Czytaj książkę: «The Wedding Fling»
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inhaled this book from cover to cover.”
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About the Author
Before becoming a writer, MEG MAGUIRE worked as a record store snob, a lousy barista, a decent designer and an overenthusiastic penguin handler. Now she loves writing sexy, character-driven stories about strong-willed men and women who keep each other on their toes… and bring one another to their knees. Meg lives north of Boston with her husband. When she’s not trapped in her own head she can be found in the kitchen, the coffee shop or jogging around the nearest duck-filled pond.
The
Wedding Fling
Meg Maguire
MILLS & BOON
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With thanks to Amy, Ruthie and Serena,
for reading it first. Thanks also to Laura
for getting me on the plane, and to Brenda for landing
us with minimal turbulence. Biggest thanks of all to my
husband, bringer of peanut butter.
1
LEIGH MADE A NEST in the rumpled sheets of her hotel room bed, arranging a napkin, spoon and peanut butter jar before her. She unscrewed the lid and set it aside, plunging the spoon deep to coat its back. As she savored the first taste, her anxiety dulled, worries temporarily forgotten.
She looked at the television, where two nattering entertainment anchors discussed the latest Hollywood wedding.
“The big question, of course, is the dress. After that taffeta fiasco at the Golden Globes, I know we’re all holding our breath.”
The anchors disappeared, replaced by a still of the sequined dress in question. Leigh frowned. She liked that dress. She jabbed her spoon back into the jar, barely tasting the next hundred calories’ worth of comfort as she licked it clean.
“Then again, that Grammy dress was a solid A,” one host said.
“Absolutely,” his perky colleague agreed. “When she gets it right, she nails it.”
Leigh watched the footage of the demure young woman on the red carpet pausing for photos, looking so calm and happy. Makeup flawless, styled hair bouncing, golden highlights glinting with each camera flash. Must be nice to be the girl on TV.
Stretching her legs in front of her, Leigh wondered what the media would make of her pajamas’ holly-and-ivy pattern in April. Then she looked to the jar in her hand and realized she probably had worse faux pas to worry about.
“Now, Leigh Bailey might be Hollywood’s last good girl, but what do we think? White dress?”
Simpering laughter. “She may be scandal-proof, but she is marrying a musician, let’s not forget that.”
Across the room, Leigh’s phone chimed, her mom’s ring tone triggering a fresh stab of panic that broke the peanut butter’s spell. She scrambled from the tangle of covers, gooey spoon landing on the white duvet. “Crap.” But this was L.A. The housekeeping staff had surely seen far worse.
She padded to the bureau and hit Talk. “Hi, Ma.”
“Leigh, where are you?”
“I’m eating peanut butter in bed, watching tabloid shows.”
“Honey.” A sigh, equal parts fond and frustrated; her mother to a tee. “The fitter’s already here in the suite. It’s nine-thirty.”
“I know what time it is.”
“And she’s the best in town, but you shouldn’t eat that garbage hours before you’re going to be seen in a fitted satin sheath by half the city. People will say you’re pregnant.”
It was Leigh’s turn to sigh. She turned to the TV in time to catch footage of herself in a bikini.
“Those shots from Maui,” the anchor was saying.
“She’s never looked better,” his partner concurred.
Leigh smiled drily. Lovely. Two weeks with the violent stomach bug that exiled her to the bathroom for most of her vacation… but she’d never looked better! She glanced longingly at the jar on her bed.
“Leigh?”
“Yeah?”
“When, honey?”
“I need to shower. Twenty minutes?”
“Twenty minutes, but twenty minutes. Not thirty, not an hour. We need the fitting done by eleven, before the makeup and hair people arrive. Then the photographers—”
“I’ll be there.”
“This isn’t some premiere, Leigh Bailey. It’s your wedding day.” Ah, the patented maternal use of the full name. The big guns were coming out.
“The day I should be in flip-flops and a sundress, in Grandma’s backyard,” Leigh said, frustration making her sound bitter. Making her sound distinctly like her mother. “I wanted a barbecue. I wanted you and Dad and Cody there, and Dan’s family. I didn’t want eight hundred people I barely even know, at some gigantic estate.” Funny how the guests had multiplied, the locale shifted and the budget exploded as Leigh’s day had morphed from a cookout to a circus, in six months flat.
The ringmaster went on. “It doesn’t work that way when you’re a star, honey.”
“I’m not a star, Ma. I’m just some girl who’s always in the magazines. I haven’t been in a movie in two years.”
“That’s not what it’s about these days. What channel are you watching?”
“Fifty-one.”
“Us, too. And who’s the main story?”
“Me.” Glancing again to the bedspread, she wondered idly if it was possible to OD on peanut butter. She imagined a team of burly EMTs crashing through the door to find her slumped with a spoon dangling from her mouth, TV droning, bed and carpet littered with empty jars.
“Following an apparent cry-for-help binge, Leigh Bailey was found unconscious the morning of her wedding from an alleged peanut butter overdose. Doctors administered grape jelly intravenously, and the actress is now listed in stable condition. The wedding has been postponed until further notice.”
Her mother burst through the daydream. “Leigh?”
“Sorry, what?”
“I said you are a star, honey. And I know you wanted to keep things simple, but think about Dan. Dan wants all this.”
“He didn’t before.” A queasy gurgle soured Leigh’s stomach. Dan did want all this, the circus. She sometimes wondered which woman her fiancé saw her as—the one on TV having her clothes and waistline critiqued, or the one in her pj’s. Dan used to be her anchor, keeping her grounded amid the chaos, but small changes over two years had added up. A new apartment, wardrobe, a new collection of opinions about which restaurants they could or couldn’t go to. Just like the mutant wedding, their relationship had changed, its modifications too incremental to spot without hindsight.
Dan used to talk about his music, where the band was going. The band hadn’t practiced in months, and his enthusiasm for songwriting had been replaced with talk of producing, investing in a label, opening a club. More driven by cachet than creativity. Sometimes Leigh worried he’d bought in to the myth of that girl on the screen. Sometimes she bought in to it herself, though not lately. Not since the impending wedding had grown to such epic proportions.
“Do you think he still loves me?” Leigh asked her mother.
“Of course Dan loves you. You two are perfect together.”
As if on cue, footage of her and Dan from early in their coupledom appeared on the TV. She really did look happy. She looked like herself, recognizable, Dan so at ease in his own scruffy skin, back when he’d been a happy and passionate nobody. She hadn’t seen him smile at her that way in months. He smiled through her these days, like a man focused on something beyond his grasp, something behind her.
“Every bride gets wedding-day jitters. If you didn’t feel nervous, we’d have something to worry about.” There was jingling behind her mom’s words, the sound of jewelry being adjusted.
“Right.”
“Now get in that shower, young lady.”
They hung up and Leigh shuffled to her suite’s gorgeous bathroom, all polished marble and glass. After a shampoo and scrub, she slicked lotion on her waxed legs, toweled her hair and brushed her teeth, so freshly bleached they ached. “You, only better,” as her mother said of such enhancements. But weren’t moms supposed to love you exactly the way you were?
Leigh wiped the steam from the mirror and stared at her naked reflection, glad she’d never let herself be talked into changing anything major—bigger boobs would look ridiculous on her frame, and would be a liability if she ever started dancing again. She was already admired for her pale, creamy complexion, so tanning was mercifully off the table. She looked at her nails, shaped and buffed by a manicurist, but fundamentally hers.
Her engagement ring sparkled under the bulbs circling the mirror. So pretty. And she’d fought so hard to keep it, against her mother’s protests that it was too small, too simple, too anybody’s. But like the boobs, Leigh thought small-and-understated suited her fine. She polished the solitaire with a tissue, feeling better as she dressed to face the drama surely swirling in her mother’s suite. The bridal suite, sans bride.
She walked down the long hall to the opposite corner of the hotel’s twenty-first floor and knocked. Her mother answered at once, already styled, as though a wedding were a tornado that might touch down at any moment and must be vigilantly prepared for. She had her cell clamped to her ear, and her tone made Leigh’s chest tighten. It could only be her father on the other end.
“You are kidding me. Jesus, Jim. It’s like you get off on not listening to—No, I never said that. Not only do you not listen, you just make up whatever it is you want me to be saying.” She glanced at Leigh. “Your daughter is here. The one who’s getting married, or will be if you can manage to get your act together. Right. We’ll talk about this later.”
Unseen, Leigh rolled her eyes. No, you won’t. They’d fight later, turning yet another non-issue into a marriage referendum as they’d been doing for as long as Leigh could remember. All those years ago she’d thrown herself into dancing, ballet at first, then modern, any and all kinds, whatever got her out of the house and the endless two-way badgering. When she’d landed her first movie role her parents had magically stopped bickering, united in their new project—Leigh’s career. Of course, the peace hadn’t lasted, but here she was ten years later, still desperate to be the good girl, successful and respectable, her naive inner kid thinking she could somehow fix them, if only she worked hard enough.
Her mom clicked the phone off and shook her head, her frosted bob too shellacked with products to budge. She sighed in exasperation, then changed modes, quick as a flipped switch. She smiled warmly and pulled Leigh into a hug. “Oh, honey. Your big day.” She stepped back to stare at her daughter’s face. “It’s finally here, isn’t it?”
Leigh nodded, returning her mom’s grin as best she could.
“Twenty-seven. When on earth did that happen?”
When, indeed. And twenty-seven was far too old to still be living for parental approval. Leigh pictured the plane ticket in her purse. When she landed back in the States in a couple weeks, she’d put her foot down. Her parents had their own lives to lead, and so did Leigh. If only she knew what she wanted that life to look like…
Her mother turned to the action elsewhere in the room, the wedding planner on his phone, the fitter standing patiently beside the ivory halter gown.
That dress. The battle Leigh had forfeited in favor of winning the war on her ring. The ring she’d wear for the rest of her life, the gown just a day. But it was a lovely dress. More sophisticated than the playful one Leigh had fallen hard for, but compromises had to be made to keep mothers happy… or at least shut them up.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” her mom said.
“Yeah, it is.”
“Glad you let me talk you into it now? It’s just perfect for the venue.”
Leigh nodded, so sick of certain words—venue, entrance, presentation.
She let herself be led to the fitter and dutifully stripped. The dress was slippery and cool as lake water as it slid down her bare skin, and she felt clad in something beyond satin… adulthood, perhaps. Womanhood. Her mother tugged her from the thought.
“Oh, Leigh.” She tapped a finger against Leigh’s belly. And only in L.A. would it count as a belly. “You and that peanut butter.”
Leigh smoothed the satin over her offense. “Girls should know it’s normal to have a stomach.”
“I agree, but it’s not normal for a person to eat half a jar of that stuff by herself. It’s very fattening, and you won’t have that metabolism forever.”
Leigh shrugged. “Tell me you’d prefer I take up smoking, then.”
Her pack-a-day mother smiled grimly and dropped the subject. “Well, you look beautiful, belly and all.”
Leigh turned to the cheval mirror at her side, and she had to admit the girl reflected back was pretty. Though once her hair and makeup were done, her snack digested and belly deflated, would there be anything of Leigh left?
She looked to her mom. “Do you remember what you promised me? My wedding gift? About quitting smoking once all this craziness is over?”
“I remember.”
Leigh grinned hopefully. “So I’ll get back from the island and you’ll be all strung out and snappy?”
“I’ll do better than that, honey, and finish the withdrawal while you’re away.”
Leigh smiled again. Though her mother promised to quit smoking nearly as often as she lit up. “There’s other stuff that needs to change, once I’m back.”
Her mother feigned ignorance, fussing with some invisible imperfection in the satin. “Oh?”
“About you and Dad? Maybe going on a trip of your own, away from all this?”
“I don’t know, Leigh. I’ve got a hundred things going on, all that stuff with the charity ball coming up in June.”
Leigh opened her mouth, then closed it, realizing she didn’t have the stamina for this argument. But once she got back from her honeymoon she’d be putting her own marriage first, instead of acting like a smoke screen in theirs. Once today was behind her, she’d be in the clear. Marriage would render her blissfully boring to the press, and she couldn’t wait to fade into obscurity for a year or two, maybe permanently. Fame had never been her dream. Just another role she’d stumbled into, trying to make people happy.
She stared out the huge window across the city. What would Dan be doing, right now? Probably sleeping in, after his bachelor party. Not that Dan was much for getting wasted and crazy. He was a pretty low-key guy. Or he used to be a pretty low-key guy. Who he was wasn’t so clear anymore.
She missed his passion. Their hectic, high-profile engagement had done a number on their sex life, and Leigh suspected he was readjusting how he saw her, no longer his girlfriend, but his soon-to-be wife.
When the fitter got to her knees to fuss with the hem, Leigh leaned close to her mother’s ear to whisper, “I don’t think Dan and I have had sex in nearly a month.”
“You’re very busy people.”
“No one’s that busy. We’re not even newlyweds yet. That can’t be normal, can it?”
“You and Dan aren’t normal people. And Dan is very ambitious. You’re lucky to have such a driven man, Leigh, really. Not like your father—”
“Ma.”
“A lot of girls in your position have husbands who don’t expect to do a thing after they get a nice tight grip on those celebrity coattails. Dan’s not one of them. You’re very, very lucky.”
Leigh knew she ought to feel lucky. The man she was marrying was her best friend. Or had been. She prayed they’d get some of that back, being away from everyone for two weeks. No, they would get it back. She needed to think positive. Still, a bit of reassurance wouldn’t hurt.
When the fitter excused herself to make a call, Leigh thought she ought to do the same. She padded back down the hall to her own room, shut the door and stood before the windows, holding down a button on her phone to speed-dial Dan.
He answered just as she was about to hang up, and his voice alone reminded her to breathe. “Hey, you. What’s up?”
“Hey. I, um… Oh God, I don’t know.” She laughed, already calming.
His tone was warm, but tight as well. “Everything okay? You sound kinda spastic, spazzy.”
She smiled at his teasing. “I guess I’ve got jitters, but I wanted to hear your voice, before I saw you. You know, at the altar.”
“You’re sweet. I’ve got jitters, too. Goes with the territory, right? Especially with the audience we’ve got watching. You’ll be fine.”
Leigh waited a beat for something more—an “I love you,” perhaps. It didn’t arrive, but Dan was stressed, same as her. And like her, he didn’t really know what he was doing. No script, just two young people nervous before their vows. Normal. The thing Leigh ached most to be. She glanced at her ring, its diamond blinking in the morning sunlight.
“Okay,” she said. “Thanks. I just needed to talk.”
“Just breathe, and I’ll see you before you know it. I better go. I’ve got my brother on the other line.”
“Tell him hi. See you soon.”
“Bye.”
Leigh nearly hung up, but after a pause Dan added, “Babe?” He hadn’t called her that in months, and the name flooded her with relief.
She held back an impulsive plea—that they run off and elope, skip all the staged drama. “Yeah?”
“Sorry about that. It was her.”
Leigh’s brow furrowed. “Her?”
Dan laughed. “It was Leigh. She’s got bridal nerves.”
She went dead numb, head enveloped by an echoing, unnatural calm as she realized he thought he was talking to someone else.
“Babe?”
This time the pet name hit her like a slap. “Yeah?” her mouth replied, disconnected from her brain.
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”
“No,” Leigh murmured.
“I know right where you’ll be today. Every chance I get, I’ll try to catch your eye. I mean, this might be us in a few years. We have to be patient. If it’s supposed to happen, it’ll happen. You never know.”
The numbness faded, and in its place Leigh felt hot in her dress, constricted, felt tears boiling up to sting her sinuses. Her heart pounded in her ears, loud as a gong. “You never know,” she whispered.
“Don’t cry. I know the timing’s awful, but it’s not like we planned this. It’s worth it, we both agreed. You and me, we’ll have our time. Last night wasn’t goodbye, I told you.”
Leigh didn’t reply.
“Okay? Allie?”
She sucked in a breath. Allie. Allie. Her mind was too blank to supply a face, a remembered mention… not that it would help. “Okay,” she breathed.
“I’ll miss you while I’m away. You know that.”
No words came.
“I love you.”
That did it. Those words Leigh needed so badly, offered to comfort some mystery woman. Some Allie. Her hand shook as she pushed the end button.
She stared at herself in the mirror that ran behind the marble bar, at this stranger with her face, draped in a beautiful dress. Thoughts flashed and jabbed, but the numbness reduced them to abstract concepts. There was an Allie, who’d stolen Leigh’s pet name. Who’d kept Dan from taking Leigh’s call for four rings, on their wedding day.
The shock lifted, and behind the numbness was pure pain, so sharp it seemed her heart must be coming apart, cell by cell. Strange white sequins danced before her eyes and she leaned against the bar, feeling heavy and awkward, as though suspended on strings. The dress was shrinking, an invisible corset binding her too tight to take a full breath. The room blurred, and for a moment she knew it was just a dream. She’d jerk awake and everything would be as it should be, spinning walls and strangling dress all vestiges of a nightmare.
The room did come back into focus. The dress relented enough for her to catch her breath, and the spots abandoned her vision. She pushed up from the bar to find the bride in the mirror peppered with red blotches, eyes wild. Leigh saw only a stranger staring back, a scared woman of twenty-seven as ignorant as she’d been at seventeen, playing dress-up in yet another glittering identity.
She clutched the phone and raised her hand, drew it back… but no. Her posture crumpled. Now wasn’t the time to start smashing up hotel rooms like some out-of-control celebutante. Actually, perhaps this was the perfect time for that, but Leigh wasn’t that girl, no matter what the tabloids yearned to report.
She pressed a palm over her thumping heart, scared by the sheer pain of feeling this angry, this hurt. The rage was like an animal trying to claw its way out of her chest, but she held it down, as she always did. She forced her mind to practical matters. Decisions that needed making.
She should confront Dan.
No, she couldn’t.
She had to call it off. But then the press would hound her mercilessly and the whole world would find out about this.
What was the alternative? Go through with the wedding and deal with the fallout later? Her heart twisted anew, her hands trembling as she thought of faking her way through the ceremony, her jaw clenching and lips quivering as she imagined uttering her vows, hearing Dan recite his and knowing he’d already violated them. More likely, she’d run off en route to the altar in front of two videographers and an audience of hundreds, as public as humiliation got.
She rubbed at her chest, begging her heartbeat to slow. The satin seemed to mock her fingers, cool and smooth against her heated skin.
Leigh couldn’t remember the last decision she’d made for herself, but all at once, and for the first time in ages, she knew what she had to do.
She had to run.
Now.
She didn’t have the first clue what she wanted from her life, but she damn well knew it wasn’t all this—a three-ring sham of a wedding to a man who didn’t love her, a career of other people’s making, a city where she couldn’t enjoy a moment’s anonymity.
Her suitcase waited by the door, packed with two weeks’ worth of clothes and toiletries, passport and ticket in her purse, ready to go. The trip she’d so been looking forward to, the one she’d hoped would reconnect her and Dan… the mere notion was a hand around her throat. The tabloids had been salivating for Leigh’s fall from grace forever, and if she was doomed to reward their persistence, she’d give them a doozy—a gen-u-ine wedding day no-show.
She switched off her phone and slipped it into her bag, with no intention of turning it back on anytime soon.
As she wheeled her case down the hall, all was quiet, the elevator empty, the lobby peaceful. No small mercy, the press not having discovered she was staying here. She hiked her dress up to her shins and marched barefoot past Reception, through the door the stony-faced porter held, and into the cool spring air. She knew which long black Town Car was hers by the driver leaning on the hood, flipping through Variety.
“Hector.”
His brows rose and he stood, taking in her getup. “Good morning, Leigh. You’re early. Very early.” His familiar deep voice with its musical Haitian accent calmed her. “And you forgot your shoes. And your mother. Change of plans?”
“Change of plans” usually meant Leigh was being harangued by a reporter and needed to end an evening earlier than expected.
“Change of plans,” she agreed, and climbed inside when Hector opened the door. He shut it in his firm, reassuring way and she heard a thump as he stowed her suitcase.
Once behind the wheel, he lowered the glass. He aimed the car toward the exit. “Has your mother got her own ride sorted out?”
“Don’t worry about my mother. If she calls you, tell her I asked to go home, to the apartment. I need some time to think about things.”
“Ah. She being a mother-of-the-bride-zilla?” Hector teased. “You need me to drive you around before we go to the estate? Dramatic entrance?” He squinted at her in the rearview mirror, possibly noticing she had no makeup on, no jewelry, that her hair was still a damp tangle and her face flushed and mottled.
“We’re not going to the estate,” she said, feeling strangely serene. “We’re going to the airport.”
“Oh?”
She nodded, steeled in her decision. “I’m going on my honeymoon. Alone.”
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