The Inconvenient Bride

Well, he hadn’t had to wait for this one.

He’d accomplished the whole thing, start to finish, engagement to ceremony, in a matter of hours.

And now he was married.

To a purple-haired woman with raccoon eye-shadow eyes.

What had he done?

The words reverberated in his head almost as insistently as Sierra’s bright, “Sure. Why not?” But he glanced at his watch and knew he didn’t really have time to think about it now.

Finn kissed the bride. “How about we take you out for a champagne toast?”

“Sure,” Izzy seconded. “It’s the least we can do on such short notice.”

“Great!” Sierra said brightly.

But Dominic shook his head. “Thanks, but we can’t. Another time. We’ve got to meet my father for dinner.”

And with a quick handshake and a few more words of thanks, he spirited Sierra away.

“What do you mean, we’re meeting your father?” she protested as he steered her toward the elevator. “Your father’s in town and you didn’t even invite him?”

“You think he’d have stood there with his mouth shut, then wished us well?”

Sierra opened her mouth, then shut it again.

Dominic nodded grimly. He’d made his point. She’d met his father when her sister had married his brother. She’d had a glimpse of Douglas then. Not much, but he was fairly sure his trying to commandeer the wedding party and drive them to the reception in his Lincoln Town Car instead of the cars they’d arranged had made an impression.

They rode down in the elevator in silence. Sierra staring at the doors, Dominic at the top of her purple head.

What had he done?

He’d got married, that was all. Exactly what the old man had wanted.

But to Sierra Kelly, of all people!

Sierra Kelly with her purple hair and her Day-Glo spandex, with her clunky boots and ribbed black leggings. Yes, but, as he well knew, that wasn’t all she had. She also had mile-long legs and kissable lips and a wicked teasing tongue. She made his blood sizzle and the windows steam.

He’d met a million more suitable women, but he’d never met one who’d set him on fire—except Sierra. He’d never met one he’d wanted to go to bed with more.

Or again.

He could have taken or left any one of the others. But not her.

They’d made wild passionate desperate love one night three months ago. He’d been reliving it every night since.

Half an hour ago he’d married her—to be a sober reliable married man, to put an end to his father’s meddling—but mostly so tonight they could set the world on fire again.

But they had to get through dinner with his father first.

He tucked her into the same hired car and got in after her. Outside, rain slashed against the window. Horns honked as the driver cut into the traffic and began the journey uptown. The faint warmth of the spring afternoon had all but dissipated now. And against the far door Sierra seemed to be shivering inside her denim jacket.

“Are you cold?” Dominic asked.

She shook her head fiercely. “I’m fine.” She wrapped her arms around her damned tackle box and sat hugging it like it was some great plastic shield. For an instant she glanced his way long enough to shoot him a quick flippant smile, then stared straight ahead again.

He still thought she looked like she was shaking.

So if she wasn’t cold, was she nervous? Sierra? Not likely!

He doubted she’d ever been nervous in her life. He studied her out of the corner of his eye—her purple hair, her stubborn chin, her pert nose, her raccoon eyes. He fished in his pocket and thrust a clean handkerchief at her.

“Here. Wipe your face. You’ve got eye gunk all down your cheeks.”

Sierra looked startled. Then, “Thank you so much,” she said with false politeness, making him wonder if she’d rather appear in public looking like a raccoon.

But she snatched the handkerchief out of his hand and pressed the button to roll down the window.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

She thrust his handkerchief outside into the rain. “Unless you’d rather I spit in it?”

Dominic flushed. “Of course not.”

“I didn’t think so.” When she decided the handkerchief was sufficiently damp, she put the window back up and scrubbed at her cheeks. It took two more dousings of the handkerchief, followed by so much scrubbing he thought she’d rub the skin off her cheeks.

Finally she quit and turned to look at him. “Satisfied?”

Now she just looked like a prizefighter with two black eyes. Dominic didn’t say so, though. Apparently his silence said it for him.

Sierra shrugged. “Well, let’s just hope I get a chance to stop in the ladies’ room before your father arrives.” She stuffed his handkerchief in the pocket of her jacket, then folded her arms around the tackle box again.

She looked young and innocent—even in her purple-haired insouciance—and he wondered if he ought to coach her so she wouldn’t feel out of place.

But, of course, she would be out of place—it was part of the reason he’d married her, after all. He felt a twinge of guilt and promptly smothered it.

No one had made her say yes!

Besides, there was no point in telling her how to behave or how to act. If he tried she’d bite his head off, he was sure. And anyway, her very presence, looking as she did, was her act.

Still, he couldn’t quite leave it there.

“Do you need anything?” he asked her. It seemed like the least he could do. “A briefing?”

She looked at him, incredulous. “To meet your father?”

“Never mind,” he said, feeling like a fool. “Well, fine. If there’s nothing you need—” he picked up his briefcase, set it on his lap and opened it “—I’ve got work to do.”