Chapter 8
“Do you think you can hack into his files and make sure there isn’t a backup somewhere that Henry didn’t know about, and delete them?” Jane asked Roxy.
The second she’d returned to her room, she’d set up a video conference with her friend to see what Roxy could do about those compromising pictures. She couldn’t believe someone who once claimed to love you could then go and do something so damaging. Then again, Henry said her ex had never been in it for love. He’d been in it for the money. Poor Sarah.
And poor Henry, having to be placed in that difficult position. Not that he’d even hesitate to get those pictures under lock and key, but having to tell his sister the hard truth must have been painful and difficult.
“You give me permission and I could put that dickhead himself in the delete file,” Roxy said.
“While I am sure Henry would approve, I don’t think there is a story big enough to weave to get you out of premeditated murder. Plus, Bride Buddy—singular—doesn’t have the same ring.”
Roxy sighed. “That’s the problem with you. There are so many rules.”
Jane thought of earlier that afternoon and how many rules she’d broken. From staring at Henry’s mouth while he’d been sipping wine to watching his large, masculine hands wrap all the way around the glass with a gentle strength that had her head spinning stories about just how good those hands would feel on her knee, her thighs, higher. To sharing memories about her past. Her past! Not Elle’s!
She shoved a spoonful of chocolate lava cake into her mouth. “Rules are there for a reason,” she said around crumbs.
Roxy leaned in to the monitor and studied Jane as if she were a new species of bug trapped under a microscope. “Says the woman who plays dress-up for a living.” Roxy grinned from ear to ear and sat back in her chair. “Something happened. Something that has to do with a male. Still no orgasm, that stick is firmly lodged up your ass, but something is different.”
“Just doing my job,” Jane said, casual as casual can be.
“Then why are you mainlining chocolate like it’s porn?”
There was no point in lying to Roxy. Her friend was like a wolf on the hunt, once she sank her teeth into something she would tear it apart until only the carcass remained. Plus, as her business partner, she deserved to know the truth.
“Fine. It’s no big deal, and completely business related, but I spent the day wine tasting with Henry and I might have gotten a little tipsy.”
Roxy smiled. “Just how tipsy we talking?”
She covered her face in disgust. “Tipsy enough that I told him my dad was dead.”
She was met with silence so thick it could suffocate a person. She parted two fingers and peeked through them to see a very concerned, yet amused Roxy. “Funny, because Elle’s dad is alive and kicking, living in Manhattan with wife number three. He likes yachting, pickleball, and making random appearances in the social section of the Times.”
“I know. It was the wine.”
“This is bad, Jane. I mean really bad. All it takes is Henry seeing a photo of the real Mr. Vaughn and we are in breach of contract. We could lose this whole contract and have to reimburse Sarah. Do you know how much money we’d be out?”
Between the clothes, hotel room, airplane tickets, and other miscellaneous items, it added up to more than Jane had in her savings.
“The main person she wanted to keep this from was her brother. Plus, she probably hired us using her brother’s money. Super conflict of interest,” Roxy went on.
“I know.”
“Does Sarah know you slipped up?”
“God, no! And I’m not going to tell her.”
“Good call. No need to shoot yourself in the foot and all that.” Roxy’s face was back filling the screen, assessing. “Are you sure it was just the wine? You never talk about your dad’s death. Not even to me. And I’ve known you since college.”
Jane’s whole life was a carefully spun web of stories. One wrong detail and it would come crashing down like a game of pick-up sticks on a teeter-totter. Plus, if there were one person she didn’t tell stories to, it was Roxy. She was the first friend Jane had come clean to about her dad and her real life, and the only person besides Georgia who knew the real Jane and loved her anyway. She’d always vowed that when it came to their friendship honesty was the only way to go.
“I want to say yes, but I’m not sure. He started sharing personal stories and before I knew it, I forgot I was Elle and Jane came out to play. And you know what? He liked Jane. Do you know the last time a guy liked Jane? Not that it has anywhere to go. Because he thinks I’m Elle.” She flopped back on the bed. “God, this is a mess.”
“Enough of the woe-is-me crap,” Roxy said. She was more of a tough love kind of friend. With the kind of childhood Roxy had endured it was a miracle she’d let anyone in her circle. “So he thinks you’re Elle. So what? Why does it have to go further than the sack? He’s hot, you’re hot. Enjoy a holiday fling, then you part ways. People do it all the time. You are twenty-six and you’ve never had a fling. This is your chance.”
“We don’t even like each other.” Today had been an alcohol-induced anomaly.
“Even better. Hate-fueled sex is the best.”
Before Jane could answer, there was a knock at the door.
“Who the hell is that?” Roxy asked, because she knew rule number one when going as an undercover bridesmaid was never invite anyone to your room.
Jane scooted off the bed. “I swear if it is Sarah again, I am going to kill her. Hang on.”
She walked to the door and checked the peephole, and her stomach hit the floor with a thud. Because standing on the other side in a dark gray button-down that was at war with his biceps, a sleek black tie, and a pair of bedroom eyes if she’d ever seen them, stood the man, the legend, the reason for this whole mess.
Henry.
“You going to stand there all day looking at me, love? Or are you going to let me in?”
She’d already let him in and that was the problem.
Panic swirled in her belly like a category five tornado. “Hang on,” she choked out.
She looked down at her plaid pajama bottoms and matching top, which had a smear of chocolate lava cake on the hem, then at the Bride Board on her wall and her heart neared stroke levels. She raced back to the computer and pushed her face to the screen.
“It’s him! And he wants to come in!” she whisper-hissed.
“Maybe he just wants to come. Period.”
“Can you be serious, for just two seconds.” Jane flipped the laptop around so her friend could see the massive Bride Board.
“I see the problem.”
“Not to mention I am dressed like a middle-class military brat and not in some silky robe and feathered kitten heels.”
“No one wears kitten heels anymore, Jane.”
“I can stand here all night,” came from the other side of the door.
She squeaked and ran a nervous hand through her hair. “I need a plan.”
“You’re the one with a color-coded, multi-tabbed binder to organize your bills and you’re asking me for a plan? Man, you’re a mess.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!”
“Okay, first, get rid of the murder board. Rip it all down and put it in your suitcase.”
Jane was on that assignment like ink on paper. Thumbtacks shot through the air and red yarn tangled in her hair as she shoved photos, Post-its, and printouts in her suitcase like it was an Olympic sport. By the time she was done, she was sweating like a boxer in the heavyweight championship.
Swiping a wet bead off her forehead, she went back to the laptop. “Now what?”
“Strip.”
“What?” she croaked. “You think Elle would sleep with him after their date?”
“Glad to know you consider it a date.”
“I don’t, but Elle would.”
“Would Elle sleep with him?”
“Probably.”
“Then it looks like you’ll have to take one for the team. Method acting and all.” Roxy must have seen the panic drain Jane’s face because she said, “Kidding. I just want you to put on the bathrobe and pretend you were in the shower. Now make it snappy.”
“Right, good idea. This is the role of my life.” Jane stripped down to her birthday suit and then threw on an Elle-inspired robe—pink silk with tiny blue peonies on it that hit mid-thigh and was meant to be a statement more than it was functional, and she was making a statement that she was Elle Vaughn.
With a flick of the wrist, it was secured with a flimsy ribbon acting as a belt, then she wrapped her very dry hair into a towel.
With a deep and grounding breath,she sent up a little prayer to God, Buddha, and Betty White for strength, then opened the door.
“You rang,”was all she said, inspiring a dozen snappy comebacks right there, sitting on the tip of Henry’s tongue. But then he saw Elle in that robe, face clean of makeup, looking fresh and sexy as hell, and they all dried up.
The robe was practically see-through, allowing him to make out the swell of her breasts, the valley of her cleavage, the form of her hips. Then there were her legs peeking out from beneath the hem—all that tan, toned skin. But it was that bloody belt that had him breaking out in a sweat. It was about a quarter inch thin and fastened right under her breasts, which made no sense at all because belts were made to go around the waist, but he wasn’t complaining. It accentuated her curves and inspired a hundred different situations where a belt like that would come in handy.
Like secured to the headboard of his bed. Or hers.
“Eyes up here,” Elle said, sounding bored.
He took his time getting there, just to annoy her, and by the time they locked gazes, she was livid.
“What took you so long?” he asked, wondering who that robe was meant for. Herself or was she entertaining someone else?
His forehead folded in on itself at the idea of someone else being in there. She had made it clear the other night she was on the prowl for a companion. Maybe she’d found herself one. And why did that bother him?
“I was just getting out of the shower.”
“If you say so,” he said, strolling past her and into her room, his gaze raking every corner, relief flooding when he realized she was, indeed, alone. Granted, someone could be in the closet, but she didn’t seem like the kind of person to hide a man from him. Nope, she’d shove him in Henry’s face just to prove she wasn’t attracted to him.
Which should be a good thing since sleeping with his sister’s bridesmaid was a bad move.
But that robe. Damn, it blew all his reasons to steer clear to high heaven.
“Please, do come in,” she deadpanned.
To keep himself from sporting a woody then and there, he focused on the room, surprised by the size. It was small, tidy but small. He’d imagined a woman with her means would have reserved a suite like he had done for himself and each of his family members.
All her things were put in their place. Her suitcase was stacked neatly in the corner, and a few thumbtacks were scattered around the floor, which was a bit odd, but he let it go. On the nightstand was a book. A romance book by the cover, which struck him as strange since she didn’t strike him as a romantic. And on top was a?—
“And what do we have here?” He walked over to her nightstand, and she raced past him and grabbed the vibrator before he could get a good look at it.
She shoved it under a pillow and her fair skin went red, making her freckles stand out even more. He’d never been into freckles. But he was becoming more and more fond of them by the second.
“It seems you’ve found your date after all. My cousin Philip will be heartbroken,” he said.
“Like you don’t…you know.”
He took a step forward into the sweet floral scent that he was coming to obsess over. “Please explain it to me so I can be certain we are on the same page.”
“Masturbate.” She looked at his crotch and he felt it twitch. All it took was her saying the word and glancing its direction, and his dick was ready to sprout wings. She noticed and grinned.
“Onanism.” She stepped closer. “Self-love.” Lowered her voice to a breathy whisper. “Solo play.” Closer. “Rub one out. Spank the monkey. Flying solo.” So close he could feel her words skate across his skin. “Beat off. Cooking the cucumber. Choking the bishop. Clitorizing. Petting the cat.” She placed her palms flat against his chest, which had seized up, unlike what was going on in his pants. “Or as you Brits would say, ‘Wanking.’”
Then there she was, leaning into him until he was certain she was going to invite him into a little double action wanking, but at the last moment she zigged right past him, like a spring breeze, and placed her vibrator back on top of her book.
“Now, did you come here to ask to borrow my lube, or did you have something else on your mind?”
Besides giving her smart mouth something else to concentrate on? Yeah, he did but he’d rather swallow razor blades than bring it up. Especially since their usual animosity and banter was back. But he’d created a potential PR nightmare and now it was time to handle it before it blew up in his face. Especially with his sister’s wedding this weekend.
“Actually, I came to talk about Sarah.”
That playful smile of hers faded into concern and he wished he’d never said a word. She didn’t smile often, not that genuine smile she did when they were together, like she meant it. Not the one that was clearly manufactured to reassure others.
Elle headed for the door, as if ready to spring into bridesmaid action. “Is she okay? Where is she?”
He gently grabbed her elbow, letting his hand slide down to hers. It was as soft as the robe. Softer. Before he knew what he was doing, their fingers were laced and they were sitting together on the bed, their thighs brushing—those big, beautiful, more-hazel-than-green-today pools looking up at him with so much concern. “She’s fine.”
Elle encased his hand between the both of hers and tilted her head. “Then what’s wrong?”
“Remember how I told you about the photos? It would kill Sarah if she ever found out or if even a rumor of their existence was leaked.”
A knowing expression overtook her face but not before a flash of hurt crossed her eyes. “I’d never let anything get out that could hurt Sarah like that. I promise.”
He wanted to believe her, but he’d been burned before. Yet he’d opened his big mouth and sang like a canary, so he had no choice but to see how things played out. Sadly, in the end, everyone had their price. Then again, women like Elle didn’t need money, but some people spilled the tea for the rush of it all, to be a part of the drama for even just their fifteen minutes.
She isn’t like that, his gut said. But he’d been wrong in the past. He just hoped he wasn’t wrong this time.
A knowing expression crossed her face. “I know what it’s like to have your secrets spilled for everyone to hear and judge. I’d never put someone else through that. You have to trust me.”
“Trust doesn’t come easy for me.”
“Then I guess I’ll just have to prove it to you.”