Wooing The Wedding Planner. Amber Leigh Williams
reasoned when he looked flabbergasted. She hadn’t broken the skin.
Seconds passed as he sized her up. Finally, he tilted his head in challenge. The wake-up call hadn’t worked. If anything, she’d poked the snake with a stick and it was coiled to strike harder. “You think you can take a swing at me like that and walk away?” he asked, advancing.
“Yes,” she said, putting her good hand out to shield herself. “It’s called consent. I didn’t give it.”
“Come here.”
He was used to giving orders. He was used to people following them. But Roxie wasn’t one of his subordinates. When he reached for her, she blurted, “I don’t want to hurt you again!” When he made a grab for her anyway, Olivia’s voice filled her head once more.
Hurt or be hurt.
Where? Roxie thought wildly.
Olivia answered. Go for the eyes. Gouge those suckers out. The groin’s good, too. Knee to the groin, very effective. Or, if you have to, just—
A long arm snatched Bertie away. His hold loosened, throwing Roxie off balance. She staggered, gaining her feet as an unmanned elbow came down against Bertie’s neck. He crumbled, his face and hands close-encountering the gravel drive. It was then that Roxie saw Byron.
He’d loosened his tie. Reaching up, he tugged at his collar. His neck was red, his lips seamed tight. He eyed Bertie’s prone form in a way that made the sea-tinged air go from chilly to glacial.
His eyes were blue. She knew that. Conversation with him was always very distracting with those midnight blues smiling back at her. However, under the low beam of the streetlight, they looked black. She wanted to reach out to him, soothe the deadly look on his face. Maybe assure herself he was still Byron. She’d never have guessed that behind the smiling eyes there was this.
“Get up,” he sneered at Bertie. “Get the hell up.”
“Byron,” Roxie said. Damn it, her lips were quivering.
He held up a hand without turning his head to her. “Just a second, duchess.” When Bertie didn’t rise quickly enough, Byron hauled him up by the back of his jacket. “Turn around,” he warned, not raising his voice. God. Not that he had to.
Bertie lifted his face. There was blood in his nostrils. He sniffed wetly. “My nose. You goddamn broke it!” Scowling, he pinched the bridge. “I was just dropping the lady off. You don’t know what’s going on here, chuck.”
“The hell I don’t,” Byron told him. “Now, judging by your breath, I’d say you’ve gone one too many rounds with the Grey Goose tonight. Maybe normally you’re not the kind of guy who gets his jollies off feeling up a lady who in no way wants that type of attention. But, hey, what do I know? You could in fact be that pervert. So I’m going to give you one of two options...”
Bertie rolled his eyes. “For Christ’s sake—”
Byron jerked a finger in Bertie’s face. “Number one,” he said, undeterred, “you call a nice cabbie to take you back to the hole you crawled out of. You put the tavern and Ms. Honeycutt here in your rearview and you approach neither of them ever again.”
“You’re out of your mind,” Bertie remarked.
“Number two,” Byron continued, “you keep acting like the vodka-soaked prick I just saw take advantage of my friend, and I put my fist in your mouth and call every single one of the rough-and-tumble tavern regulars out from behind those doors to join me. You leave in an ambulance and your sweet little Merc gets towed to the garage with over a grand in damages. I testify as a witness in the sexual harassment suit that’ll be brought against you and you go to jail long enough at least for the other sex offenders to take a shine to you.”
Bertie’s eyes darkened. Roxie saw his fist come up and his body twist, coiled to strike. She cried out. Before the sound was partway out of her mouth, Byron quickly stepped into the space Bertie opened up in the area of his shoulder. He bent his arm and again the elbow came up against the brunt of Bertie’s head, snapping it back.
Bertie lost his footing, stumbling back to the 4x4 truck behind him. Byron’s hands closed over the other man’s throat. The words that growled low from within cut through Roxie as effectively as the wolfish wind. “I’m getting real tired of your attitude,” he warned, “and I’m just mad enough to knock out enough of those pearly whites to make you look like a clown at the circus. You’ve got exactly five seconds to change my mind. One...”
“Byron,” Roxie said again, touching his arm. “Really. He’s not worth it.”
“Two...”
Bertie’s face was turning an alarming shade of puce. His fingers clawed at Byron’s hands over his throat.
“Three...”
“Byron, please,” Roxie said, gripping the sleeve of his black shirt. “Stop.”
“Four...”
“All righ’,” Bertie wheezed. “All righ’. Lemme go.”
Byron gave it another few seconds, his eyes drilling into Bertie’s skull. Then he released him.
Roxie watched Bertie sink, gasping, to the ground. She felt sick.
Byron’s frame swelled and released over several breaths. Then his brow arched and he reached up to straighten his tie. “Informed decision. There might be hope for you yet, Lothario. Now make the call.”
“What about my car?” Bertie asked, his raspy voice carrying nothing more threatening than resentment. Effectively cowed.
Byron jerked a shrug. “A friend of yours can pick it up in the morning.”
“It’ll have to wait here?” Bertie asked. The incredulity shrank from his face when Byron tilted his head. A simple gesture with surprisingly lethal intent. “Okay,” he said, taking a smartphone out of his jacket pocket. “Dialing.”
They waited, none of them moving. Byron nodded from Roxie to the tavern doors. She shook her head. A stubborn move. Or maybe she just couldn’t get her legs to move.
This was her mess. She’d see Bertie off, if for cognitive reassurance alone.
Not that he said so much as boo to her when, a half hour later, the transportation service arrived. On the way to the van he trampled over the handbag she had dropped when he’d started taking liberties with her. Byron went so far as to open the door for Bertie.
After Bertie climbed inside, Byron leaned in to deliver one last ultimatum. “If I get wind of you around here again, we’ll assume you’ve forfeited the first option and there won’t be a cop in town who’s not on the lookout for your license plate and VIN number.”
Bertie muttered something about good ol’ boys. Byron rolled the taxi door into place and gave the window a few raps. It wasn’t until dust rose in the van’s taillights that Byron strolled to where the handbag lay and picked it up. It was beaded and yellow. In his hands, it looked as delicate as one of those Imperial Russian Fabergé eggs they kept behind glass in the Winter Palace. She focused on it, swallowing, as he dusted it off. Her throat was sore, strained by tension. She expelled a breath, reaching for clarity. “Was the choke hold really necessary?” she asked.
He turned to her. The streetlight fell over him like a halo. His long, rich black hair was smoothed back from his face. It fell to the nape of his neck. It should be illegal to be so effortlessly handsome. In profile, his long face was a half-moon thanks to his large chin. He had an ever-present five-o’clock shadow. His proud aquiline nose was a touch overlong but it spoke of his Mediterranean heritage and suited him well.
At six-five, his broad frame saved him from being lanky despite his trim physique. His shoulders filled his button-up shirt.
It had been ten and a half months since she’d wept on him—and that long precisely since she abandoned any long-held notions of fairy-tale