EPILOGUE
Six Months Later
Imogen
Thirty-six bobby pins secured her hair. Imogen was confident of the number because she’d counted each one the hairdresser had stabbed into her head. By sixteen, she’d thought they’d been almost finished, but the woman had pushed her glasses up her nose, squinched her eyes in concentration, and proceeded to add twenty more. It had taken over half an hour, but she’d tied Imogen’s hair into an elaborate updo, leaving a wave of bangs to frame her face.
Whatever the woman had sprayed on them managed to make them itchy, and Imogen had to fight the urge to scratch her forehead. It didn’t help her nerves that everyone bustled around her. Her bedroom at her parent’s mansion had become her bridal suite. The four-poster bed was strewn with purses, shawls, and who knows what. Women cluttered the sitting area, sipping champagne cocktails and talking about things she cared little about, like what Missy Covington wore to the ball last week.
Today’s my wedding day.
Just thinking that sent butterflies swirling through her belly. Not because she was nervous about getting married but because part of her was still worried that Mat would change his mind.
She felt like one of those women on reality TV shows who’d agreed to get married without any guarantee that her groom would be waiting when she walked down the aisle. But, she supposed, no one ever really had a guarantee. Even with couples who’d been together for a long time before tying the knot, there was always the possibility one of them would back out.
Imogen sighed and smoothed a hand over her excited stomach. Mat loved her. That she knew for certain, but the thing that had her insides on a rollercoaster loop was the fanfare waiting for them outside. Because of it, she needed reassurance he hadn’t skipped out on her. Although, with all the pomp and circumstance her mother had drummed up, she didn’t think she’d blame him. The ceremony would be held on the lawn in front of the winter garden, and a reception would follow in the ballroom. None of it was for Imogen, not really. She’d leave it behind as long as Mat took her with him this time.
“Put this on, mijita .”
As her mother tried to stick her hand in a lace glove, Imogen snapped. The retinue of women in her space was driving her crazy. After enduring it for the last two hours, she’d tired of being pruned, preened over, and gawked at like a rose at a flower show. She couldn’t handle being dressed like a doll as well.
“Everyone out!” At her shout, seven faces turned to her, frozen in shock. The hairdresser, the stylist, her mother, two aunts, a cousin, and a woman she barely knew from one of her mother’s charities stared wide-eyed as she worked to get herself under control.
Thankfully, her brother barged through the door and broke the tension holding everyone captive. “Hey, Imogen. Aren’t you supposed to be dressed already?”
Emiliano stopped in the center of the room, glancing at the quiet entourage of ladies with a frown. “What’d I miss?”
Imogen strode forward, latching onto her brother’s arm. “Emil, I need you to bring Mat to me.”
“What for? Aren’t you about to—”
“Emil, please!” Unwittingly, she dug her fingernails into his skin.
“Christ! Are you trying to claw my arm off?” He tried to shake her grip, but Imogen held on.
“Emiliano, language!” their mother chastised.
“Sorry, Mother.” He gave Senora Sanchez a sheepish grin before glaring down at Imogen, but he must’ve sensed her desperation because his expression softened, and he patted her hand. “Okay, mana . I’ll go get him.”
Finally, she felt like she could breathe easier. “Thank you,” she said, her voice thick with feeling.
Emiliano left, but Imogen still needed to get rid of everyone else. She tried a more tactful approach this time. “Everyone out, please.” She even smiled with congeniality.
Her mother twisted the lace glove in her hand, her voice ringing with distress. “But the dress!”
“Mother, please.” Imogen gripped her hands, giving them a calming squeeze to stop the anxious twisting. “Just give me ten minutes.”
Her mother opened her mouth, but before she could argue any further, Imogen pleaded, “Please. Ten minutes then I’ll put on the dress, walk down that aisle, and make this the talked about event of the year.”
Senora Sanchez sighed, aware she wouldn’t change Imogen’s mind. “Ten minutes.”
“Thank you, mamá ,” Imogen spoke quietly, but the rarely used tender endearment softened her mother’s expression. She touched Imogen’s cheek, then nodded with a smile before floating from the room.
When everyone had cleared out, Imogen tugged at the swoop of bangs styled across her forehead and stared at herself in the standing mirror. She looked pretty but hardly like herself. At least not her true self. The person she got to be with Mat. This version of her was what her mother always wanted her to be—perfection. But perfection wasn’t real.
She blew out a breath, and her bangs shifted. Annoyed at herself, she combed them back into place with her fingers, trying not to smudge the makeup the hairdresser had spent an hour carefully applying. Maybe she and Mat should elope, escape from it all and just enjoy each other. No family, no cameras, no pressure.
If it wouldn’t destroy her mother, she’d actually consider it. But family was too important to her. As much as she and her mother disagreed on how Imogen should live her life, she still loved her. Just as she loved her father. She wasn’t even sure she’d be having a wedding if they hadn’t received her father’s approval.
Having Senor Sanchez on board with Mat and Imogen’s nuptials, her mother quickly fell in line. It didn’t hurt, of course, that Mat had become a local celebrity. Touted as the hero of Liberty Station who braved the cartel and won, he was a feather in her mother’s cap. One she had no trouble flaunting.
Imogen glanced at her phone to check the time and prayed Emil would hurry up. They were down to seven minutes. Her hands started to sweat, and she brushed them against her robe. She was dressed in her undergarments and white heels, covered by a short silk bridal robe. In the outfit, she looked more like a burlesque dancer than a bride. Imogen grinned at the thought. Not that she didn’t have a striptease planned for Mat later, but he had to marry her first.
Her dress hung hidden in a bag behind her. It was the one thing she’d been able to choose for her wedding. Her mother had planned everything else. But the dress was hers. Thinking about the sheer lace bodice, which bled into a sparkle-encrusted sheath that flared at the bottom, put a dreamy smile on her face.
Mat’s going to love it.
As soon as she’d tried it on, she’d known it was the one. It hugged her curves and showed just enough skin to tease. She hadn’t put it on yet because she wanted it to be a surprise for him at the ceremony. And she had to speak with him first.
A loud knock sounded on her door, and Imogen called, “Come in!”
Her stomach jumped at the sight of Mat in his tux.
Talk about perfection.
Her gaze traveled up the black satin, which shimmered under the overhead light, across the silk chapels that framed his chest, and then snagged on the blindfold over his eyes. She had to suppress a giggle as her brother led Mat to her.
She placed her hand on either side of his head, fingers dipping under the material covering his face. Glancing at her brother, she asked, “Isn’t this your tie?”
Emiliano shrugged. “So?”
Sibling code required her to pick on him. She raised a brow and said, “Kinky.”
Her brother shook his head. “Shut up! It’s all I had.”
Laughter tickled her throat. “You know you didn’t have to blindfold him, right?”
Emiliano scowled. “I wasn’t sure if you’d have your dress on or not.”
“Wait”—Mat’s hands found her waist, bunching the silky material of her robe in his hands—“what are you wearin’, Gen?”
She chuckled. “Relax, vaquero . I’m decent.”
“Okay, I’ve heard enough.” Emil gagged and backed toward the door. “Mat, bring me the tie when you’re done,” he said before he shut it behind him.
Imogen untied the blindfold and slipped it from Mat’s face. He’d shaved the short beard he wore while undercover, and touching the smooth skin of his chiseled jaw, she smiled. “Good evening, Ranger.”
He dipped his head with a grin. “Princess.”
When he would’ve kissed her, she jumped backward. “We can’t!” Throwing up her hands to keep him at bay, she explained, “If we mess up any of the paint on my face, I’ll have to sit through another hour of torture while they fix it.”
His gaze raked down her body before he said with a grin, “We could make that hour worth it.”
The way he looked at her promised panty-melting pleasure, tempting her to give in, but then she thought of the bobby pins and couldn’t go through that again.
Shaking her head, she smiled ruefully. “Save that thought.” She took a deep breath and gripped his hands. “I asked you here because I wanted to make sure you were ready for this.”
She tugged him toward the window. Her bedroom was on the second story of the mansion. Below them, people milled among the cocktail tables her mother had set up under an elaborate array of event tents. Waving a hand at the spectacle, she whispered, “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to run.” He’d walked away from her before, and she had to be sure he wouldn’t do it again.
“Gen”—he lifted her hands to his lips—“we can ride out this shindig, elope, or go to the courthouse, I don’t care.” He kissed her fingers, then met her eyes and said, “All I need is you. The details, the five hundred people waitin’ on the lawn? They don’t matter.”
His easy acceptance had tears springing to her eyes. She fought furiously to blink them back; she absolutely could not mess up her makeup. “You’re all I need, too.” She managed a watery smile. “But I do love my dress.”
He leaned in to kiss her, then remembered her warning and groaned. “Well, you best put it on because I’m dyin’ to have you, and if I gotta wait ’til we say, ‘I do,’ we need to get this show on the road.” As he spoke, his hands gripped her waist and traveled over the curve of her hips before lingering on the swell of her bottom.
His weighty sigh made her chuckle. “If you want me to get dressed, you probably need to release me.”
“Uhuh.” The raspy murmur sent a shiver of anticipation across her neck. After one last squeeze and a smoldering look, he backed toward the door, snatching up Emiliano’s tie on the way.
She stopped him at the threshold. “I love you, Mateo Travers.”
The smile on his face promised forever, and it warmed her insides. “I love you, too, Imogen Sanchez.”
When the door closed behind him, she whispered to the empty room, “See you soon, esposo .”
Because he was going to be her husband. The certainty of it filled her body with a quiet calm, leaving her with peace enough to deal with the descending horde of ladies when the bedroom door cracked open.
“It’s been ten minutes, Imogen.”
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