Take Me Page 8

  We stay that way until we fear that we will shrivel in the tub, then Damien lifts me out, dries me off, and carries me to the bed, tucking me gently under the cool sheets.

  "You haven't told me what you're doing about your dress," Damien says moments later as we twine together in the bed, half drifting off to sleep.

  "I went back inside after Mother left," I tell him. "It's not perfect, but they had a dress that was my size in the back."

  "Do you like it?"

  I shrug. The truth is that it's a lovely dress that any bride would be thrilled with. But it's not my dress, and what girl is happy with sloppy seconds?

  "I'm sorry, baby," he says, kissing my bare shoulder.

  "It's okay, really. I promise you'll think I'm stunning."

  "I always do."

  I smile, and I'm still smiling as I start to drift off. I'm just about to slide into the sweet oblivion of sleep when I remember one other thing. "You still awake? I have a brilliant idea."

  "I'm always awake for brilliance," he says.

  "I got the idea from those tweets of us from Raven."

  "Us?"

  "Us girls," I clarify.

  "Uh-huh. If this is about inviting the Raven men to the wedding, I'm going to exercise my veto power."

  "Very funny. No, I was thinking about our photographer problem. I know I told you I wanted to make sure we had wedding portraits, but we can sit for a portrait anytime. Besides, I want to remember the day, not a pose. And I was thinking that we could do the same thing all those folks did in tweets."

  "Which is?"

  "Candid shots. We give each guest a camera as a wedding souvenir. And then we have them drop the memory cards in a bowl before they leave. We'll get a ton of fabulous pictures of our friends, us, dancing, eating. They won't be professional, but they'll be fun. And they'll be us. And not the kind of tacky pictures that the paparazzi will snap from the beach. What do you think?"

  "I think you're brilliant," he says. "Brilliant and beautiful. And I cannot wait to be your husband."

  I smile in contentment and love. "Me, either," I say, and then, finally, I close my eyes, snuggle closer to Damien, and let sleep tug me under.

  Damien is already gone when I wake up on Friday. He's left word with Grayson that he has some business to attend to before we leave on our honeymoon and that he will either be at the office or looking at various properties with Mr. Black.

  I put a waffle in the toaster--which pretty much sums up my culinary skills--and eat it without syrup on the patio while I make some morning phone calls. The first one is to Sylvia, and I explain my plan about the cameras. She thinks it's brilliant, and swears that she has plenty of time to handle it.

  "I'll make sure they're delivered by morning. Seriously, Nikki, don't worry about it. Rest a little today. You deserve it. And you'll need it for your honeymoon."

  I roll my eyes, but since she's right, I don't argue. Instead, I actually do the delegation thing and email her the names of three bands I auditioned, liked, but rejected. It's not a perfect solution, but it is a low-stress one. She promises to call them, see who's still available, and to pick the best one.

  I thank her and sign off, then try to decide on the appropriate form of pre-wedding relaxation. I actually managed to finish Damien's scrapbook last night, so that's out. And while my own work has been stacking up, somehow the idea of getting onto the computer and programming just doesn't appeal.

  About the only thing that does, actually, is a walk along the beach. And since I don't want to go alone, I head downstairs to the first-floor guest suite, knock, and then head into Jamie's darkened room.

  Normally, I'd let her sleep. But since this is my last day as a single best friend, I figure an exception is in order. I pull the covers back and give her a little shake.

  "Mmm, Ryan . . ."

  I lift my brows, because that's a very interesting development, but Jamie doesn't indulge me by talking in her sleep again. Instead, she bolts upright, springing awake.

  "Holy fuck, Nikki," she screeches. "What the hell are you doing?"

  I shrug. "Wanna take a walk on the beach?"

  Fortunately, Jamie is easygoing. She shoots me a couple of dirty looks for good measure, throws in a curse, but gets dressed. We're down at the beach within fifteen minutes.

  "So, do you have anything to tell me?" I ask.

  She stares at me like I'm a loon. "The moon isn't made of green cheese. Masturbation doesn't make you go blind. Jethro Tull is a band, not a guy. How do those work for you?"

  "Not bad," I say. "I was thinking more along the lines of Ryan."

  She slows her step. "What about him?"

  "Ever since Damien had him take you home that time, you've had this thing."

  I expect her to deny it. Instead, she shrugs. "So?"

  "So there really is a thing?"

  "Not as far as he's concerned," she says, her tone frustrated. "As far as I can tell, I'm invisible to him."

  I hook my arm through hers. "I can't imagine you being invisible to anyone."

  "I know, right? I mean, what's up with that?"

  I laugh. "So what are you going to do?"

  "About Ryan?"

  "About you."

  She slows her pace. "I don't know. I didn't get that commercial that Caleb is directing, but it felt nice doing the audition thing again. But I don't want to get back on the same hamster wheel, you know? And I'm--" She glances at me, then clams up.

  "What?"

  "Nothing."

  "James . . ."

  "Fine. Whatever. It's just that everything changes with you getting married."

  "I'm still your best friend." I stop walking, and tug her to a stop, too.

  "Well, duh," she says, in a way that sends a shock of relief running through me. "I just mean that I don't think I'd do that great living by myself. In case you hadn't noticed, I have a tendency to run a little wild. And you're off the roommate market. I thought about living with Ollie, but that might be weird."

  "Ya think?"

  She waves a hand. "Nah, that's over," she says, referring to their romps between the sheets. "But it still might be weird. Where is he, anyway? He's coming to the wedding, right?"

  "He's supposed to be at the dinner tonight." Since we're not doing a big wedding, we're not having an official rehearsal dinner. But we are getting a whole slew of our friends together. "He's been in New York. Depositions, I think he said."

  "And Damien's cool with him coming tonight?"

  "Like you said, it might be weird, but on the whole it's okay. They aren't ever going to call each other up to go have a beer at the corner pub, but I think we can manage the occasional dinner and social event."

  "Good." She crosses her arms over her chest. "Change sucks."

  I think about the changes in my life since Damien entered it, and the ones that are coming. A wedding. Hopefully a family. I smile, then start walking again, tugging Jamie along beside me. "No," I say firmly. "You'll see. Change doesn't have to suck at all."

  Le Caquelon in Santa Monica is closed tonight for our private party. Alaine, Damien's childhood friend and best man, owns the fondue-style restaurant, and has graciously offered it for this evening's party.

  I love the place, with its funky decor and wild colors. The last time I was here, Damien and I shared a very private booth. Tonight, everyone is gathered in the main restaurant. We are laughing, talking, and toasting. And, of course, indulging in the various fondue pots that Alaine has scattered throughout.

  He has turned off the restaurant's normal New Age music in favor of piping Rat Pack tunes from the speakers. Apparently he is aware that Damien and I share a love of Sinatra, Dean Martin, and the rest.

  I smile at Damien, who is talking to Ollie and Evan across the room. He leaves them, then strides to me and pulls me close, easing me around the makeshift dance floor before dipping me, much to the amusement of the other guests. "I am a genius," he says.

  "So I've been told."

&nbsp
; "I also own a stereo," he adds.

  "This is also a fact that I'm aware of. I assume there's some sort of connection coming."

  He points to the speakers. "We don't need a band tomorrow. We just need a DJ."

  I gape at him. "You are a genius. Except I already told Sylvia to hire a band."

  "She didn't have the heart to tell you, but they've all been booked." He leans closer, nips my earlobe, then whispers, "I think you may be exhibiting signs of stress. My assistant was trying to protect you. I can't say I blame her."

  I laugh and push him away, then immediately pull him back into my arms. "You're in a good mood."

  "Of course I am. Haven't you heard? I'm getting married tomorrow."

  "Lucky man," I say.

  "Very," he replies, and the intensity of his gaze acts like an underscore to the word.

  "I have something for you," I say, tugging him to the far side of the restaurant where all the women have piled our purses. I had brought a huge tote, and now I pull out the present wrapped in silver paper.

  He takes it, his expression so much like a boy on Christmas morning that I laugh with delight. "Go ahead," I urge.

  He peels off the paper, studies the book, then slowly opens it. I know the first image he sees--a snapshot of the two of us in Texas six years ago. It was an offhand shot by a local news reporter and it never even made the paper. I lucked into it after a call to the paper's morgue. "Nikki," he says, and there is awe in his voice. He flips through the pages, and the love I see in his eyes makes my knees go weak.

  I watch as he examines every page, every memory. When he is finished, he closes the book with reverence, sets it gently on the table, and then pulls me close. "Thank you," he says, those two words holding a lifetime of emotion.

  He kisses me gently, then leads me back to the crowd. "I have a gift for you, as well," he says, then looks at his watch. "I need about fifteen more minutes."

  My brow furrows as I wonder what he could be up to, but I nod. "That gives me plenty of time to make the circuit and eat more chocolate. Come with?"

  "Of course," he says, then follows me to the chocolate fondue station. Alaine is there, and we chat for a while. Then Alaine and Damien go off to talk with Blaine and Evelyn. Since I have something to ask Evelyn, I almost follow them, but Ollie approaches, and I pause to give him a hug.

  "Hey, deposition guy. How goes the wild and woolly world of civil litigation?"

  "Wild and woolly," he replies with a grin. "And over. At least for a few weeks." He waves to Charles Maynard, his boss, then leads me into a corner. "Charles asked if I wanted a transfer back to New York."

  "Really? Why?"

  "Courtney, I think. I asked for the transfer to LA originally to be closer to her. Now that we're not a couple . . ." He trails off.

  "Are you going to take him up on the offer?" Ollie and I haven't been as close lately, but I know that I will miss him if he moves.

  "Thinking about it. But I'm on the fence. I love Manhattan, but LA has its perks, too." He looks at me as if there is something else he wants to say.

  "What?"

  He hesitates, then barrels forward. "Do you think there's any chance of repairing the damage with Courtney?"

  I feel my shoulders sag. "You fucked up, Ollie. Big time. We all love you. Hell, she loves you. But I don't know if that's enough."

  "No," he says. "I don't, either."

  I squeeze his hand. "I'm here if you need me."

  "I know," he says, then hugs me. "I'm glad."

  I return the hug tightly, thinking that this is another nice thing about weddings--it lets you clear out the last of the ghosts lingering in your past.

  I make the circuit, chatting with Ryan and Edward, with Steve and Anderson. Charles and Blaine come up and I try to get some sense of where Charles stands on Ollie's move, but he's saying nothing.

  Sylvia and Ms. Peters and others on Damien's staff are here as well. And, of course, there's Evelyn.

  "I've been trying to corner you all night," I say to her.

  "Funny, I was just thinking that you were the popular one." She steps back and examines me in that sentimental way folks have of looking at brides before the wedding. "You're good for him, Texas. Hell, you're good for each other."

  "Yes, we are," I say. "Did Damien tell you about my mother?"

  "I heard some of it from him," she admits. "I think I heard the rest from Jamie."

  I grin. That doesn't really surprise me.

  "I sent her packing," I say. "And I never asked her to walk me down the aisle, even though she's the only parent I've got."

  "Parent?" she repeats. "You know better than that, Texas. Family's what you make of it, and that woman may have given birth to you, but she's not your family, not really."

  I look around this room filled with friends, and have to nod. "I know," I say. "But you're family, and I love you." I take a deep breath. "Would you walk me down the aisle?"

  I think I see tears in her eyes, but I don't say anything. I just give her a moment to gather herself, even while I'm holding close to my heart the knowledge that my request moved her. "Hell yes, Texas," she finally says. "You better believe I will."

  Moments later, Damien calls me over to where he stands chatting with Evan. He pulls a flat silver box out of his pocket, and hands it to me.

  "I can open it?"

  "Of course."

  I rip the paper off. I lift the top off to reveal a beautiful necklace with a silver chain and sunshine-yellow gemstones. "Damien, it's lovely." I glance down at the emerald ankle bracelet I always wear, feeling spoiled.

  "I remembered the flowers on your wedding gown. I thought this would match them."

  My heart twists at his thoughtfulness. "But that was the first dress," I explain.

  "I know," he says, as Evan reaches over and grabs a large box off the floor. He sets it on the table, and I look between the two men with curiosity. "Go ahead," Damien urges. "Open it. I think you'll find the necklace appropriate, after all."

  Wary, I pull off the lid, and find myself gazing down at my beautiful, missing wedding dress.

  "How--?"

  "I have a few friends who have a unique ability to track down internationally shipped items that have gone missing," Evan says.

  "Oh." I glance at Damien, wondering if that means what I think it does. But his face reveals nothing. To be honest, I really don't care how or where he found my dress. I'm just glad it's arrived.

  "Alyssa's coming to the house in the morning. She'll take care of any alterations on-site," Damien adds, and I lean over and kiss him impulsively, this man who takes such exceptionally good care of me.

  "Thank you," I say to Damien, then turn to include Evan. "Thank you both. You saved me."

  A sense of relief sweeps over me, and for the first time since I started this wedding planning thing, I feel truly stress-free. It feels nice.

  I reach out and hold tight to Damien's hand. This, I think, is the only thing that's important.

  The party continues until well into the night, and it's almost two by the time we get home. I'm about to strip and fall into bed when I realize that I've missed a call. I put the phone on speaker and listen as the message plays.

  "Hi, Nikki, this is Lauren with the flowers for tomorrow. I just wanted to let you know that we're all set. It was last minute, but we were happy to make the change."

  I frown and glance at Damien, who looks as confused as I feel.

  "So we'll be there in the morning to set up, this time with the lilies and gardenias. And we're sending a selection over to Sally, too, for the cake. Thanks again, and we can't wait to see you tomorrow. Congratulations again to you and Damien."

  The call ends, and I stare at the phone like it is a serpent.

  What the fuck?

  What the bloody fuck?

  "She switched them," I say. "My mother actually fucked with my wedding." I meet Damien's gaze. I know mine is angry. His is murderous. Not because of the flowers--I sincerely doubt
he cares about sunflowers versus gardenias--but because of what that woman has done to me over and over and over.

  "It's like she's reaching out from Texas and twisting the knife. Like there is no pleasure in her life unless she's screwing with me."

  I stalk around the bedroom, trying to get my head together. I feel cold and angry and out of control. Whatever pleasure I'd felt when Damien and Evan presented me with my wedding dress has been swept away. It's as if this wedding will never truly be my own. And now I either have to endure a wedding with my mother's stamp upon it, or I have to spend my wedding day sorting out this mess.

  "Dammit," I howl.

  "It will be okay," Damien says, pulling me into his arms.

  "I know it'll be okay. It's not like we're talking about curing cancer. But that's not the point. She just went and turned the whole thing around on me."

  "And at the end of the day, we'll still be married," he says reasonably.

  I am in too bitchy a mood to listen to reason, but it's still there. Inescapable and true and hanging in the air between us.

  I stalk around the room a bit more, while Damien eyes me with trepidation, as if I'm a bomb about to go off.

  Smart man.

  Finally, the bubbling anger cools, leaving calm calculation.

  I feel the prickle of an idea, and slowly it grows. After a few more laps around the room, I stop in front of Damien.

  "I can fix this," I say.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I can howl and complain that she fucked up my wedding. Or I can turn it around on its ear, flip my mother the bird, and say that she didn't fuck up my wedding, she did me a favor."

  "Did she?"

  My smile is slow. "Yes. And I'll tell you why." I grab the collar of Damien's shirt, pull him toward me, once again feeling light and free. I kiss him hard. "I can tell you," I repeat, and then flash a smile full of wicked intentions, "but you're going to have to make me."

  Chapter Nine

  I stand on the third-floor balcony looking out at the calm Pacific. It is a beautiful evening, perfect for an outdoor wedding.

  It is almost sunset. Just about time for the ceremony to begin.

  Damien is beside me, his arm around my waist. The expanse of his property, lush green fading to pale sand, spreads out before us.

  Usually, the beach is empty this time of day. Right now, however, it is dotted with white tents and glowing lanterns. Guests mingle, indistinguishable from this distance, and I hear the soft strains of Frank Sinatra drifting up to us. Beyond the line of tents, the paparazzi are camped out, ready to pounce.