Wedding Chocolate: Two Grooms and a Wedding

“Great. While you’re there I’m going to teach you how to rock Randall’s world and give you a top of the line makeover.” She took Isabella by the shoulder and turned her back toward the mirror. “Mark my words. When you return to Washington, you’re going to be a brand-new woman.”

Chapter 7 (#ulink_523ba08a-e2a9-5715-b007-68b581e382bc)

“Absolutely not,” Randall shouted, appalled. “I forbid you to go gallivanting around Atlanta with those loose Delta Phi Theta sisters of yours. Need I remind you that we’re supposed to be planning a wedding?”

Isabella stopped listening after the word “forbid.” In the seconds that followed her back stiffened and her face grew hot. Before she knew it, she was up on her feet and stalking toward her fiancé with her hands on her hips. When Randall turned from his office desk to wag a finger, he jumped back, surprised to see her so close and doubly surprised to see the anger glaring up at him.

“What do you mean you forbid me to go?” she said in a near growl. “You don’t own me.”

Randall blinked.

Isabella drew a deep breath and took a step back. She didn’t know whether it was the excessive amount of alcohol she had—three drinks—or residual anger from Randall’s ex-girlfriends showing up at her party. All she knew was that she was tired of being pushed around. “You know what?” she said, wiggling her engagement ring off her finger. “I think I made a mistake.”

“Whoa. Wait a minute.” Randall tossed up his hands, refusing to take the ring back from her. “Let’s slow down. I thought we were just having a discussion?”

“No. You were ordering me around like you thought this damn ring meant I was bought and paid for,” she hissed and then threw the diamond at him. Never in her life had she stood up to anyone like this. She found the experience exhilarating. Pivoting on her heels, she marched toward the door of Randall’s private study, but Randall made it there first and blocked her exit.

“Okay. Okay. Let’s calm down,” he said with clear panic written all over his face. “Obviously, I didn’t handle this well. I’m sorry.”

More like he was thinking about what a broken engagement would look like in the papers. “Move out of my way,” Isabella said calmly.

“You’re mad.”

“No shit.”

He jerked, stunned by the uncharacteristic language. “Fine. Fine. Go to Atlanta, if it means so much to you.” He acquiesced as if she held a gun to his head.

She stared at him, enjoying the feel of her newfound power. “Why did you invite your ex-girlfriends to the party?”

“What?”

Surely, he wasn’t going to play stupid. “They were all over the place, buzzing around hinting about...” She drew another breath; her courage waned at the thought of discussing his sex life.

“Hinting about what?”

“You know.” She straightened her shoulder. “How good you are—you know—in bed.”

He stared for a long moment and then finally burst out laughing. “Is that what all this is about? You’re jealous?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“C’mon, Isabella. I know you’ve never...but you can’t be that naïve. I’m thirty-two. Of course I’ve...dated around.”

“You mean slept around.”

He cocked his head at her; a bemused grin still on his face. “It’s all in the past.” He stepped forward and settled his hands on her shoulders. “I’m marrying you. Those women are only jealous and are trying to drive a wedge between us.”

“But why were they here at our engagement party?”

“C’mon. This is Washington. You know you don’t burn bridges in this town. Some of the women I’ve dated are some powerful women in their own right. What would it look like if I didn’t invite them?”

He smiled, but he looked like a cheap car salesman when he did it.

“Tell you what,” he said, dropping one arm and sliding the other across her to cradle her in a hug. “Go to Atlanta. Consider it a mini-vacation. If being with your friends is going to cheer you up then I’m all for it. But when you get back, I expect us to knuckle down on planning this wedding. I was thinking something like April 8th. What do you think?”

She didn’t say anything. She wanted him to release her.

“Good. Good,” Randall said, taking her silence as a yes. “Now why don’t you go home and get you some rest, uhm?” He looked down at her; his cheap car salesman’s smile still in place. Again, he took her silence as an agreement and he leaned down and planted a kiss in the center of her forehead.

When his arm finally fell from her shoulder, she headed toward the door.

“Wait. Wait.” Randall glanced around the floor and then rushed over to the other side of the room and retrieved her ring. “Don’t forget this.” He held up the diamond.

Isabella stared at it and then at Randall. “You keep it.” She opened the door and strolled out.

* * *

Whatever freedom Isabella felt was short lived. By morning, she woke with cotton mouth, a migraine and a massive hangover. After she managed to crawl out of bed and shuffle toward her morning shower, she wondered how long it would be before her father would send her mother over to fix her broken engagement. An hour or two at most.

While she stood motionless beneath the steaming hot water, she replayed the events of last night and smiled at the image of her throwing her diamond ring at Randall. The man truly looked as though he was about to have a heart attack.

She snickered and then wished that she would be able to conjure one tenth of last night’s courage when her mother came calling. Looking for her when her cab dropped her off, she had the foresight to take the phone off the hook. If she hadn’t, she would have been besieged by phone calls.

Finally clean and somewhat alert, Isabella shut off the shower, dried off and slipped into her favorite robe and made her way to the kitchen.

Only someone was already waiting for her.

“You look well rested.”

“Daddy.”

“Coffee?” he asked, holding up her favorite mug.

“Sure,” she said. This was really serious if her father came to handle her himself. “Black. No sugar.”

“I remember.” He poured two cups. “I heard you and Randall had quite a fight last night.”

There wasn’t going to be any beating around the bush.

“Those things are normal,” her father said. “The stress of planning a wedding can do those things.”

“I don’t...” C’mon. You can do this. “There’s not going to be a wedding.”

“Of course there is,” her father countered without missing a beat. “You just have wedding jitters.”

Isabella stared up at her father, swallowed whatever retort she had since his tone made it clear that this wasn’t up for discussion.

The senator walked out of the kitchen to hand her coffee. “It’s hot.”