fought through it. Or, more than likely, moving her arms up to her face required way more energy than she was capable of at the moment.
“Sounded like cold feet to me. I think they’re good.”
“Thank God.” She stopped mid-sip. “That was one wild night. You’re a real trooper for putting up with us.”
“It wasn’t how I envisioned the night to unfold. But watching you ‘Shake It Off’ might have been worth it.” He smirked.
Another sip, and she felt a slight ease in the queasy sensation. “Did we completely embarrass you?”
“I kind of liked being Marvin Gaye for a few minutes. The ladies seemed to like it, although you all were pretty drunk, so I’m not sure that’s a good barometer of my talent.”
“I thought you did amazing, even if I passed out for a little bit there.” If she thought too much about it, she’d be mortified at her current state. “I’m pretty sure Pink Panty Dropper is leaking from my pores.”
He chuckled. “How about if I go upstairs and start the bath with that mustard and baking soda concoction, and I’ll pick up what I can while you’re soaking.” Before she could respond, he headed for the bathroom, ingredients in hand. The water turned on, and he returned moments after that. “Go relax. I’m not sure where to start out, but I’ll dig in. Wish me luck.”
“I’d kiss you, but I haven’t brushed my teeth yet.” She turned to move toward the bathroom and couldn’t help but wonder how she’d hit the lottery with this guy. He had to be one in a million.
Nothing could change the trajectory of her luck that fast. There had to be something wrong. She hadn’t discovered it yet.
…
Luke loved when a plan came together. After last night, he figured she’d be a train wreck this morning and he could play the doting boyfriend. The more he got to know Grace, the more his deception started to bother him, but it couldn’t be helped. He was out of options and still wasn’t convinced of her innocence. The PI backed up his suspicions when he couldn’t track down her supposed charitable contributions. She could be playing fast and loose with the law like Daddy. If she was, he needed to know.
For some reason, discovering whether she was involved up to her pretty eyeballs had almost become as important as closing down Whitaker Development.
Worse, Cyrus had upped the pressure, was talking more trash about LRM—maybe because he’d heard his company was attempting to delay the Hudson River Project—and time was short. Luke needed a lead, a contact, a link, and soon. Surely Grace would have something lying around.
If he knew women—which he should after years of experience—she’d be soaking for at least a half hour, maybe more.
He zeroed in on the desk at the corner of her living room. No computer, but an open drawer revealing a stash of cash. He’d flipped through the hundred dollar bills and estimated the total to be around ten grand.
Holy crap.
Who kept ten thousand dollars lying around, unless they planned to pay somebody off? It was the only logical explanation. And it fit with what he already knew about how her father operated—payola to get things to go his way.
Her computer would be the key to the team of Grace and Cyrus. He had to think of her as a cheater and criminal to keep from remembering how sexy she was. Finding this much cash spurred him on.
The bedroom.
That brilliant thought came to him as he heard what sounded like the tub starting to drain. He snagged the
purple bra he’d found under the couch and brought it with him as a prop in case he was caught and sprinted up the stairs.
He couldn’t help but think how, in contrary to the rest of the house, the bedroom reminded him of her. Mounds of pillows overtook the brass headboard, while a white lace cover was laid across the top and tucked under the brass rails at the end. Light streamed through the windows, making it feel like a spring day instead of early November. Classic white bookshelves aligned with the bed, loaded down with everything from the classics to new age non-fiction. Black-and-white photos of Grace and her mother revealed the resemblance between the two. If he had a minute to wallow in self-pity, he’d note there were never pictures depicting anything similar of his family.
Why the hell would anyone want pictures of a father with a propensity toward beating up his wife and his kids when he went on a drunken spree—which was pretty much all the damn time? Between his father’s sketchy work history and a propensity for getting locked up at least once a month, his family lived in poverty. Reliant on handouts and food stamps, Rafe and he were considered trailer trash no matter what town they’d settled in. While Grace lived a life filled with privilege and acceptance, looks of distain and indifference were a constant as far back as he could remember.
He shook off thoughts of everything but getting down to business. The hair dryer in the bathroom turned on as he spotted the computer on the floor near the bed. A pop up showed she’d gotten a new email from her father.
Just as he walked away, the door to the bathroom opened, and Grace entered the room wearing nothing but a towel. All thoughts of revenge left his brain.
The woman could rock a towel like no one he’d ever seen.
She jumped when she spotted him and put her hand on her chest. “Either we shop at the same stores or you found something of mine.” She pointed toward the bra held in his fingertips.
He smiled. “I like the color. Were you wearing it last night?” Touching the silk and looking at her while recalling exactly what her breasts looked like, felt like, tasted like, was not a great combination if he wanted to stay on track.
