find him.
It didn’t.
She appeared in the doorway of his dressing room, a wave of displeasure sliding over her face as she took in the towel wrapped around his waist. “Baby, you’re not even dressed! Stefano’s been waiting for ten minutes.”
Luc met her irritated gaze in the full-length mirror he’d been standing in front of for the last five minutes, staring at nothing, and tried to stem his own annoyance.
“I was kinda hoping, what it with being a rare Saturday off for me, to not have to go traipsing around wedding venues. And with respect to Stefano, we’re paying him to deliver a service, not the other way around. I don’t give a fuck how in demand he is. He can wait a damn minute for me to get my pants on.” Luc took his time to select a pair of Versace cargo pants, a black T-shirt and his favorite Italian loafers.
He was pulling his leather jacket from the hanger when she approached and stopped in front of him, a full-mouthed pout on display. Her small hand trailed up his abs to rest on his chest. “Luc, I’m the daughter of a congressman. I can’t just get married anywhere I please. There are expectations. This wedding has to be perfect. Besides, you promised you would do this for me, remember? That we would do this together.”
Yeah, a promise made when he was more than halfway to getting hammered after almost unmanning himself with that garter fuckup with Vanessa at Elana’s wedding. Even days after the incident, he couldn’t think about it without feeling equal amounts of arousal and humiliation.
Luc could barely remember the so-called promise he’d made to Rachel afterward on the way home. But he couldn’t bring it up now, not without the risk of setting off the volatile spark he’d seen in his fiancée’s eyes after the incident. No, that was one subject he was going to leave the hell alone. And if that involved pissing away his Saturday venue hunting, then so be it. But he didn’t intend to be joyous about it.
He tugged on his jacket and grabbed his wallet and phone.
“Lead the way, honey. I’m all yours,” he said with as much false enthusiasm as he could muster.
The pout disappeared, and her trademark killer smile made an appearance. She slid her arms around his neck and angled her hips against his crotch with unmistakable teasing intent. “I would get down on my knees right now and show my appreciation, baby, but—”
“The esteemed Stefano is waiting. Yeah, I got that.”
Undeterred by his droll tone, she rose on tiptoe and pressed her mouth against his. “I promise to blow your goddamn mind later. But for now, know that I love you, Luc Marshall. So much.”
He should return the sentiment. Say something equally mushy. But the words stuck in his throat. So instead, he slid his arm around her waist and pushed his tongue into her mouth. By the time he lifted his head a minute later, she was flushed and her eyes glazed.
He let her take his hand and lead him out of the dressing room and downstairs to meet Stefano, the wedding whisperer.
A mind-numbing forty-five minutes later, after their driver had meandered through enough hills to make Julie Andrews burst into ecstatic song, he looked up from his phone as they drove through the gates of a sprawling ranch that wouldn’t have looked out of place on that old show Dynasty his mother used to love watching.
He read the sign as they passed under it.
Red Horn Stud Farm
Jesus fucking Christ. Was his fiancée really planning for them to get married at a stud farm?
He swallowed his irritation as the limo drew to a stop in front of what looked like a plantation house. The mansion was impressive, even by California standards, he had to admit. But still. What the hell was wrong with a priest in a church or a hotel, with a reception in a ballroom just like his sister had done?
He was still wearing the dagger marks from the glare Rachel had slashed him with when he’d suggested the very same thing last night. Apparently a hotel wasn’t good enough. And what had she said this morning? Oh, right. His future in-laws had standards to uphold. Because clearly marrying a Marshall wasn’t enough.
It had to be the château in France like the one he’d been roped into viewing online last night, a private island somewhere in the Caribbean or this here ranch.
Luc stifled another curse and threw open the door. He alighted to be greeted by the smell of horse shit. Fucking hell. Was he really supposed to take his vows while inhaling the aroma of freshly turned manure?
“Isn’t the house amazing? Wait till you see inside,” Rachel gushed as she slid her fingers through his. “It’s been in the same family for four generations.”
“Hmm,” he responded noncommittally. For a moment, he wondered whether he should give his mother a call, let her deal with this venue-chasing nonsense.
He sighed inwardly. He couldn’t call, because she was pissed off that Rachel wasn’t using a wedding planner from MSM. Stefano was her mother’s best friend’s, and she was going to be the bride, so... He fingered his phone all the same, the need to scroll through the wedding pictures his mother had sent to him this morning biting hard again. There were a couple in particular he hadn’t been able to stop looking at or thinking about. The one where Vanessa was standing alone, staring at the bubbles in her champagne glass. Fuck, she’d looked so gorgeous, basked in a single spotlight—
“Luc, are you sure you’re okay? You barely said a word on the ride over,” Rachel muttered heatedly under her breath as the owners of the mansion—a husband and wife wearing almost identical Stetsons, plaid shirts and jeans—led them through the endless reception areas on the property.
“I was thinking we probably should’ve taken the chopper instead of driving. We could’ve been done with this fucking thing an hour ago,” he replied, then belatedly bit his tongue.
He’d just invited another mood killer.
Predictably, Rachel’s expression dimmed. Flashing a fake smile at their hosts, who were busy drawing back drapes to show them yet another landscape, she turned her back on them and glared at him.
“This fucking thing? You mean our wedding? Or am I getting married to myself here? You said you wanted this. You said you didn’t want to wait to get married. Were you lying to me?” Her voice wobbled along with her bottom lip.
Jesus. Here come the fucking waterworks. The last thing he needed.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, Rach. Of course it’s what I want.”
“Then what’s wrong? You’ve been grouchy all week. Did I do something?”
He rubbed a weary hand over his jaw, suppressing a sigh. Not even the thought that Rachel usually followed every did-I-do-something? query with a very physical demonstration of an apology could shift his mood. In fact, he was relieved they were in public so she couldn’t do anything like that.
The reason behind his relief darkened his mood further.
The wedding photos Mariella had sent weren’t the only things bugging him. He’d been unable to stop thinking about Vanessa since he walked out of Elana’s wedding. And the couple of times he’d gone to Casa Cat this week, he’d been damn sure she’d gone out of her way to avoid him.
What irritated him more than anything else was the fact that his head and heart couldn’t seem to take the hint. Why the hell couldn’t he stop thinking about her?
“Luc?”
He refocused on Rachel. “No, you didn’t do anything.” He attempted a smile, breathed a sigh of relief when the pinched look left her face. “I’ll do better. Promise.”
He followed her into the next room, made the right noises. Right up until they started discussing which brand of soap Rachel would prefer her bridesmaids to have in their bathroom. Fuck that.
He mentally checked out. Spent a not-so-blissful twenty minutes