Chapter Twenty
The scene Chey burst in on was every bit as scandalous as she imagined. All the regular furniture had been removed; in its place, black silk on the walls, a black armless chair centered in the middle of a staging area complete with glossy black floor, a gold stripper pole and even a glittery disco ball hanging from the ceiling.
Sander lounged on the chair like the King he was, legs sprawled, a white button down open too far at the throat. Jeans led to his favorite pair of palomino boots. Hair loose around his head, Sander might have been the stripper instead of the strippee for how sexy he looked. The 'Nurse' stood in front of him, one red stiletto parked on his chair next to his thigh, fingers on the buttons of her too-tight blouse.
Mattias, Gunnar, Allar, Hendrick and a slew of other men stood behind Sander's chair, grinning madly, some with money in their hands. The two other strippers danced behind the 'Nurse', tantalizing and teasing while they waited their turn with the King.
Chey absorbed all the details in the blink of an eye. Assaulted by too many emotions to count, she jammed her hands onto her hips as the strip tease came to a sudden end. Heads and gazes swiveled her way.
Sander glanced over, teeth flashing white past his smile.
Prepared to read him—read them all—the riot act, she said, “Sander Darrion--” but stopped when she realized people were doubling over, holding their stomachs, laughing their backsides off.
Behind her, Wynn, Krislin and Esta held onto each other, lost in gales of wild humor.
Chey looked from the girls, to the men, to the strippers and back to Sander. His shoulders trembled with the same laughter that had infected everyone else.
Finally, after another moment of confusion, the situation became clear.
“All right, which one of you planned this? Huh? Which one? Because you are in so much trouble. You think this is funny?” Chey's lips twitched with laughter when the gales turned into guffaws.
“You should have seen your face!” someone said.
“Priceless,” Mattias added.
“Seriously glad someone was taking pictures,” Gunnar said.
“I thought we were going to need a crash cart for a little while there!” Wynn hooted. It started another round of laughter.
Sander got up out of the chair now that the 'stripper' had moved and was pulling on a robe. The Belly Dancer and Maid did the same. He crossed the room, one hand on his stomach as if he'd laughed so hard it hurt.
Chey snorted at the lot of them. “Were you all in on it?”
“Blame Wynn,” Sander said. “She started the ball rolling.”
Chey pinned her best friend with such a look. One that promised retribution.
Wiping tears from the corner of her eyes, Wynn said, “It was worth whatever return torture she's already planning.”
“Oh, you just wait, Wynnie,” Chey said, using an old nickname that never failed to make Wynn cringe.
“Chey!” Wynn protested.
Sander reached Chey and bent down to pluck a kiss from her mouth. “But it was Wynn, Krislin and Esta who planned what comes next.”
“Next?” Chey said after returning Sander's kiss. She pinched his ribs for good measure.
“Yes, next. This way,” Sander said, taking her hand. He led her from the black draped room into the hallway with everyone else falling in behind them. Halfway down, he guided her through two open french doors into a large sunroom with glass walls that overlapped up to the ceiling, allowing the waning sunlight to cast its rays over the interior.
Unlike the gloomy parlor, everything here was bright and cheery. Tables set to the side of white divans and couches spilled over with gaily wrapped gifts, flowers of the sort she'd chosen for their ceremony sat in tall vases, and a three tiered cake in the theme of wedding gifts waited to be cut and eaten. A banner reading Congratulations Sander and Chey! streaked from one wall to another.
It was so pretty, so whimsical, that Chey choked up. She caught a laughing sob behind her hand while Sander leaned in to kiss her on the cheek.
“Surprise,” he whispered.
Hanna along with Irma and several other women who worked close with Chey stood behind the sofas, smiling and clapping. Wynn hugged Chey tight from the other side and before Chey knew it, she'd been guided to sit in a loveseat next to Sander.
As it turned out, the party was one of the more fun parties Chey had ever attended. The men fanned out, lounging around to tease Sander and his bride-to-be while the present opening got under way. They received all manner of usual wedding gifts, from personalized frames to matching robes with their names, to risque underwear that was so scandalous, the jokes didn't stop for an hour. They had cake and sparkling seltzer, posed for pictures, and sang their hearts out on their new karaoke machine.
Much later that night, showered and changed into comfortable pajamas, Chey propped her head on her hand, elbow digging into her pillow, and regarded Sander with lazy affection. He'd chosen to go bare chested to bed, wearing only a pair of boxer briefs that hugged his thighs and hips. Tonight was her last night to sleep in the same bed before their ceremony, and Chey was feeling nostalgic.
One arm cocked behind his head, Sander glanced sideways, a blonde brow arching in question. “What?”
“It just seems strange. Tomorrow night is the rehearsal, and then the wedding the day after. This is the last time we'll sleep together as single people and in two days, I'll lose the last name I was born with. Weeks of planning are about to culminate in a ceremony that will change our lives forever.”
He turned onto his side, matching her posture, holding her eyes. “You ready?”
“Yes. More than ready. I guess it's hitting me now that I won't be sleeping with you tomorrow night. My mind just keeps rolling through what changes are coming in the next forty-eight hours.” Chey reached a hand out to touch the line of his brow. She traced it to the end, and skimmed an arch to his cheek.
“We could always buck tradition and spend the night together anyway.” His eyes gleamed with familiar devilry.
“No way. That's bad luck or something. Then I'd be fretting we'd jinx our life together.” She smiled, amused.
“You might start fidgeting and fixing things, like you used to do when I first met you.”
“I've been so distracted and busy that I've forgotten about it. Mostly, anyway. Sometimes I catch myself starting to rearrange the dresser or a side table in a sitting room,” she said.
“It's a charming habit even though sometimes I want to strap your wrists down.” His shoulders shook with silent laughter.
“You have some questionable habits yourself,” she retorted.
“Like what?”
Caught out, Chey sought an answer. She stammered, stalled.
“That's what I thought. I have none.” He gloated when she failed to produce one annoying habit.
“This right here. That's annoying. Your gloating.”
“That's grasping at straws. I thought for sure you'd pipe up with 'No'.”
Chey gasped and pointed a finger at him. “Yes! I could cheerfully throttle you to the moon when you imperiously tell me No.”
“If I have to remind you, then it doesn't count.” A dimple speared his cheek.
“It does too count. I just couldn't remember.”
“Old age,” he said, clearly baiting her.
“Keep it up and you won't get sex until after you're married.” She arched her brows, borrowing his imperious expression.
He laid a hand over his heart, full of stricken melodrama. “The pain...”
Laughing, she rolled him onto his back, covering him with half her body. “All right, all right. Kiss me then, before I pass out from exhaustion and you really don't get any.”
Threading his hands into her hair, he brought her head down and put his mouth on her throat, beginning his sweet torture over the vivid beat of her pulse.
. . .
The morning of the wedding, Chey woke up in a strange bed, momentar
ily confused and disoriented. When she remembered what day it was, she flopped onto her back and clapped a hand over her forehead. Staring at the ceiling, weak fingers of early morning light filtering in through the cracks of the curtains, she let it really sink in.
Today she would become Missus Sander Darrion Ahtissari. By the time she went to bed, two new titles would be attached to her name: Wife. Queen.
Breathing slow to calm her suddenly racing heart, Chey thought over the last few days. The parties, mingling with esteemed guests, making last minute checks on even the tiniest details. Wynn had been there through it all, elegantly embracing her position as maid of honor, making Chey proud with how easy she fit into the upper echelons of society.
There had even been a tiny bachelorette party the night before after the dress rehearsal, upon Wynn's insistence, where the girls stole away to the courtyard with bottles of sparkling cider and several gifts Wynn somehow managed to procure between the hectic schedules of the day. Krislin and Esta joined them, at ease and happy to be involved. While no strippers made an appearance, Wynn made up for it with racy bridal lingerie that left all four girls in laughing fits. What lingerie, Chey had asked, this thing was nothing but a few cleverly sewn spider webs! The hilarity lasted well into the evening, until Chey called Uncle and tottered off to a specially prepared suite at the far end of the castle from Sander. Fit for a 'bride to be', there was a dais and mirrors, vases of fresh flowers, and white netting strewn whimsically over the ceiling, ending at a center light fixture. Tiny lights interwoven through the netting matched more lights threaded through several ficus trees, creating a bridal wonderland for her to wake up to.
With the taste of sparkling cider still on her tongue, hair tangled, Chey wondered what Sander had done the evening before and whether he'd spent it with his brothers. She knew a serious bachelor party was out of the question after the fiasco with the 'strippers'.
Throwing the covers back, she twitched at the fuzzy feeling on her teeth and wandered into the bathroom. The long mirror threw back a reflection of...a terror. Chey stared at the frightening image she made with her smeared eye-liner, rats nest hair and wrinkled sleep shirt with a random paw print on the front. She looked so unlike a bride or a Queen that she fell into a fresh fit of laughter on the way to the toilet. Thank God for make up, curlers and fine clothes.
At the sink a few minutes later, she washed her hands, brushed her teeth and realized no one had come banging on her door yet. She guessed Wynn was still passed out from their late night. Hitting the shower, Chey scrubbed herself clean, shaved her skin smooth, and emerged feeling like a different person.
A trio of frantic knocks sounded just as she reached for a brush. Wrapped in only a fluffy towel, Chey took the brush with her and crossed the lavish suite to open the door.
There stood Wynn, looking harried, disheveled and wide-eyed. “I should have been here an hour ago! Your hair isn't even dry.”
“Good morning to you, too,” Chey said, grinning at the picture Wynn made. They could have been twins had Wynn arrived fifteen short minutes ago.
Carrying a large tapestry satchel and a garment bag, Wynn crossed the room and tossed both on the unmade bed. “I saw a contingent of people headed this way. Probably ten women! They have breakfast and a cart with something else on it and baskets and all kinds of stuff. You're about to be set upon, I'm telling you.”
Chey peered out into the hallway. Sure enough, a cluster of women were headed this way with all the things Wynn said they had in their possession. Hanna, leading the way, raised a hand to wave when she saw Chey.
Chey waved in return, then retreated into the suite, leaving the door wide open.
“You weren't kidding. What is all that stuff?” Chey asked, bypassing Wynn for the bathroom. She didn't even have underwear on yet under the towel.
“Wax, tweezers, creams, oils, scissors, pumice stones, make up, nail polish—you know, everything to transform you into a Queeeeeeen.” Wynn playfully dragged the title out.
Chey laughed. “If only there was a special potion for that.”
A moment later, Hanna announced their arrival. “Miss Sinclair, we're here!”
“Come on in, Hanna. Hello, girls.” Chey greeted the lot of them at once.
A chorus of hellos echoed back. Krislin and Esta looked as if they'd been rousted from bed and trundled along to Chey's suite.
“Are you ready?” Hanna asked, helping another girl push a cart in.
After returning from the closet with under garments in place, Chey eyed the menagerie of carts and baskets, then looked at Wynn who was grinning like the Cheshire cat. “As ready as I'll ever be.”
Wynn hadn't been far off in her joking estimations in what the girls had with them. Over the next three hours, she was waxed, plucked, manicured, pedicured, massaged, oiled, massaged again and given a facial, even though she'd had most of it done a few days before. A stylist made a few adjustments to her hair, added a vague highlight or two, but waited for any further dressing until it was closer to the wedding. Wynn, Krislin and Esta received the same treatment. Wynn praised the women often for their skill and ability to turn human flesh into putty.
Not only did Chey snap photos of the event, but a separate photographer was present as well for the shots Chey couldn't take of herself. Every staff member had been plied with a throw away to capture even more unexpected moments.
A line of tuxedo attired waiters arrived pushing cart after cart for lunch, along with another round of flowers that were set around the suite, compliments of the groom. An hour after lunch, a barrage of gifts arrived, wrapped in decadent boxes and ribbons, some for the bride and one each for the maid of honor, bridesmaids and every woman present helping Chey prepare for the wedding.
Chey received an ornate set of faint pink diamonds to wear at her wrist and ears. Glittering and pristine, Chey choked back a laughing sob at the thought that her groom was hinting that she wear the dress of her choice. After all, the diamonds would go well with white—but exceptional with the other. In a second, more elaborate box, sat a delicate tiara in the same pink diamond motif that drew gasps from every woman in the room. Chey inspected the beautiful piece with no small amount of awe. Sander hadn't forgotten a thing. It was the perfect compliment to her hair and either dress, though once more, she couldn't help but think how pretty it would be with the dress. Her dress.
He wasn't making it easy to play by the rules.
Wynn, Krislin and Esta received a diamond tennis bracelet and each staff member a simple diamond pendant nestled in royal blue velvet.
An hour before they were due to board the plane for the mainland, with the mood high and spirits soaring, the stylist began the painstaking process of curling Chey's hair and pinning it in an artful updo with a few strands left to wisp around her shoulders. She placed the tiara just so, a perfect accent against Chey's dark hair.
Wynn disappeared on a wine hunting mission, glee in her eyes and a bubble of laughter on her lips.
Who was Chey to deny her?
And then came time for the dress. Hanging from a hook in the corner, the pretty white-white concoction awaited its wearer bathed in late afternoon sunlight. Hanna slipped the dress from the velvet hanger and opened the back for Chey to step in. A commotion at the door drew Chey's attention.
There was Wynn, lugging a garment bag that was twice as big as she was.
“You know you want this one, Chey! Do it! He wants you to wear the one you love.” Grunting, Wynn hauled the bag toward the dais and mirrors. Hanna hurriedly placed the traditional white-white dress back on its hanger.
“I think you should wear it, too, Chey,” Krislin added. “You won't want to look back on today with any regrets or second thoughts.”
Chey regarded the garment bag with her gown in it. Krislin had a point. She had one chance, one day, to have the wedding she wanted.
Cheered on by the staff, Wynn—with Hanna's help—placed the hook over the other and unzipped the bag. As if she were
Vanna White, Wynn made ridiculous gestures to the stunning champagne gown with her hand, grinning girlishly the whole time. Chey glanced at the faces of the women gathered around. Each encouraged her with nods and murmurs, eyes bright.
Chey wished she didn't feel such a sense of responsibility to start off her marriage the right way, which meant not bucking the system. Yet Sander had openly encouraged her to wear the dress of her choice, which meant she had his approval. If it was all right with him, then how much trouble could she get in?
“Okay! Let's do it.” Chey made the decision with a laugh and a helpless lift of her shoulders.
It wasn't every day a girl got to marry a King.
. . .
Wracked with nerves, Chey watched the terrain flicker past the limousine window. Only small remnants of a harsh winter could be glimpsed in the niches and shadows nature provided. Tufts of snow had melted away barring strips clinging here and there. Bits of green popped up in random spots, with bursts of wildflowers making an appearance along the roadside. Luck was with them today: no storms or wild weather had been forecast. Only a clear sky and abundant sunshine.
Hanna, Wynn, Krislin and Esta rode with her, dressed and ready, bouquets on their laps. An endless array of assistants followed behind in one of four Hummers, along with guards providing escort to the church. The guests were already at the location, transferred in an earlier exodus from the family seat.
Taking a few deep breaths, Chey smoothed out the front of the gown, attempting to keep wrinkling to a minimum. Hanna fixed wisps of Chey's hair that had fallen from the pins, though the general style weathered the traveling well.
The other girls chatted like old friends while music played low in the background, the scent of flowers and airy perfume filling the interior of the limousine. Drawing on elbow length, white kid gloves, Chey pulled them snug over her hands then reached up to feel her ears and head for the new jewelry and tiara Sander sent her. Everything was accounted for. Hanna helped her secure the matching bracelet over the glove and checked the clasp twice.
The King Takes A Bride (Royals Book 4) Page 18
