Shelby
The Next Day
Why don't we make believe?
Never go to a meeting unprepared. That was my motto. And probably that of every successful businessperson on the planet. With that in mind, yesterday evening I had called Staci and Zander ahead of my planned shopping visit. I explained, in as little detail as possible, the situation—meeting with an ex, not Mitch—and the look I was going for—powerful and sexy. Unable to be intimidated. I asked them to set aside anything that might be suitable within my budget. Which was skimpy, despite my dating a billionaire.
Zander was an absolute master of creating an atmospheric, emotional look and finding secondhand designer clothes for a steal for his shop. He and Staci did a booming bridal business, but they also carried a fine line of other gently used designer clothes as well. If they couldn't help me, I'd have to stop by one of the other shops in town. I hoped it didn't come to that.
By the time I arrived at the shop last evening, Zander had already pulled together an outfit. He was a former drag queen who'd worked for an extremely successful dinner theater for years before opening his own shop. He was over six feet tall and still slender. One never knew how you'd find him dressed. Sometimes he was a beautiful woman and sometimes a distinguished older gentleman.
When I arrived, he was a gorgeous woman with beautiful long hair from the neck up, and a man in an immaculately tailored suit from the neck down to his feet, where he wore a pair of platform heels that were sturdy enough for a man, but still feminine.
He hugged me.
"I love your shoes," I said. "But you're giving me a crick in the neck looking up to you."
"When you've got it, flaunt it. Never be afraid of your height. Use it to your advantage. That's what I tell all the ladies." His smile was dazzling.
He led me to a rack of clothes he'd pulled aside for me—white slacks, white skirts, white dresses, fun summer dresses of all types.
I raised an eyebrow. I wasn't very trusting of the color palette, or lack of color palette, he'd assembled. Was white the absence of all color or the combination of every color? I guess it depended on whom you asked.
"Here we go—choices! So many choices. Flirty. Or more refined. I think this is particularly fine." He pulled a white silk summer dress from the rack. "Feminine. Yet elegant. Pair it with a low kitten heel, a pair of silk espadrilles, or some silver and white sandals. Mwah." He kissed his fingers and flung the kiss. How he avoided getting his glossy lipstick on his hands, I didn't know.
"You know I've had trouble with white before. White and white lookalikes. Neither are really my friends. Maybe something with a bit more color to it. I have nothing against white skirts, for example. I can pair them with colored tops."
"Don't let white be your nemesis." He shook his finger at me. "In summer, especially, it's your color. I've told you that before." He held the dress out to me. "Feel this silk. Real silk. Delicate, but powerful. It shouts elegance and sophistication. You might even think of pairing it with a blazer." He reached for one.
"No blazers." The dress was breathtaking and cute. Flowing skirt, wrap-type bodice, and belted at the waist. Stunning. If only it had been pink or blue. Even purple. "I was thinking something a little tighter and more revealing."
Zander rolled his eyes and shuddered. He took my arm. "Shelby, darling, you know I'd never steer you astray. The key to power is to draw the eye without looking like a tramp. This dress is actually very short. Very small. It shows just enough décolletage. Being sensual is much sexier than looking easy and cheap. Take it from a man who knows what draws the male eye."
He shook the dress at me. "Try it on. You'll love it. And since it's white, you can accessorize it with color and change the look. Generally speaking, a dress is beyond that, a one-off that you can wear to a big event only once."
I still wasn't convinced white was a good color choice, given that I was confronting my runned-away-from groom. It might give him ideas and bring up bad memories. But when Zander insisted, you didn't refuse.
I never should have tried that dress on. Zander is a conniving salesperson and a diabolical fashionista. All the clothes he'd pulled for me made me look fabulous. I bought more than I should have. But that damned little white dress was clearly the best find of the lot.
Which was how I found myself dressed in it to meet Jesse. The dress, a pair of espadrilles with silk ribbons that tied sexily up my legs, a floral summer bag to add color, and Nora's sultry summer makeup job. I tried not to be vain, but I really did look good. For me. Better yet, I felt powerful. Zander was an absolute genius, and completely right.
In other preparations for my meeting—know your adversary. Unfortunately, my Internet stalking of Jesse Parker hadn't turned up as much as I'd hoped. As a matter of fact, it hadn't turned up anything. The girls were right—there were a ton of Jesse Parkers. But none that I could finger as the guy. One was a hot-looking reality TV star, even. Hot if you like big beards, that is. None of them looked like my guy. I was beginning to think Jesse Parker kept as low a profile on the Internet as I did. A match made in heaven? At least we had one thing in common.
My heart pounded as I walked toward The Blackberry Café. I had picked it for several strategic reasons—it was small. Jesse should be pretty obvious, even if it was crowded. It had good food and a relaxed atmosphere. It was public and usually busy. It was Dex's friend Justin Green's favorite café/bakery. Justin's business partner, Seattle's only duke, Riggins Feldhem, had met his duchess there. If all else failed, I could run down the hill to Flashionista, Justin's company, and maybe get a tour while hiding out from Jesse. And finally, I had been craving one of the café's famous blackberry scones. Though blackberry could wreak havoc on white silk, so I'd have to be careful.
A crowd had gathered outside the café. People were looking in through the plate glass windows, gawking at something. There was a general air of excitement on the street. A buzz. Huh. I wondered what was up. I didn't see any obvious disturbances. And the vibe was upbeat.
Jesse had texted me to ignore any line and come straight in to the café. He'd already secured us a table. I wondered, cynically, if he'd be holding up a cardboard sign with my name written on it, like someone waiting to pick up a stranger at the airport. My runaway bride Shelby Hudson.
General rule of thumb—never marry anybody you don't recognize on sight.
I breezed past the line and crowd into the café as if I were courageous. As if I were an "it" girl. The dress and the espadrilles gave me a sense of power. Though short, the silk skirt of my dress blew attractively in the omnipresent Seattle breeze.
I took a glance around the café, looking for someone who might be Jesse. I had a rough memory of his height, age, and hair color, at least. And he'd been clean-shaven. I remembered that much. But that was about the extent of my memories.
Wait. Was that a guy with a TV camera? Make that two guys with cameras. That explained the excitement. I had just stumbled into filming for a TV show or something. Maybe for one of the local evening magazine shows.
I fought my natural instinct to run. That cat, my identity, was already out of the bag. The groom I'd dumped and feared had already found me. After all, that was what this meeting was all about.
I looked around for a local celebrity.
A couple of the women were fanning themselves. Several tables over, another pair of women tittered behind their hands, obviously hoping for someone's attention. I followed their gazes to the object of their fascination.
A guy dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, broad shoulders, a big tat on his bicep, was their object. He had dark, wavy hair and a beautiful, lush, dark beard. He was seated at a far table, holding a red rose. The cameras were pointed at him as he watched the door. And me.
As his gaze met mine, the cameras turned to train in on me. A smile spread across the bearded man's face. He got to his feet, showing off his height. That height. That hair color…
Recognition hit me square in the stomach, knoc
king my breath from me.
Jesse Parker. The Jesse Parker from that reality show I'd Internet-spied on.
I was in a complete state of disbelief. This was a nightmare. My worst dream come true.
I'd walked right into a trap. Run!
Chapter Seven
Stole my breath the moment I walked in.
Shelby
I did an about-face, almost running into the heavy glass door, which hadn't even had a chance to close fully. Damn soft-close doors. In the instant I had paused, the geniuses from the reality show had closed rank and cut off my escape path. I was blocked, trapped inside by one of the camera guys and a cute little server girl from the bakery who was making goo-goo eyes at Jesse.
You're welcome to him, I thought. Let me introduce you. You look more like his type than I am.
My initial instinct was to cover my face with my left arm and hide from the cameras. Whatever Jesse had planned with this ambush, it couldn't be good. As I spun around, my skirt flared around me and I flung my right arm out behind me. Jesse, who was apparently fast on his feet, among other things, caught my right hand.
In one smooth move, he pulled me to him, swept me up in his arms, and dipped me. In the next instant, his mouth was on mine.
Once, in college, the visiting boyfriend of friend of mine had decided to "kiss" me on my birthday. He'd dipped me, right in front of my friend, covered my mouth with his hand, and very convincingly "kissed" me.
That dramatic move had looked to the casual observer like an authentic, and passionate, kiss. So much so that my friend initially went ballistic and jealous on steroids. My friend eventually, after a lot of convincing that it hadn't been real, and a lot of groveling by him, finally laughed about it. After a few days of sulking.
This kiss was a lot like that one, only real. Open-mouthed, full tongue, and lots of finesse and tickly but soft beard thrown in for good measure.
His breath was fresh, as if he'd been chewing a mint in preparation and had planned this kiss all along. How considerate of him. His body was rock hard, all muscle. All of him was hard as he pressed his pelvis into me.
My hands were braced against his chest as I tried to push him away. And when I came to my senses after being taken by surprise attack, I struggled to turn my head out of that kiss. Unfortunately, he had a grip on the back of my head, too, and a rose at my back.
It made for good TV, I suppose. I heard clapping and whistling, even cheering. I cursed myself for taking the precaution of picking a public place for this meeting. It was common sense and standard advice that it was safer to meet where there were a lot of people around. But no one, least of all me, had expected this situation.
When he finally released me, I came up for air sputtering. Lucky for him, I wasn't the slapping kind of woman. Though if anyone deserved it, he did. A nice red welt right across his cheek. Or a good right hook. I did neither. I also wasn't skilled at swearing. So I just kept sputtering and choking on my rage and my words.
Use your swear words, Shelby, the harsher side of myself urged.
No swear words. Elegant women use elegant words. Tell him how inappropriate that was, but act with dignity and class.
My baser half rolled her eyes. I knew you should have learned to swear better. Hanging out with those brides has made you such a goody-two-shoes.
I lurched unsteadily on my feet and held my hand up to cover the camera lens. "Stop that. You don't have my permission to film me or use my image. I know my copyright laws." I didn't, really. I wasn't even sure copyright pertained. Something did. I was pretty sure they'd need my permission to use that footage on air.
Jesse set the rose down on the nearest table and took both my hands in his. "Wow. You've haunted my dreams for two long years. I remember you as a beauty, but you're smoking." He sounded genuine, too.
Scorching words danced on my tongue and froze there, stopped by his charm. I had Zander partly to blame for this fiasco. If he'd let me dress like I'd wanted to, Jesse wouldn't have had so much awe in his voice. Or his eyes. Or, apparently, his heart. The problem with dressing sensually was that it evoked more than simple lust. It evoked heart and possibly love.
And the absolute last thing I wanted was for this guy to think he was in love with me.
If I hadn't been so angry, it would have been hard to resist his tone and the look in his eyes. Even his words. You had to give him a few points for being a romantic. I gave my two-years-ago self a bit of a break for being wooed by a guy with a silver tongue and expressive eyes. Not to mention a sexy voice. It was a compelling package. Especially if you're drunk and have lost track of your senses.
I struggled to pull my hands free of his. He was wearing a big old gold ring that cut into my hand. It was a huge gold ring stamped with the words Gold Digger, the name of that reality show. One of the crew here was wearing a baseball cap with the same name and logo.
"You can release my hands now. And get those cameras out of here. I'm not talking in front of them."
Jesse got a wicked look in his eyes. "You look hot in white. Bet you'd look even better slung over my shoulder as I carry you out of here."
Some woman standing nearby actually fluttered and pressed her hand to her heart, as if she thought that was so romantic. She probably didn't get that he was ribbing me about Mitch.
Why? Why was I never prepared with a good pair of stiletto heels when I needed them? When would I learn to stop wearing flats with dainty ribbons and start wearing heels for protection?
I scowled at Jesse. "Don't even try. I'm a lot stronger than I look, and I fight like a hellion. Plus I know a thousand uses for silk ribbon." I wiggled my ankle for emphasis. "In my hands, it's a lethal weapon." These shoes had to be good for something.
He didn't look impressed. "And you have an attack dog that will go after me, too?" he said in that slinky, deep voice. "Have you trained my dog against me? Where is she?"
"You really think I'd bring my dog with me? This is a dog-free café. Why do you think I picked it?" Though that hadn't really been one of my criteria.
"You don't scare me," he said. "You haven't even managed to pull your hands free of mine yet."
A guy in his forties, more executive looking, with short hair, came over. "Excellent. Excellent. That was a fabulous first shot. Shelby in white like a bride. We couldn't have asked for more. The way her skirt swirled as she turned. It was reminiscent of a Marilyn Monroe moment."
I suppose I should have taken that as a compliment. But I was worried I'd inadvertently shown off my lace panties.
He held his hand out for a shake. "Luke, executive producer and host of Gold Digger."
I shot him a withering look, unable to shake his hand because Jesse was still clutching mine. "It should be called Ambush."
"And you must be Shelby." He chuckled. "Jesse warned us that you were a spitfire. It's easy to see why he likes you."
What kind of people were these?
Jesse finally dropped my hands and handed me the rose.
I could have been perverse and refused to take it. Instead, I snatched it away without much good grace, hoping he'd de-thorned it. If I pricked my finger, something terrible would happen—I'd either get blood on my white silk dress or fall under an evil spell. Fortunately, there was no alcohol here so the evil spell thing seemed like a remote possibility.
"We need to talk," I hissed, softly enough that I hoped only he could hear.
The crowd was leaning in, hooked on the action. I got the distinct feeling that they could turn hostile on me at any moment. Jesse had apparently already won them over. No wonder he'd made a point of arriving early.
"In private. No cameras." I turned briefly to Luke and back to Jesse. "You either call off the camera crew and find us someplace private, or I walk and you talk to my lawyer. You both talk to my lawyer."
"Give the guy a break," someone called out. "The guy clearly has a thing for you."
"Kiss him again and show him you mean it."
"Kiss him or I
will!" The eager female fan in the crowd wasn't joking. One of the crew members had to hold her back.
"Love you, Jesse. Watch you every week. Get the gold. Get the girl."
This was not the happily-ever-after the crowd was hoping for. If I didn't watch it, I'd be the one who looked like a wicked witch and would have to call the riot squad.
I'd had enough bad PR to last a lifetime. And I've never been good with mob control. I caved. I made an uncharacteristically quick decision that I knew I would probably regret. I took Jesse's arm, my red rose in my other hand, cuddled into him, and kissed his cheek.
Jesse beamed and pulled me into another quick kiss. He was pushing it. Really pushing it.
Fortunately, the cameras didn't appear to be rolling. If Dex somehow saw this, I was in such big trouble.
The crowd outside was growing. People peered in, faces pressed to the glass, hands cupped, trying to get a good look at the action. They pointed and cheered. Jesse really was a minor celebrity. I'd underestimated the popularity of his show. Apparently, just because I'd never heard of it didn't mean it didn't have an audience.
"Someplace private," I whispered.
Luke flagged the manager, who led us to a small private office off the main dining area. As we entered, Luke motioned for the camera crew to stay outside. "I'll give you lovebirds a few minutes alone. But I'll be back. We have some contract negotiations to discuss." He clicked his tongue and gave me a double thumbs-up. As he ducked out, I called after him to close the door.
I took a seat across from Jesse, studying him for any sign of familiarity. I honestly didn't recognize the guy across from me. But I stood by my original assessment when I ran from our wedding—he didn't look like my type.
"You don't recognize me." He sounded almost hurt.
"Umm…what's the use of lying? No." There was a pitcher of ice water and two glasses on the desk. I poured us each a glass and took a sip of mine. My mouth had gone dry. "Don't take it personally. I don't remember much at all from that weekend."
Loves Billionaires and Corgis: A Feel Good Romance Page 6