“That crack you just made to the press.” She moved closer to Jordan. Rudolph and Blaze, as if Velcroed to her sides, moved with her.
“Who are your friends?” Jordan asked. “Fletcher’s watchdogs?”
A low, menacing growl issued from the thick, muscled column of Blaze’s throat. Rudolph, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses, cracked his neck, and it sounded like a gunshot.
“Easy boys,” Jordan said, his smile wavering a tiny bit.
“Why are you even here now?” Miranda asked Jordan. “It’s Friday. The wedding rehearsal isn’t until tomorrow night.”
“Alec told me that he and Callie and you were checking in a day early, so I figured I would, too. Maybe the four of us can have dinner tonight.”
Rudolph, the more judgmental of Miranda’s bodyguards, snorted.
“Okay, maybe the six of us can have dinner tonight,” Jordan amended.
“You just told those reporters that you and I would be walking the aisle tomorrow,” Miranda said. “You deliberately mislead—”
“I told the truth,” Jordan cut in. “We will be walking down the aisle tomorrow. Just not the way I would have hoped.”
Miranda, her lips pursed in anger, clutched her room key in her hand as she turned and made her way to the elevators. She used the end of her crutch to press the up button. Ever the professionals, Blaze and Rudolph checked the car before allowing Miranda to enter it. Miranda was safely inside the elevator waiting for the doors to close when she saw another man step up to the front desk. She used her crutch to bar the doors from closing when she realized who he was.
Even from behind she recognized his ramrod-straight posture and wide shoulders. His hair looked a little grayer than when she’d last seen him at Christmas. She even recognized his suitcase. It was the Clava garment bag that she had given him almost a decade ago, for his birthday. The sophisticated yet practical black leather bag had been the perfect gift for the businessman who travels.
She thought of calling out to him, but she couldn’t push the word “Daddy” past her lips. She hadn’t even spoken to him since the engagement dinner. Since he’d moved out of the house in Silver Spring, her mother had been the one reporting his comings and goings. Miranda lowered her crutch and let the doors close. Now wasn’t the time to repair the damage between her and her father. And the lobby of the Plaza certainly wasn’t the place.
* * *
The next morning, Miranda was having a late breakfast alone in the bridal suite she was sharing with her mother and Calista when her cell phone rang. The phone had come with Rudolph and Blaze, so she knew they were calling from right outside the door.
“Yes?” she answered.
“There’s a man here,” Rudolph said tonelessly. “About sixty—”
“Fifty-nine, thank you very much,” Miranda heard faintly in the background.
“Greenish-brown eyes, graying Afro, and he’s tall. About six feet,” Rudolph continued. “He says he’s your father.”
Miranda disconnected the call as she went to the door and opened it. Her father stood there in the Saturday morning costume she knew well: jeans, a plain button-down, a navy cardigan and athletic shoes. He was clean-shaven and bright-eyed. His hair was shorter than she remembered, and the style gave him a youthfulness that contrasted with the gray of his hair. Even in his understated Saturday clothes, he was painfully handsome.
“Hi, Andy,” he greeted.
“Come in.” Miranda pulled the door wide to accommodate him. He closed it behind him and followed her to the living room area. The remnants of Miranda’s French toast and fresh berries were spread out on the low coffee table before the sofa. Clayton waited for his daughter to sit before he joined her. Miranda picked up the remote and turned on the television.
“Mom and Calista are out shopping with Bernie on Newbury Street,” she said. “Callie’s looking for favors for her bridal party. She wants cinnamon chocolate truffles to match her cake.”
“Why didn’t you go with them?” Clayton asked.
“Too much hassle. My crutches kill my armpits and the Herald-Star dogs me everywhere I go. I need a day off from all the commotion.”
“Do you mind if I wait here for your mom and your sister?”
Miranda shook her head. She was grateful for his company and, until now, she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed him. She flipped through the stations until she came to the Red Sox game that was just starting. As they had on so many Saturdays throughout her childhood, Miranda and her father lounged on the sofa and watched a baseball game.
“Pitcher’s young,” Clayton said.
“He was recruited right out of high school. He could give the Sox trouble this afternoon.”
“Your mother told me that you quit the paper last week.”
“She told me that you bought a condo near D.C.”
“It’s nice,” Clayton said. “There’s an on-site laundry service, a pool, a gym. You should come down and see the place.”
Miranda toyed with a loose thread dangling from the edge of her denim cutoffs. This was the sort of conversation she never would have imagined herself having with her own father. He was inviting her to his new condo and into a life apart from her mother. “Do you have a roommate?” she asked.
He prefaced his answer with a heavy sigh. “I’m not seeing anyone these days. Anywhere.”
They watched the Red Sox first baseman labor along the base path as he bolted from third to home. “This guy gained twenty pounds in the offseason,” Miranda said. “He’s got to lose it. He did it, supposedly, for more power at bat, but it’s slowing him down.”
“I’m sorry I lost my temper the last time we saw each other,” Clayton said. “And I’m sorry about all the rest of it. I was a selfish bastard, Slugger.”
“It’s…okay, Dad. It’s over. I’m glad that you and Mom are still friends.”
“Your mother is the best friend I’ve ever had. She’s the best lover I’ve ever had. And, like a fool, I tossed it all away.”
Miranda totally empathized with her father’s loss. Lucas had been a wonderful friend and lover. He was one of the best people she had ever known. And she had thrown him away. “I’m a fool, too, Dad. I know where it comes from now.”
“Do you? Your mother and your sister have told me all about what’s gone on between you and Lucas. What you did isn’t about him or me. It’s about you, Slugger. You think you’re not enough for him. It’s always been that way with you.”
Miranda crossed her arms. Her father had plainly stated the one thing she herself had only danced around. Confronted with it, she had no defense for it. “I know what I am, Dad. I’m a flat-chested, sports-loving tomboy. If mom wasn’t enough for you, how could I possibly be enough for Lucas Fletcher?”
“You and I might be fools, but Lucas Fletcher doesn’t strike me as one. The man wouldn’t have hired a pair of gladiators to protect you if he didn’t love and care about you.”
“He loves and cares about our baby.” Miranda knew she was being unfair. “The gladiators are for her. Or him.”
Clayton bolted upright, staring at Miranda’s midsection. “You’re pregnant? He got you pregnant?”
“Don’t blame Lucas. I was there, too, Dad. And I haven’t told Mom and Calista yet, so try not to bug out.”
Clayton sat quietly, color flaring in his face then fading away as he struggled to accept his oldest daughter’s bombshell. “Does Lucas know that you’re carrying my grandchild?”
“Yes.”
“Did he propose to you before or after he knew about the baby?”
“He proposed before either of us knew.”
“He wants you, Miranda,” Clayton said as if that fact gave him the fatherly solace he required. “Give him a chance. You and my grandchild deserve that.”
“I can’t risk it, Dad. You, of all people, should know that.”
Mr. Penney took his daughter’s hand and gave it a firm squeeze before kissing it. “Your mother left me, and
I’ve never seen her happier. You broke up with Lucas, and you’re miserable. If you’re so sure you’re doing the right thing, then why are you so unhappy? Why do I see such pain in your eyes?”
Miranda tried to work out a denial, but her brain wouldn’t feed the lie to her mouth. Tension seeped from her as she forced herself to face the truth of her father’s argument. “I made a mistake,” she said simply.
She had never been happier to be wrong, but accepting her mistake opened a whole new set of problems. Could she get Lucas back? Would he even want her after all she had put him through? He was determined to be a proper father, but was he still interested in being her husband?
The easiest way to find out would be to pick up the phone and call him. It could also be the worst thing for her to do, particularly on the eve of Calista’s wedding. How could she stand at the altar tomorrow, watching another couple join their lives, if Lucas were to shut her out of his? And likewise, how could she stand at the altar instead of running to find Lucas, if he wanted her back?
She could wait until after the wedding to call him. It would give her time to think of something to say to him, the right thing to say. And then, for better or worse, she would swallow her fears and take a leap of faith in Lucas. And myself, she thought.
Miranda went into her father’s embrace as easily as she had as a youngster, long before she knew the truth about him. As he held her and comforted her, she admitted that despite what kind of man and husband Clayton Penney had been, he had always been a good father.
* * *
Lucas stabbed the redial button on his phone as he paced the wide space of the solar at Castle Conwy. The computer screen at his oak desk cast the colorful image of page five of the Herald-Star Online into the muted light of the room. The page featured a photo of Jordan Duquette taken in the lobby of the Boston Park Plaza Hotel. Jordan’s too-handsome, grinning face had been enough to inspire Lucas to put a fist through the monitor, but it was Jordan’s quote that had made tiny blood vessels behind Lucas’s eyes pop.
“Answer, Miranda!” Lucas demanded between gritted teeth. The phone rang twice more before an automated answering system picked up. Lucas, in a rare burst of uncontrollable temper, hurled the tiny cell phone. No match for the centuries-old stone, the high-tech phone exploded into glittering bits of microchips and plastic.
Lucas growled his frustration. He had called Miranda’s home number three times before trying her at the Park Plaza. As he’d expected, the hotel operator had claimed to have no such guest registered, so he’d tried her once more at home. Morgan had tracked down the phone numbers for Calista, Mr. and Mrs. Penney and Alec Henderson, but none of them were at their residences. Lucas was struggling to contain his annoyance and resentment—and jealousy—to work up enough gall to call Jordan Duquette when another option came to mind. He sat at his desk, put his table phone on speaker and dialed.
“What area code is 44?” Bernie greeted upon answering his phone.
“It’s the international calling code for Wales,” Lucas impatiently explained.
“Sir Lucas!” Bernie’s voice hid none of his excitement. “So good to hear from you.”
Lucas leaned one elbow on his desk and propped his other hand on his thigh. “Is she marrying that idiot?”
“I’m sorry,” Bernie said. “I’m accustomed to beginning a conversation at the beginning.”
“I was reading Saturday’s Herald-Star online and I saw a story about Jordan Duquette,” Lucas said. “He claims that he and Miranda are to ‘walk down the aisle together’ tomorrow at six. Is this another of your paper’s falsehoods?”
Bernie’s long silence seemed to lengthen the distance between Conwy and Boston.
Dread gripped Lucas’s heart. Feast had told him that pregnant women were capable of almost anything under the influence of their fluctuating hormones, but never had Lucas considered the possibility that Miranda would go utterly insane. “Mr. Reilly, I would appreciate an answer.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Bernie faltered. “I would have thought that Miranda would have explained what was going on. I’d like to tell you the truth, but on the other hand, a lie would make this situation much easier for everyone involved.”
“Mr. Reilly!” Lucas shouted.
“It’s true!” Bernie blurted. “Tomorrow at six, at the Park Plaza Castle in Boston, Miranda and Jordan will stand before God and family…and…well, you can fill in the rest.”
The pops behind Lucas’s eye became louder and stronger. “Miranda can’t be marrying Duquette. He’s the very thing she’s convinced herself that I am!”
“Well, she knows what she’s getting with Jordan.” Bernie seemed to be enjoying his role as beacon of bad news. “She’s been such an emotional wreck these last weeks. I said to her myself, I said, ‘Miranda, don’t go making any hasty decisions that you’ll regret,’ but you know how headstrong and stubborn she is. With Jordan constantly pressuring her and the hormones making her crazy, I guess she just gave in. Pity. I tried to stop her from making the second biggest mistake of her life…the first, of course, being her decision to let you go. I suppose she and Jordan make sense in a wholly nonsensical way. You know what they say…uh, women marry men like their fathers.”
“Over my bloody dead carcass!” Lucas spat. “Thank you, Mr. Reilly.” He hung up the phone and pressed a different button. “Morgan,” he directed into the intercom, “call the airport and tell them that I wish to have the plane readied to fly to Boston. I’ll be leaving immediately.”
He gave Jordan’s photo one last look of disgust as he sped past the computer and out of the solar, slowing only when he reached the garage, the stone building housing his collection of motor vehicles. Cars had been his indulgence in his youth, and the colorful array of driving machines lined the stone floor, each snuggled in its own assigned spot. Until he had turned his affections to his pups, creatures he loved that could love him right back, his cars had been his companions. He felt a twitch of guilt as he stared at them after not having driven them in so long, but it quickly passed. He glanced at each of them, trying to decide which would best deliver him to the airstrip.
The silver Lamborghini Murciélago could go from 0 to 60 mph in 3.5 seconds and had a top speed of 205 mph. The cherry red Porsche and the hunter green Aston Martin Vanquish would do just as well for speed, too. The sleek black Italian bike at the end of the first row made his mind up for him. Within eight seconds of straddling the Ducati 999R, and with nothing but the clothes on his back, Lucas was a black blur hugging the winding roads of Northern Wales as he sped closer to Miranda.
Chapter 13
“I’m supposed to be the best-looking woman in the world tonight,” Calista said after Miranda emerged from her bedroom. The hotel had delivered a full-length, tri-fold mirror to the bridal suite, and Miranda stood in the center of it, scared to look at her reflection. “You look amazing, Andy,” Calista said. “That dress looks better now than it did at your last fitting.”
“Thanks for saying that, Callie,” Miranda said, “but I’ve never seen you look more beautiful.” Calista, the full skirt of her ivory silk taffeta wedding gown spread carefully around her to avoid wrinkles, sat on the velvet-covered stool at the vanity table. Aña Penney fastened a string of heirloom pearls, Calista’s something borrowed, around her daughter’s neck. The princess-seamed bodice of Calista’s dress had a low-cut, straight neckline, and the pearls gave the dress the perfect finishing touch. Aña spent a moment more hovering over Calista before she turned toward Miranda.
Aña wore a pale peach suit dress that complemented her dark eyes and virtually unlined skin. Her black hair was swept into a snazzy chignon, and Aña had refused to let a stylist color the scant streaks of silver.
Miranda sighed as she stared at her sister and her mother. It hadn’t been easy growing up in the same house with two of the most beautiful women in Silver Spring, but now, it wasn’t envy that colored her perception of them. It was love, pride and gratitude
for what a wonderful family she had. She turned away from them before the tears building behind her eyes found their way out.
Miranda finally caught her reflection and was startled by what she saw. The pregnancy that she had worried the dress would reveal actually complemented the garment. Her fuller breasts nicely filled the Empire bodice, balancing the slender lengths of her crinkled French silk chiffon sleeves. Layers of sheer silk fell to her ankles, beautifully camouflaging the swell of her growing abdomen as well as her cast. The pale apricot silk heightened the rosy undertones of her complexion, giving her a natural, healthy glow that cosmetics couldn’t duplicate. At Calista’s insistence, she wore a swipe of mascara and a bit of neutral lip gloss for the photos to come later.
Her hair had been done by Marc Antonio, Boston’s most sought-after stylist and one of Bernie’s close friends. Marc Antonio had trimmed Miranda’s “dead ends” before setting her hair with large plastic rollers. He’d used a blow dryer on a cool setting to give her loose, curling waves with maximum volume and shine. He had then styled her hair similarly to Calista’s, stacking the curls elegantly at the crown and back of Miranda’s head, leaving a few spiraling tendrils to caress her neck and shoulders. A pair of antique drop pearl and topaz earrings, Calista’s gift to her maid of honor, completed Miranda’s outfit.
Bernie joined Miranda in the mirror. He lightly gripped her shoulders as he set a delicate kiss on each of her cheeks. “You look like royalty.”
“Miranda, I can’t remember ever seeing you all dressed up.” Aña clasped her hands under her chin. “Look at you!” She held out a hand, drawing Miranda to her. She put an arm around each of her daughters. “My precious babies,” she nearly wept with happiness.
“Funny you should use that word, Mrs. Penney,” Bernie said. He looked at his wrist, which bore no watch. “Goodness, look at the time. I’m late for my very important ushering duties.”
“What word?” Aña wondered aloud.
Crush Page 28
