Bring It On. Kira Sinclair
… especially his future wife. Former future wife.
Mitzi leaned forward, straining against Wyn’s hold. “I’m so sorry.”
Yeah, right.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen, Lena, honest. I ran into him at a club one weekend. We had a few drinks. One thing led to another.”
Despite the shock and pressure suffusing her chest, Lena’s own temper began to break through. How could this all be happening? On her wedding day.
“If you tell me he slipped and his dick fell into your vagina I’m going to strangle you.”
A nervous titter went up from the congregation beside her. Lena shot the entire mob a glare. Several of them stirred, the century-old wooden pews creaking beneath the weight of their guilty consciences.
“Mitzi, shut up.” The first words Wyn bothered to speak and they were seriously less than helpful.
Around Lena chaos finally erupted. A cacophony of noise reached out to grab her. Pain burst through her chest when she looked into Wyn’s eyes and realized that it was true. Guests talked to, at and above each other, making it difficult to pick out single voices from the crowd.
Her mother’s high-pitched squeal, “I always said your daughter was a whore,” joined her aunt’s “At least she isn’t a stuck-up snob who thinks she’s better than everyone else.”
Lena cringed at her aunt’s words. She was not a snob. She just preferred not to associate with her mother’s family. Frankly, they were all cut from the same self-absorbed, overly emotional cloth and she just didn’t have the energy to deal with them. Putting up with her mother was draining enough.
Two of her cousins, Barley and Matthew, grabbed Mitzi’s arms and tried to pull her away from the mass of people pouring up onto the steps of the sanctuary. Lena’s best friends had rounded on the poor girl, their faces livid as they yelled at her for ruining Lena’s wedding. And through it all, Wyn wouldn’t let Mitzi go.
Lena stood in the center of it all, the motion and noise rushing past her, completely ignored.
Lena stared at her cousin. Nineteen. The girl was at least eight years younger than Wyn. And in maturity and experience, he was light-years ahead.
A red haze filtered across Lena’s vision. She closed the few steps that had separated her from Wyn and hauled back and slapped him. “Bastard.”
Wyn looked stunned. Unfortunately, the livid red handprint across his cheek did nothing to dampen his perfect New England aristocratic good looks. For that, she hauled off and slapped him again.
Spinning on her heel, Lena tried to walk away, but the crowd of people pressed in around her. Her mother. Her cousin. Her best friends. Wyn. Wyn’s mother. The people who moments ago had ignored her in favor of yelling at each other suddenly wouldn’t let her leave.
Their fingers plucked at her. Someone stepped on her train. The dress had cost her six months’ salary but had been worth every penny. She’d dreamed of what she would wear on this day ever since she was six, and the reality had been perfect. Had being the operative word.
The nasty sound of ripping satin and tulle made her cringe and the ping of crystal beads as they hit the marble floor made her want to scream. Her body jerked, straining against the phantom hold. And then she was blessedly free.
People, flower petals and sequins trailed in her wake as she raced down the aisle. She stumbled on the torn train, stopping long enough to scoop up the material and throw it over her elbow.
God, she must look a sight.
Her veil clouded around her face, obscuring her vision and irritating the hell out of her. Lena reached up, yanked the thing off and threw it at someone as she flew by.
“Don’t do anything rash, Lena. I’m sure you can work this out, dear,” Diane, Wyn’s mother, yelled behind her. The woman must really be panicked if she was willing to make that kind of public declaration. Diane was the perfect D.C. wife who spent her days organizing charitable events but didn’t have an identity outside of her family and husband. Her face was frozen in place by too much Botox. Her hair was pulled back so tightly Lena wondered how the woman didn’t have a permanent headache. And even on this day, her trademark single strand of pearls draped across the conservative neckline of her plum-colored dress.
That was what she’d almost signed up for. Relief washed over her.
But it was short-lived. Everywhere she looked there were people. Family, strangers, friends, enemies. All crying, yelling and full of pity.
She couldn’t take it. It was all too much.
Pressing her hands over her ears, Lena looked for a way out.
She was halfway across the church when a calm in the center of the storm appeared. Colt stood beside the heavy wooden doors at the back of the church. His long and languid body was propped against the elegantly carved frame, both hands shoved into the pockets of his tux pants, one ankle crossed over the other as if he was just hanging out there, waiting.
He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t freaking out.
She met his eyes, beautiful calm green eyes, so familiar and friendly. No pity or sorrow or anger or anything else, just Colt.
Relief pulsed beneath her skin, along with the urgent need to get out.
Her heels clicked against hard stone as she hurried toward Colt. Skidding to a halt, she looked into his eyes and said breathlessly, “Take me home.”
“GET ME OUT OF THIS THING,” she growled the minute her apartment door closed.
Not waiting for Colt to do as she’d asked, Lena craned her arms behind her, scrabbling at the tiny row of buttons running down the length of her spine. She struggled, twisting, trying in vain to reach them all and rid herself of the mountain of satin she’d crushed into the tiny passenger seat of his Porsche. That car definitely had not been made to hold two people and a wedding gown.
Brushing her fingers out of the way, Colt said, “Let me,” and finished the job for her.
The slight tremor in her hands did not go unnoticed and Colt fought the urge—once again—to drive back to the church and beat the shit out of that sorry excuse for a man she’d almost married. The only thing that stopped him was knowing Lena wouldn’t want him to make a scene. She hated drama. Never wanted to be the center of attention. While it would definitely make him feel better, it wouldn’t do her any good.
He just hated to see her upset.
The bottom button had barely popped free before she was pushing the voluminous mess off her shoulders and down her body. Pulling at the slip beneath, she left the lump of satin behind. Miraculously, it retained its shape, a sad white bell of material with a hole where her body should have been.
She blew out a sigh of relief, pushing the swell of her breasts against the edge of the full-length bra that skimmed over her hips and waist. Colt tried to ignore the way his mouth went dry, telling himself it was a normal male reaction to any woman undressing in front of him.
This was Lena. They’d been friends since they were kids. And if he’d occasionally woken from erotic dreams about her in the past, he told himself that it was simply the pitfall of having a female friend. Men thought about sex all the time, right? It was inevitable that his brain would put two and two together eventually.
Lena disappeared down the hallway. Deciding not to follow, Colt went into the kitchen and filled a wineglass from the open bottle he found in the fridge. It was the same bottle that had been there when he’d visited three months ago on his way to film a piece in Spain. He remembered because he’d come from Alaska where the frigid temperatures had played havoc with the film equipment. He’d brought the bottle with him, picking it up in the airport. He could no longer recall which airport it had been, they all started to look the same after a while.
Colt shook his head, hoping the wine hadn’t spoiled. Yelling