Byron frowned as she brushed by him into the warmth of the hushed building. How little courtesy had she been shown through the last year that the simple opening of a door struck her off guard? Inhaling, he followed her subtle, sensory cloud of lilac that was florid and pristine.
Lilies. Larkspur. Lilacs. Could he be any lamer?
“Oh, my God!” Roxie exclaimed, bringing him to a halt behind her as she whirled around to face him in the lobby.
“Jesus,” he muttered, bobbling the boxes at the renewed pallor on her face. “What?”
“Your scarf! It’s—”
“Halfway to Canada?”
“It’s my fault,” she said ruefully. “We might still be able to find it—”
“Rox.” Byron leaned toward her, lowering his voice as he cocked a brow. “It’s a scarf.”
“Yes, but it’s yours,” she lamented. “I’ll get you a new one. I promise.”
Byron nodded briefly to the woman sitting behind the information desk before setting the packages on the ledge. He relieved Roxie of hers to give her arms a break. “I’ll do you one better. I’m picking up Olivia’s tavern shift tonight. You could come by, buy me a beer, brighten my day.”
“Oh.” She stared at him, stunned. “I’d love to.” She rubbed the cashmere gloves together. “But I actually have a date.”
Byron didn’t know why his spirits tanked at the news. Of course she had a date. It was frigging Valentine’s. And she was Roxie Honeycutt. “Yeah? Who’s the lucky guy?”
“Bertie Fledgewick,” she said. “My sister Julianna knows his family. She set me up. You know how it is.”
The only person either of his sisters had ever set him up with was Adrian. Adrian was now married to his friend James Bracken. “This isn’t your first date since...?”
She lowered her eyes to somewhere in the vicinity of his knees and cocked her hand on her hip. “The second. Bertie took me out for martinis two weeks ago. Tonight’s a little more formal. Dinner at Alabama Point.”
“Sounds classy. You’re still living in the apartment beside your shop, right? Above the tavern?”
“In Olivia’s old bachelorette digs—” she nodded “—for the time being.”
“Bring him by when he drops you off,” Byron invited. “Drinks are on me.”
She licked her lips to smooth a canny smile. “You want to buy our drinks or size him up?”
“I don’t know if you know this, but I’m excellent at multitasking.”
She laughed. It was like tinny bells on Christmas. It brought mirth and a pleasant flush to her face—a face he thought still a touch too thin after last year. It couldn’t be her first good laugh since the divorce, could it?
She pressed her knuckle against the space beneath her nose as the laughter began to fizzle. She shook her head, eyes still sparkling. “I needed that.”
Bertie, you lucky bastard. He picked up the boxes again. “Anytime. Tell me where these are going.”
CHAPTER TWO
WOW. AND I THOUGHT chivalry was dead.
As Bertie helped her out of his car, Roxie pressed her lips together, remembering how Byron had opened the door to the library for her.
I guess, after everything, I might still be a sucker for a gentleman.
Bertie’s hand squeezed hers as she stood in the parking lot of Tavern of the Graces, her friend Olivia’s bouncing bayside bar. His hand lingered there, bringing her back again to the events of that morning when Byron had held it, too, tucking it against his middle as he comforted her.
She frowned. Looking up, she noted Bertie’s presence. They’d had a pleasant evening. There had been wine, conversation, candlelight. He’d ordered the smoked oysters. She’d wondered at the selection...just as she’d wondered over the hand he’d let stray to her knee under the table as the appetizers passed into entrées and finally dessert.
He’d blazed through a bolero album all the way home.
His palm was a bit damp against hers. She wished for her cashmere gloves, then dismissed the thought, pasting on her best smile. It had been so long since she’d dated. Had Richard’s hand sweated when they’d first gone out all those years ago? They’d been married only three months before she’d caught him and Cassandra practicing their best wrestling moves on her Aubusson, but he and Roxie had been engaged for four years after dating since graduate school. So it had been almost a decade since she’d dipped her toe in the dating pool. Perhaps she’d just forgotten what it was like...
The first time, she’d thought she’d sluiced through the dating pool skillfully, hooking Richard along until the end of the meet. In the long run, though, she’d sunk. She’d sunk hard, dragged out by the unseen undertow.
Still, no matter how much had happened in the intervening years—no matter how much the dating world had changed with its Tinder apps and its trending hookup culture—Roxie Honeycutt did not put out on the second date. It made no difference how many glowing reviews Julianna had given on Bertie’s behalf.
Bertie shut the car door. Roxie licked her lips when he stood close in the chilled night air. The wind shrieked off the bay, gaining strength. Bertie bounced at the knees, hissing through his teeth. “Let’s get you out of the cold, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. He couldn’t have known that was exactly what Richard had called her. Roxie’s heart pounded, calling up the same restless ache she’d had trouble quelling since the divorce papers had been hastily drawn last spring. She eyed the lights in the windows above the tavern. The place had been her sanctuary. The thought of bringing a man into it...
Roxie tried to keep the smile. “I can walk up on my own,” she told him. She saw the line dig in between his brows and misunderstanding glean. Poor fella. He wasn’t used to rejection. Trying to ease the sting, she added, “I had a good time tonight, Bertie. Thank you so much for dinner.”
He searched her briefly, before humor flashed across his face. “Is this you being a tease, Roxie?”
She felt his hand at the small of her back edging her toward him. Her hand flattened against him. Her smile fled. “I’m not a tease,” she stated plainly. “I’m just not ready for you to walk me up to my place.”
He bit off a sour laugh, clearly amused. “Julianna warned me about you.”
“Did she?”
“She said you’d try to keep me at arm’s length,” Bertie said, the hand on her back lowering an inch. It pressed her middle against his. “Said you’d need a little encouragement.”
Oh, double, double, toil and trouble. Why wasn’t anyone exiting the tavern? The parking lot was full up, yet not one patron had passed in or out of Olivia’s bar from the time she and Bertie had driven up. He’d knocked back two martinis at the restaurant while they waited for the entrées. With the wine on top of it... He’d driven just fine, but had he had too much? “I’m certain this isn’t what she meant.”
“Ah, come on,” he said, swaying against her, into her. The fingers of his other hand clamped on her forearm, as if he knew that her flight reflex was jumping into high gear. “You’ve strung me along too far.”
Her voice clipped. “We’ve only been out twice, Bertie. Two dates isn’t enough—”
“That’s bullshit, Roxie. Complete and utter bullshit. And you know it.” His mouth came crashing down onto hers.
Too hard, too hard! His mouth, his hands. Panic threatened to go on a tear inside her, buckling her at the knees.
She remembered vaguely the defense class she’d taken with Olivia, Briar and Adrian months ago. Olivia, pregnant at the time, hadn’t been able to do much more than shout instructions. Roxie tried to summon her righteous words to mind now.
Get loud. Push back.
“Bertie!” She planted her arms between them, trying to wedge space enough to at least breathe. “I’m warning you, back away!”
He laughed. Actually laughed at her. The grip of his arms didn’t let up. Worse, his hand moved over her rear in a possessive sweep.
“Oh.” Her hand came up. She meant to strike him flat across the cheek. Instead, her hand balled and she put more force behind it than perhaps necessary.
Her knuckles connected with his cheekbone. Pain flared down the back of her hand. He stumbled and she hissed, cradling the fist. “I did warn you,” she reasoned when he looked flabbergasted. She hadn’t broken the skin.
Seconds passed as he sized her up. Finally, he tilted his head in challenge. The wake-up call hadn’t worked. If anything, she’d poked the snake with a stick and it was coiled to strike harder. “You think you can take a swing at me like that and walk away?” he asked, advancing.
“Yes,” she said, putting her good hand out to shield herself. “It’s called consent. I didn’t give it.”
“Come here.”
He was used to giving orders. He was used to people following them. But Roxie wasn’t one of his subordinates. When he reached for her, she blurted, “I don’t want to hurt you again!” When he made a grab for her anyway, Olivia’s voice filled her head once more.
Hurt or be hurt.
Where? Roxie thought wildly.
Olivia answered. Go for the eyes. Gouge those suckers out. The groin’s good, too. Knee to the groin, very effective. Or, if you have to, just—
A long arm snatched Bertie away. His hold loosened, throwing Roxie off balance. She staggered, gaining her feet as an unmanned elbow came down against Bertie’s neck. He crumbled, his face and hands close-encountering the gravel drive. It was then that Roxie saw Byron.
He’d loosened his tie. Reaching up, he tugged at his collar. His neck was red, his lips seamed tight. He eyed Bertie’s prone form in a way that made the sea-tinged air go from chilly to glacial.
His eyes were blue. She knew that. Conversation with him was always very distracting with those midnight blues smiling back at her. However, under the low beam of the streetlight, they looked black. She wanted to reach out to him, soothe the deadly look on his face. Maybe assure herself he was still Byron. She’d never have guessed that behind the smiling eyes there was this.
“Get up,” he sneered at Bertie. “Get the hell up.”
“Byron,” Roxie said. Damn it, her lips were quivering.
He held up a hand without turning his head to her. “Just a second, duchess.” When Bertie didn’t rise quickly enough, Byron hauled him up by the back of his jacket. “Turn around,” he warned, not raising his voice. God. Not that he had to.
Bertie lifted his face. There was blood in his nostrils. He sniffed wetly. “My nose. You goddamn broke it!” Scowling, he pinched the bridge. “I was just dropping the lady off. You don’t know what’s going on here, chuck.”
“The hell I don’t,” Byron told him. “Now, judging by your breath, I’d say you’ve gone one too many rounds with the Grey Goose tonight. Maybe normally you’re not the kind of guy who gets his jollies off feeling up a lady who in no way wants that type of attention. But, hey, what do I know? You could in fact be that pervert. So I’m going to give you one of two options...”
Bertie rolled his eyes. “For Christ’s sake—”
Byron jerked a finger in Bertie’s face. “Number one,” he said, undeterred, “you call a nice cabbie to take you back to the hole you crawled out of. You put the tavern and Ms. Honeycutt here in your rearview and you approach neither of them ever again.”
“You’re out of your mind,” Bertie remarked.
“Number two,” Byron continued, “you keep acting like the vodka-soaked prick I just saw take advantage of my friend, and I put my fist in your mouth and call every single one of the rough-and-tumble tavern regulars out from behind those doors to join me. You leave in an ambulance and your sweet little Merc gets towed to the garage with over a grand in damages. I testify as a witness in the sexual harassment suit that’ll be brought against you and you go to jail long enough at least for the other sex offenders to take a shine to you.”
Bertie’s eyes darkened. Roxie saw his fist come up and his body twist, coiled to strike. She cried out. Before the sound was partway out of her mouth, Byron quickly stepped into the space Bertie opened up in the area of his shoulder. He bent his arm and again the elbow came up against the brunt of Bertie’s head, snapping it back.
Bertie lost his footing, stumbling back to the 4x4 truck behind him. Byron’s hands closed over the other man’s throat. The words that growled low from within cut through Roxie as effectively as the wolfish wind. “I’m getting real tired of your attitude,” he warned, “and I’m just mad enough to knock out enough of those pearly whites to make you look like a clown at the circus. You’ve got exactly five seconds to change my mind. One...”
“Byron,” Roxie said again, touching his arm. “Really. He’s not worth it.”
“Two...”
Bertie’s face was turning an alarming shade of puce. His fingers clawed at Byron’s hands over his throat.
“Three...”
“Byron, please,” Roxie said, gripping the sleeve of his black shirt. “Stop.”
“Four...”
“All righ’,” Bertie wheezed. “All righ’. Lemme go.”
Byron gave it another few seconds, his eyes drilling into Bertie’s skull. Then he released him.
Roxie watched Bertie sink, gasping, to the ground. She felt sick.
Byron’s frame swelled and released over several breaths. Then his brow arched and he reached up to straighten his tie. “Informed decision. There might be hope for you yet, Lothario. Now make the call.”
“What about my car?” Bertie asked, his raspy voice carrying nothing more threatening than resentment. Effectively cowed.
Byron jerked a shrug. “A friend of yours can pick it up in the morning.”
“It’ll have to wait here?” Bertie asked. The incredulity shrank from his face when Byron tilted his head. A simple gesture with surprisingly lethal intent. “Okay,” he said, taking a smartphone out of his jacket pocket. “Dialing.”
They waited, none of them moving. Byron nodded from Roxie to the tavern doors. She shook her head. A stubborn move. Or maybe she just couldn’t get her legs to move.
This was her mess. She’d see Bertie off, if for cognitive reassurance alone.
Not that he said so much as boo to her when, a half hour later, the transportation service arrived. On the way to the van he trampled over the handbag she had dropped when he’d started taking liberties with her. Byron went so far as to open the door for Bertie.
After Bertie climbed inside, Byron leaned in to deliver one last ultimatum. “If I get wind of you around here again, we’ll assume you’ve forfeited the first option and there won’t be a cop in town who’s not on the lookout for your license plate and VIN number.”
Bertie muttered something about good ol’ boys. Byron rolled the taxi door into place and gave the window a few raps. It wasn’t until dust rose in the van’s taillights that Byron strolled to where the handbag lay and picked it up. It was beaded and yellow. In his hands, it looked as delicate as one of those Imperial Russian Fabergé eggs they kept behind glass in the Winter Palace. She focused on it, swallowing, as he dusted it off. Her throat was sore, strained by tension. She expelled a breath, reaching for clarity. “Was the choke hold really necessary?” she asked.
He turned to her. The streetlight fell over him like a halo. His long, rich black hair was smoothed back from his face. It fell to the nape of his neck. It should be illegal to be so effortlessly handsome. In profile, his long face was a half-moon thanks to his large chin. He had an ever-present five-o’clock shadow. His proud aquiline nose was a touch overlong but it spoke of his Mediterranean heritage and suited him well.
At six-five, his broad frame saved him from bei
ng lanky despite his trim physique. His shoulders filled his button-up shirt.
It had been ten and a half months since she’d wept on him—and that long precisely since she abandoned any long-held notions of fairy-tale knights, whether they appeared in shining armor or tailored Brooks Brothers.
There was no chance she was going to start believing again. No matter how well he wore that Brooks Brothers.
He scanned her closely. She wished she was steadier. She was mussed—her dress, her hair... The glassy edge of fear was too close to the surface. She raised her chin again, locking her arms over her chest as he looked at her. Really looked at her.
He pushed the air through his nostrils and gave her a short nod. “Yes,” he decided before returning to her, handing her the clutch.
“Thank you.” She opened the handbag, letting her hair fall across her cheek, shielding his view. She riffled through the contents. Everything was there, in place. As she checked that her smartphone was safe in the hidden pocket in the lining of the bag, her hand tweaked. Damn it, that hurt.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she said, clipped. She stopped, hearing the bite. She mirrored him, breathing deep, trying to unlock the tension. She closed her eyes and shook her head when it didn’t work nearly as well as it had for him. “Really. I am.”
“Yeah,” he muttered. She could feel his eyes on her face, perusing. His hand lifted, as if he wanted to touch her. “Look,” he said, lowering his head toward hers instead, “it’s not your fault.”
She felt something touch the corners of her lips. Something light. Humor? Fighting ghosts of aftershock and hysteria, she couldn’t sort one emotion from another. “I know. I know that. It’s just...a mess.”
“The guy’s a tool.”
“He also happens to be the son of one of the wealthiest hoteliers from here to Fort Lauderdale,” Roxie told him. “I’d be surprised if you didn’t hear from his daddy’s high-powered litigators by the end of the week.”
Wooing the Wedding Planner Page 3
