All or Nothing at All
Page 59
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Her heart ached at the description of the man she’d always loved. “James Bond,” she muttered under her breath. “Pain in the ass.”
Cal laughed. “Yeah, that’s about it. I’m asking you to give him a little time and patience, Syd. That’s all.”
Slowly she nodded. Cal understood better than anyone. And maybe he was right. Because that was why she’d married him. Even with the long shot, she wanted one last chance at his heart. At a future. At a happily ever after. She had to take it, or she’d regret not trying forever. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Welcome.”
“Do you think Morgan and Raven will come around soon?”
“Yes. It was hard for Morgan, since she can’t have kids. The idea of keeping one from her biological father hurt her. She doesn’t know about your past with Tristan, or the crap we all went through after Mom died. I explained to her, and with some time, she’ll eventually come and speak with you.”
“And Raven?”
He snorted. “Good luck. That woman is scary as hell. Confronting her alone may be better than avoidance.”
“I love you, Cal.”
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then grabbed a flute of champagne from the passing tray. “Love you, too. Now, I’d advise you to get drunk and smash wedding cake all over your husband’s face.”
With a wink, he walked away. Some of her grief lessened. He understood. Which meant he and Dalton would forgive her eventually. So would Morgan and Raven.
It was her husband she was worried about.
She thought about what Cal had told her. Imagined Tristan breaking down in front of his brothers, the way he had that night with her after Diane had died. Her heart ached at the memory. God knows she never wanted to hurt him. Somehow she’d have to find a way to convince him of that.
On cue, he suddenly appeared before her. She stared at him with a stupid, glazed expression because he was so damn sexy her vision hurt.
Dressed in a black tuxedo, narrowly cut to emphasize his powerful, lean body, he gave off waves of masculine sensuality and elegance that Bond himself could barely keep up with. His redwood-colored hair was brushed away from his brow, falling in perfect waves. The scent of the ocean wafted from his clean-shaven skin. His face was carved in beautiful symmetry, from his high cheekbones and slashed nose to his full lips. His voice drifted to her ears, gritty with sand and coated with caramel.
“You don’t look like a happy bride.”
She choked out a half laugh and took another sip of champagne. “Forgive me. It’s been a long week.”
He studied her with a hard expression. There was no longer any softness or tenderness when he looked at her. She mourned the loss as much as his sudden distaste at touching her. If they happened to brush hands, or stand too close, he stiffened and immediately stepped away. “Well, it would be easier for all of us if you pretended you didn’t loathe your new husband.”
Her gaze snapped to his. The alcohol fueled her blood and gave her false courage. “Me? How about you? Everyone can tell you’d rather marry a—a—a zombie than me!”
He lifted a brow. “How much champagne have you had?”
“Not enough.”
His gaze narrowed. He plucked the glass from her hands and gave it to a passing waiter. “Can you get my wife some water, please?”
A shiver crawled down her spine at the possessive inflection of the word. His wife. Thank goodness she was mad enough to fight off the sudden weakening of her knees at his arrogant expression, looking her over like she was his new possession. “You disappoint me,” he said. “Usually your insults and innuendos are much more clever. I’m sure you can rise to the occasion once you sober up.”
She gave him a smile full of white teeth and little humor. Then grabbed another glass from the fountain. “Trust me. The only way to get through this debacle is champagne. Lots of it.”
He gritted his teeth and leaned in. A muscle ticked in his jaw. Good. She’d rather see him mad. Anything to battle the ice man. “Don’t push me,” he whispered silkily. “We just embarked on this marriage. I’d advise you to soothe the wild beast rather than inflame it.”
She pursed her lips. His gaze dropped. She closed the distance between them until they were a hairbreadth away. Her blood heated from his closeness, the smell of his skin, the leashed violence hidden beneath the elegant tuxedo. “What beast?” she drawled. “I see the same type of man I always did. Cold. Distant.” She uttered each word against his gorgeous, carved lips. “There must be ice in those veins, Tristan. How admirable to always be able to control your emotions. Us lesser folks struggle to own such restraint.”
His smile was pure male, pure sin, and pure triumph. In seconds, he lifted her easily up into his arms, her lacy veil cloaking them from the world in their own private domain. “Maybe it’s time I show you how lucky you are I own this restraint,” he uttered against her mouth. “Wife.”
His mouth crushed hers.
Startled, she gasped, giving him the opening for his tongue to dive deep and claim her. Her hands gripped his shoulders, clinging for dear life, as he lifted her up in the air, at the mercy of his hold, of his mouth, of the hunger he ignited deep in her gut, a crazed need that overtook all logic and swamped her. Her tongue met his in the stirring, dark kiss, and for a few moments, nothing else existed but this man, this moment, this kiss.
He tore his mouth from hers. For one moment, she caught the primitive glint in those amber eyes, and she thought there was hope. Hope this marriage could be more than about Becca or his sense of justice. But then it was gone, like a trick of the light, and he turned from her, smiling as a blinding flash went off in her face.
“Smile for the camera,” he commanded. “I think we deserve a formal wedding picture. Don’t you?”
Anger crashed over her in waves. She blinked at the photographer, who gave her a thumbs-up at the pose, and then he dropped her back to the ground and let go of her like she’d burned him. The kiss had been a simple setup—and another deft attempt at punishment. Humiliation burned at the easy way she’d responded the moment he touched her.
“Don’t push me, Syd,” he warned.
Her smile was full of fake cheer and her own warning. “Ditto, Tristan.”
He narrowed his gaze in surprise, studying her for a few hard, shattering moments. Then he walked away and disappeared into the crowd. His family surrounded him, chattering and laughing, and Becca stood in the middle, soaking in all the attention, her face glowing with happiness.
Cal laughed. “Yeah, that’s about it. I’m asking you to give him a little time and patience, Syd. That’s all.”
Slowly she nodded. Cal understood better than anyone. And maybe he was right. Because that was why she’d married him. Even with the long shot, she wanted one last chance at his heart. At a future. At a happily ever after. She had to take it, or she’d regret not trying forever. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Welcome.”
“Do you think Morgan and Raven will come around soon?”
“Yes. It was hard for Morgan, since she can’t have kids. The idea of keeping one from her biological father hurt her. She doesn’t know about your past with Tristan, or the crap we all went through after Mom died. I explained to her, and with some time, she’ll eventually come and speak with you.”
“And Raven?”
He snorted. “Good luck. That woman is scary as hell. Confronting her alone may be better than avoidance.”
“I love you, Cal.”
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then grabbed a flute of champagne from the passing tray. “Love you, too. Now, I’d advise you to get drunk and smash wedding cake all over your husband’s face.”
With a wink, he walked away. Some of her grief lessened. He understood. Which meant he and Dalton would forgive her eventually. So would Morgan and Raven.
It was her husband she was worried about.
She thought about what Cal had told her. Imagined Tristan breaking down in front of his brothers, the way he had that night with her after Diane had died. Her heart ached at the memory. God knows she never wanted to hurt him. Somehow she’d have to find a way to convince him of that.
On cue, he suddenly appeared before her. She stared at him with a stupid, glazed expression because he was so damn sexy her vision hurt.
Dressed in a black tuxedo, narrowly cut to emphasize his powerful, lean body, he gave off waves of masculine sensuality and elegance that Bond himself could barely keep up with. His redwood-colored hair was brushed away from his brow, falling in perfect waves. The scent of the ocean wafted from his clean-shaven skin. His face was carved in beautiful symmetry, from his high cheekbones and slashed nose to his full lips. His voice drifted to her ears, gritty with sand and coated with caramel.
“You don’t look like a happy bride.”
She choked out a half laugh and took another sip of champagne. “Forgive me. It’s been a long week.”
He studied her with a hard expression. There was no longer any softness or tenderness when he looked at her. She mourned the loss as much as his sudden distaste at touching her. If they happened to brush hands, or stand too close, he stiffened and immediately stepped away. “Well, it would be easier for all of us if you pretended you didn’t loathe your new husband.”
Her gaze snapped to his. The alcohol fueled her blood and gave her false courage. “Me? How about you? Everyone can tell you’d rather marry a—a—a zombie than me!”
He lifted a brow. “How much champagne have you had?”
“Not enough.”
His gaze narrowed. He plucked the glass from her hands and gave it to a passing waiter. “Can you get my wife some water, please?”
A shiver crawled down her spine at the possessive inflection of the word. His wife. Thank goodness she was mad enough to fight off the sudden weakening of her knees at his arrogant expression, looking her over like she was his new possession. “You disappoint me,” he said. “Usually your insults and innuendos are much more clever. I’m sure you can rise to the occasion once you sober up.”
She gave him a smile full of white teeth and little humor. Then grabbed another glass from the fountain. “Trust me. The only way to get through this debacle is champagne. Lots of it.”
He gritted his teeth and leaned in. A muscle ticked in his jaw. Good. She’d rather see him mad. Anything to battle the ice man. “Don’t push me,” he whispered silkily. “We just embarked on this marriage. I’d advise you to soothe the wild beast rather than inflame it.”
She pursed her lips. His gaze dropped. She closed the distance between them until they were a hairbreadth away. Her blood heated from his closeness, the smell of his skin, the leashed violence hidden beneath the elegant tuxedo. “What beast?” she drawled. “I see the same type of man I always did. Cold. Distant.” She uttered each word against his gorgeous, carved lips. “There must be ice in those veins, Tristan. How admirable to always be able to control your emotions. Us lesser folks struggle to own such restraint.”
His smile was pure male, pure sin, and pure triumph. In seconds, he lifted her easily up into his arms, her lacy veil cloaking them from the world in their own private domain. “Maybe it’s time I show you how lucky you are I own this restraint,” he uttered against her mouth. “Wife.”
His mouth crushed hers.
Startled, she gasped, giving him the opening for his tongue to dive deep and claim her. Her hands gripped his shoulders, clinging for dear life, as he lifted her up in the air, at the mercy of his hold, of his mouth, of the hunger he ignited deep in her gut, a crazed need that overtook all logic and swamped her. Her tongue met his in the stirring, dark kiss, and for a few moments, nothing else existed but this man, this moment, this kiss.
He tore his mouth from hers. For one moment, she caught the primitive glint in those amber eyes, and she thought there was hope. Hope this marriage could be more than about Becca or his sense of justice. But then it was gone, like a trick of the light, and he turned from her, smiling as a blinding flash went off in her face.
“Smile for the camera,” he commanded. “I think we deserve a formal wedding picture. Don’t you?”
Anger crashed over her in waves. She blinked at the photographer, who gave her a thumbs-up at the pose, and then he dropped her back to the ground and let go of her like she’d burned him. The kiss had been a simple setup—and another deft attempt at punishment. Humiliation burned at the easy way she’d responded the moment he touched her.
“Don’t push me, Syd,” he warned.
Her smile was full of fake cheer and her own warning. “Ditto, Tristan.”
He narrowed his gaze in surprise, studying her for a few hard, shattering moments. Then he walked away and disappeared into the crowd. His family surrounded him, chattering and laughing, and Becca stood in the middle, soaking in all the attention, her face glowing with happiness.
