The Inconvenient Bride

The maître d’ was agog.

His normally impassive features became positively animated at the sight of Dominic and his guest. For a split second his eyes gawped. But then he schooled his features, stiffened his spine and assumed an expression of something that might best be described as “determined indifference.”

As well it might be, Dominic thought. If he was willing to pay Le Sabre’s exorbitant prices, he ought to able to bring his damn dog to dinner if he so chose!

Gripping Sierra firmly by the arm, he smiled at the maître d’. “Good evening, Flaubert. Has my father arrived?”

Flaubert fixed a thin smile on his face. “He has, Mr. Wolfe. He and the lady and the other gentleman arrived a few moments ago. They’ve already been seated. I understood you were to be four for dinner?” One brow lifted, but he determinedly did not look at Sierra.

Dominic’s back stiffened. “There’s been a change in plans.”

For a split second the maître d’ seemed about to argue. Then his mouth pressed into a tight line and beckoned a waiter. The man scurried to his side. At Flaubert’s whispered words, he shot an astonished gaze in their direction, then nodded and hurried toward the dining room.

“It will take just a moment.” Flaubert paused. Once more his gaze skated right over Sierra to focus on Dominic. “Would the…young lady…like to…check her coat and er…?” He eyed the tackle box with distaste.

“I’ll keep it, thanks,” Sierra said before Dominic could open his mouth.

But it was as if she hadn’t spoken. Flaubert continued to look at Dominic for an answer.

Dominic’s teeth came together and he put an arm around her shoulders. “We will check the box. I think it might get in the way in the dining room, don’t you?” He looked to Sierra for a nod which, after a moment’s stubbornness, he got. Then he turned back to the maître d’. “My wife will keep her coat, thank you.”

Flaubert’s jaw sagged as Dominic had been sure it would.

Stepping around him, Dominic handed over the box to the woman behind at the cloak room. Then, pocketing the token she gave him, he steered Sierra into the dining room.

His father, Tommy Hargrove and a sleek blond woman were no longer sitting at the table his father regularly claimed. Instead they were sitting behind a potted palm, looking discomfitted and annoyed as a waiter finished laying an extra place setting and stepped away.

A sound something akin to a smothered snigger emanated from Sierra.

Dominic looked down at her. “Something funny?”

She flashed a grin. “The palm tree. I knew they’d have a palm tree.”

And that they’d put you behind it, he finished for her. A corner of his own mouth twisted and his fingers tightened on her arm. “Screw ’em,” he muttered and was instantly rewarded when Sierra grinned again.

Just then Douglas spotted them, and Dominic had the pleasure of seeing the old man’s jaw rival Flaubert’s. Almost instantly, though, it snapped shut again and Douglas took a deep breath as he rose to his feet. His gaze fixed on Dominic and his hard blue eyes glittered. It was belied by his smooth tone.

“How nice that you’ve brought a guest to join us. I don’t believe we’ve met?” He, at least, was facing Sierra head-on. In fact he stared straight into the magenta and the Day-Glo peeking out from behind the denim and didn’t even blink. Dominic was impressed.

“We have, actually,” Sierra said cheerfully, offering her hand. “I’m Sierra Kelly. Mariah’s sister. My hair was blonde for the wedding,” she added, presumably by way of explaining why he might not have recognized her.

“Oh!” Douglas’s relief was palpable as he took her hand and shook it heartily. “Yes! Oh my, yes. Of course. I do recognize you now. The, um, purple threw me for a moment. My son Rhys’s wife’s little sister!” he explained to Tommy and the blonde who had to be Viveca.

Dominic smiled and corrected this misconception. “Mariah’s little sister,” he agreed. “And my wife.”

He had to give his father credit.

By barely more than a flicker of a muscle in his jaw and a sudden paleness around his mouth, did Douglas betray that Dominic’s arrival with a wife in tow was even unexpected, much less a shock.

Instead he kissed Sierra’s cheek and introduced them both to Viveca Moore.

She was exactly as his father described her—blonde, brilliant, and sophisticated. The perfect accessory.

A far cry from the woman whom an hour ago he’d made his wife.

Dominic never knew if Viveca had any idea she was supposed to be his date this evening. Douglas took hold of her hand and said smoothly that he was sorry they hadn’t been able to make the wedding, and then called for a bottle of champagne.

“To toast you both,” he said, the glitter in his hard blue eyes the only sign that he was less than pleased.

Champagne, Dominic remembered with a qualm, had been his and Sierra’s downfall at Rhys and Mariah’s wedding.

It was the champagne that had made them reckless, that had fanned the flames of desire that had been raging between them since the day they’d met. It was the champagne that had made them challenge each other, that had tipped them over the edge and sent them to that hotel room to slake their desperate desire.

“I don’t know—” he began.

But Sierra said brightly, “What a lovely idea.” Then she explained, “We’ve been in such a hurry all day, we didn’t have time to toast our marriage earlier with our friends.” She turned her gaze on Dominic and he saw the challenge in her eyes.

“Then we must do it now,” Douglas said firmly. He gave Dominic a hard smile and, when the waiter arrived, poured and passed out glasses of champagne. Then he raised his own, first to Sierra, then to Dominic.

“To my son,” he said, “and his new wife. May you share a long, long, long life together.”

If he’d said one more “long” Dominic would have throttled him. As it was, he noted there was no wish for happiness. He wondered if Sierra noticed.

Her eyes were laughing as she touched her glass to his. “And a happy one,” she said.

Their glasses clinked.

“Hear, hear!” cried Tommy Hargrove.

“We wish you great happiness,” Viveca said with etiquette book politeness. “Don’t we, Douglas?”

“Yes, of course,” Douglas said hastily. “Indeed we do.” He poured more champagne, then looked at his son. “Dominic, don’t you have a toast for your bride?”

Dominic raised his glass to the challenge, first to his father, then to his wife. “To Sierra,” he said gravely, “who has made me the happiest of men.”

He meant it as a slap at his father. As a bit of veiled sarcasm. But as he drank, Dominic realized that, in some small way, it was the truth.

For one steamy night three months ago, Sierra had made him happier than he’d ever been in his life.

She’d made him silly and hungry and passionate. She’d made him forget mergers and balance sheets and the rat race he called his life. She’d made him laugh and tease and wrestle and grow sweaty and desperate and, finally, fulfilled.

He hadn’t forgotten.

It was, after all, why he’d asked her to marry him. But he wasn’t fool enough to expect it to last.

Outside of bed, they had nothing in common. Inside it, for one night at least, they’d had bliss.

“To Sierra,” he said firmly. “My wife.”