“You’re trolling your own party for a date? Didn’t you invite all these people?” Mira sounded shocked. Sam relaxed a bit. Gib’s bed-hopping ways might just be enough of a repellant to keep him from worrying.
Gib frowned. “Goodness, no. Then I wouldn’t have any fresh water in which to fish. This is Ivy and Ben’s party—I just threw it together for them.”
“Such a sweet gesture. I can’t believe you’re throwing them a formal party to watch the premier episode of Planning for Love.”
“The first time they were on television—Wild Wedding Smackdown, did you catch it?”
“No.”
“Ghastly show. The only good thing about that night was Ivy throwing a pajama party. But this is the start of an entire series based around our friend. How could I not up the lavish stakes accordingly?”
Gib might run through women faster than water vaporized on a cold January night, but he was true blue to his friends. Sam gave him the double half hug, half back slap. “You did pull out all the stops, buddy. Job well done.”
“Oh, I’m not completely selfless. It’s not as if I’m walking away empty-handed. There will be a party favor at the end of the night. About this big.” He traced the shape of a woman’s profile in the air. Well, if that woman were Jessica Rabbit. “Merely a question of deciding which one. I haven’t yet acquainted myself with all of Ivy’s lovely friends. Although I did already remove a few women from the running. Sam, if you’d been on time, you could’ve weighed in on the first round of cuts.”
“You’re really judging Ivy’s friends? To see who goes home with you tonight?” Mira unsuccessfully tried to stifle a giggle. “That’s horrible, Gib—but you’re so up front about it, I can’t help but laugh. Which makes me horrible, too.”
On behalf of his entire gender, Sam had to step up and defend his friend. “I hear Gib shows his women a good time. And there isn’t a single woman in Chicago who hasn’t heard of him. Last fall, he won a write-in poll in the CityPaper as one of their top ten bachelors. Anyone who gets involved with him knows the score.”
“Thank you.” Gib dipped his head. “For that staunch defense, I’ll let you be the tiebreaker tonight—if it comes to that.”
He’d weighed in many times on Gib’s flavor of the day. It felt, well, dirtier doing it with Mira by his side. Still, Sam couldn’t leave Gib hanging. “Always happy to help a friend in need.”
“You both require drinks immediately. The viewing will start in just half an hour.” Another stern glare with an accompanying watch tap.
Sam took the cue for his apology. “Sorry we’re late.”
“I suppose you’re going to hand me some trumped-up excuse about a cake emergency, or a cookie catastrophe.”
“Shut it,” he warned. “Pastry can be a high-tension business. But tonight I had to drop my mother off at bingo. She’s trolling all the denominations this week to find the best game—then she’ll bring in her friends. The Catholics put on a good show last night, but she’s got high hopes the Lutherans may give them a run for their money.”
“Your mother, again?” Gib tsked and shot his cuffs. “I understand when you drop everything to drive her to the doctor. But bingo is not an important enough event to make you late. Not to Ivy and Ben’s big premiere.”
Didn’t matter if Gib thought bingo was stupid. Hell, it didn’t matter that Sam agreed with him. Whatever made Kathleen Lyons happy and kept her safe zoomed straight to the top of his to-do list. She’d tried to wave him off, insist a friend could take her. Sam wouldn’t hear of it. Driving her places gave him the chance to interact with his mother outside the bakery. It was a way for him to check that she was still firing on all four cylinders. That the professional cheerfulness she wore all day wasn’t just a mask that dropped away to reveal another episode of soul-crushing depression. Twenty minutes in the car listening to her happy chatter assured him—for at least a few days—that happy really was her new normal. But he couldn’t let her or his friends know that. So he simply said, “It’s important to her.”
Silence hung, as heavy in the air as a crappy gluten-free cake sat in a stomach. A waiter paused, hovering on the edge of the circle with a tray full of God knows what. Mira seized the chance to change the topic. “Is this the signature cocktail for the evening? I know Ivy adores a themed cocktail.”
“Right you are. Do try one.” Gib took two off the tray, but Sam held up a restraining hand. Any drink that pink would probably corrode the enamel off his teeth with one sugary sip.
“What the hell is that?”
“A Love martini—coconut rum, peach schnapps and cranberry juice.”
Mira took a sip. “Delicious.” She looked at the abject horror on Sam’s face and laughed. “A tad on the sweet side, possibly, for the men.”
“Possibly? Like you could possibly get a nice tan on the surface of the sun?” Sam spluttered.
Gib clapped him on the arm. “Don’t panic—we’ve got a fully stocked bar, too. Made sure to load up on your favorite Goose Island beers.”
Relief slowly filled him, like foam rising on a freshly built Guinness. “You’re a good man. And a great host.”
“Just do me a favor and say hello to Ivy and Ben on your way to the bar. Our girl was in a bit of a panic about this premiere. I think she downed a few cocktails before arriving, and quite a few more since. Her chances of being vertical by the time it begins are slim, at best.”
“I’ll take her some water,” Mira promised. A worry line formed between her eyebrows. “Ivy doesn’t have much of a tolerance. In grad school, after half a bottle of wine she’d dance down the hallway in just her underwear. And I don’t just mean our dorm—I mean any hallway—bar, restaurant, football stadium. Her chances of being conscious for much longer are less than slim, if she’s had as much as you say.”
Sam wanted to lend a hand, too. Gib had pulled everyone together for this party, getting their industry friends to donate all their services, from the band to florists to their poker buddy Brian, making his limo fleet available to all the guests. He couldn’t imagine how many phone calls, wheedling and time it must’ve taken. Of course, it was a typically perfect Cavendish event. Sam couldn’t offer much at this point. “We’ll save you a front row seat, too.”
“Much appreciated, mate.” Gib straight-arrowed for the blonde at the bar.
Mira tugged at his arm. “We’d really better go check on Ivy. She doesn’t go on a tear like this often. Ben’s only known her for six months. He probably doesn’t realize she can go from life of the party to body on the floor in the blink of an eye.”
This was sounding less like a party and more like babysitting every second. Still, if he got to stare at Mira in that dress that left nothing to the imagination, Sam would bring water and coffee to Ivy all night long. He led Mira past the DJ’s table to the burst of pink he knew had to be Ivy. Who else would wear a big pink flower tucked into a complicated-looking up-do? And God, he hated that enough of his friends worked in the wedding industry that he even knew the word up-do.
Ivy did look like a star tonight, in a cotton-candy-pink satin corset that smushed her breasts together and up into a shelf of creamy perfection. Sam tore his eyes away, not wanting to ogle one of his closest friends. Hell, not wanting to ogle anyone with Mira next to him. Below a wide black sash, her taffeta skirt poofed just below her knees, like a dress from the fifties. Classy and beautiful, her dress matched her personality. Sam walked right past her to Ben, and gave him the double shoulder pat that served as the male version of a hug.
“I will never figure out how someone like you managed to snare this beautiful woman.” Ben shook his head and laughed.
“I could say the same to you. We must’ve been really pathetic in a former life to deserve these gorgeous ladies. Maybe we were salamanders?”
“Oh, that explains why you’ve got such great tongue actio
n.” Ivy leered at her fiancé then stood on tiptoe to nibble along his jaw.
Wow. That answered the question of whether or not Ivy was plastered. Sam shot a look at Mira, who flagged down the nearest waiter. She took a few steps away to murmur in his ear. Hopefully she’d cut off the steady stream of Love martinis to the guests of honor. When she kept whispering, Sam assumed she’d also ordered a vat of coffee for her friend.
He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Ivy, you look like a million dollars.”
“Not me. That would be Mira. Mira the millionaire, or Mira the married,” she said in a singsong voice. “Pick one, because she sure can’t!”
What came after wasted? Mira told him Ivy never divulged the secret about her family’s wealth. And there were too many people in the vicinity to hear her blurt it out for Sam’s comfort. He had to stop her before she said anything else she’d regret in the morning. “I think you’ve a couple too many drinks. Mira’s not a millionaire. Unless you’re offering to give her a raise, of course. Now that you’re about to be a huge television star.”
Ivy shook her finger in his face. “I don’t need to give her a raise. If she wants millions of dollars, all she needs is her marriage.”
“Mira’s not married.” Sam held out his hands to Ben, asking for help. The big idiot was laughing silently, one arm around his stomach. Guess he’d never seen his wife-to-be this shitfaced.
Her skirt rustled as she twisted side to side, a knowing smile on her face. “She might be soon. You’d better kiss her quick, before her parents marry her off and you miss your chance.” Ivy planted another huge, wet kiss near the vicinity of Ben’s mouth, for emphasis.
To keep his jaw from falling open, Sam bit the inside of his cheek. It couldn’t be true. She wouldn’t keep a marriage in the works a secret. Mira wouldn’t let him make a fool of himself like that, would she? But why would Ivy lie? Sloshed to the gills on those stupid sugary cocktails, could she?
Mira all but shoved a steaming china cup at Ivy. “Drink this.” She handed a second, reserve cup to Ben. “Now go sit down. Your show’s about to start. We don’t need you to provide a floor show on top of the premiere. There’s only so much excitement we can handle in one night.”
Ben, finally cluing in to just how far gone Ivy was, put an arm behind her knees and picked her up. “Come on, sweetheart. This will all be over soon. Then you can go back to ordering everyone else’s lives.”
Wishing fervently for that beer Gib mentioned, Sam stood, glued to the spot. How much of Ivy’s loose-lipped speech had Mira heard? And could she explain any of it? “Got anything to say?”
Mira opened her mouth, obviously thought better of it, then took his hand and led him to the far corner of the room. The rest of the crowd were clustered by the bar and the swinging doors where the appetizers appeared. Aside from another big pink flower display, they were alone. And that suited Sam just fine. Before Mira could respond, he held up his hand, palm out, to stop her.
“Do you remember two days ago, when I invited you to this party?”
“You mean my epic meltdown in the park? Of course I remember.”
These questions were a formality. Sam knew deep in his sinking heart what she’d say. “So you remember us talking about not keeping secrets from each other anymore. Putting it all out there.”
She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “Yes.”
“I know we didn’t sign a blood oath, but didn’t you agree? No more secrets?”
“Yes.”
That one syllable, delivered in a near whisper, unlocked the floodgates on his anger and confusion. “Then do you mind explaining why Ivy, who is clearly incapable of lying right now, just told me that your parents are marrying you off? Oh, and while you’re at it, why don’t you let me know if you were going to clue me in on this before or after I took you to bed?”
“Sam, I’m sorry.” Mira put a hand on his upper arm, but he twisted away. Did she think a soothing pat would smooth this over?
“Sorry for what? For leading me on? For wasting my time? For lying to me?” He raked his hand through his hair. Never would he have pegged Mira as a game player.
“I didn’t lie to you.”
No way would he let her split hairs over the wording. What struck him was that she didn’t immediately say that Ivy had lied. Really, wasn’t that the bottom line? “You know, if all you wanted all along was a quick fuck, why’d you bother with the whole tears and heartfelt talks routine?” Sam deliberately grabbed her ass to drag her closer, digging his fingers into the tight curve. “I would’ve serviced you that first day in the store. Hell, this place is full of bedrooms. Want to go upstairs and scratch that itch right now?”
“Don’t be cruel.” She made no move to shift out of his embrace, though.
Sam pulled her flush against the rock-hard cock that responded to her nearness, no matter how pissed he might be. God, she slid onto him like icing on a hot cake. “Weren’t you? Or don’t you think that men have feelings, too?”
Bracing both her palms against his chest, Mira arched back to meet his eyes. “I didn’t intentionally keep any secrets. This is all so new, and I’m used to keeping everything under wraps. I wanted a fresh, open start with you. But were we really supposed to air all our dirty laundry at once? Wouldn’t that have sent you screaming into the street? I thought as things came up, we’d talk. Organically.”
Turning back his anger would be about as easy as halting a lava flow. That’s pretty much how the burning in his throat felt. Why should he listen to her excuses, when she still didn’t deny the one simple fact at the center of this fight? But she also hadn’t turned tail and run away. Mira met his anger head-on, bravely. It was enough to make him listen.
Sam glanced around the room. So far, nobody seemed to notice their heated exchange. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin Ivy’s party. “How can you rationalize away Ivy’s claim? Are you, or are you not on the ropes for a marriage?”
Her gaze skittered sideways. “Yes and no. Maybe.”
“Mira, I swear to God, I can only take so much. Tell me the truth, right now.”
A big sigh, then another. She squeezed her eyes shut, then sighed once more before looking at him. “The truth is I didn’t intend to hurt you, or mislead you. Or make you so mad. Sorry doesn’t begin to cover how I feel.” A faint blush pinked her cheeks to match the same color he remembered on her nipples. Guess his anger must’ve dialed back a few notches if he could think about sex. “Sam, you’re really terrific. I don’t want to screw up what we’ve started.”
Good to hear, but hard to piece together with Ivy’s comments. “Really? How are you going to explain me to your husband-to-be?”
“Will you calm down for two minutes and let me explain?”
“This better be good,” he warned. But Sam let her go, and led her to the bench covered in two-tone gray stripes against the wall. At least she was making an effort. He’d hear her out. And then probably station himself right by the beer for the rest of the night. Maybe wake up tomorrow with a hangover to match the guest of honor’s. The music switched from Sinatra to Tony Bennett. A few couples began to dance in the wide-open space in front of the giant plasma screen.
“You know my family’s wealthy.”
“Yeah.” Why revisit what he already knew? Besides, Sam thought the Parrish moneybags were permanently off the conversational menu.
“They had a problem with fortune hunters a while back. A long while back, actually. Pre-Civil War. My ancestors got sick of people trying to marry in and gain control of the money, or worse, fritter it away. So a very specific clause got added to the family trust to prevent us from being taken advantage of every again.”
This sounded ominous. And not at all like something that would suit the highly independent Mira. “Lay it on me.”
“The rule is that each fami
ly member must either make their first million—proving that they can continue to contribute to the growth of the coffers—or marry appropriately.”
Sam couldn’t imagine the pressure of attaining the millionaire label, just to keep your family off your back. He ran what they’d always considered to be a successful family business, and never come close to achieving that status. Marrying some random schmuck didn’t strike him as a great prize, either. “Appropriately meaning...”
“Meaning someone the parents or grandparents chose. An upstanding person who would most likely enhance the family fortune, but definitely be an asset in terms of connections or pedigree or sometimes, just stunning good looks. My great-great-grandma Lillian was quite the looker. She perked up the genetic mix.” She looked down at her fisted hands. “But there’s a catch.”
“Of course.” Like the clause didn’t suck enough already.
“The marriage or the million has to happen by the thirtieth birthday, or you’re completely cut off from the family trust. Forever.”
Sam leaned back, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs. Yeah, it was a lot to take in, and too much to digest in a single gulp. It made sense that Mira hadn’t blurted it all out in the park. Small doses kept a guy from banging his head against a wall. As he well knew, family had a way of complicating things. The anger drained out of him, leaving behind a well of calm frustration. “And let me take a wild guess. Your birthday is right around the corner?”
“Not quite.” One side of her mouth lifted into something about ten shades below a smile. “I’ve got almost a year left.”
Unless she started buying lottery tickets by the truckload, her chances looked about as good as those of the Cubs winning the World Series anytime this century. “How close are you to packing that first million into the bank?”
Mira crinkled her nose. “Not very.”
“Well, that sucks.” Sam scooched closer, needing to touch her. He laced his fingers with hers and stared down at their entwined hands. “You want to know why I lost my cool at the thought of you marrying someone else? Because I happen to be falling pretty damn hard for you. And there’s no way your family would look at my pedigree and call it appropriate. My great-grandfather? A soybean farmer. My grandfather? An auto mechanic.”
A Fine Romance Page 17
