Free The Wedding Favor by Unknown Page A

one of these. Then there’d be some cussing.
    The water went lukewarm so he shut it off. What the hell? Were they rationing the hot water? It was a damn good thing he liked a short shower, or he’d be pissed.
    He tracked water into the bedroom, yanked a towel off the stack on the bureau. Why didn’t they keep them in the bathroom? It was too tiny, that’s why. He shook out the towel. At least it was man-sized. And fluffy. He scrubbed it over his chest, roughed up his hair, and dropped it on the floor.
    Then he stretched out on the queen-sized bed and stared up at the ceiling. A nap would be good; he was still jet-lagged. But he might as well forget about it. The four-day festivities were about to kick off, which meant that in ten minutes he had to be down in the garden making himself agreeable to a bunch of folks he didn’t know, and didn’t want to know.
    First, he’d have to tuck his tail and let Matt play alpha dog. It grated, but he’d do it for Isabelle.
    Next he’d make nice with Matt’s mother, a woman so horrible she made the bitch on wheels quake. Christ.
    And to really make his night, he’d cozy up to the bitch on wheels herself. Flirt with her, God help him, when she made his skin crawl. When he could still hear her asking him if he was sure, absolutely certain, that Lissa had woken up.
    Was he? The question gnawed at him, as it had for seven years. Was he sure she’d actually opened her eyes and asked him to turn off the machines? Or was he so desperate for justification, for absolution, that he only imagined it?
    If he’d imagined it, there was no absolution. He’d have to admit to himself that he pulled the plug on his wife for his own selfish reasons. Because he couldn’t stand to see her like that, to think she was hurting and he was helpless to heal her.
    Fuck it. He threw his feet off the bed, plowed his fingers through his hair. Fuck Victoria Westin and her stupid fucking question.
    He strode to the bureau, pulled on some fresh blue jeans. Opened the armoire and yanked out a shirt, midnight blue with pearl snaps. A gift from Isabelle, her version of a cowboy shirt.
    Hell, he’d give his eyeteeth to be going off cowboying now. Saddling up for a few weeks on the range instead of primping for cocktails in Amboise.
    He stomped into his boots.
    Fuck it.
    E ven with her back to the door, Vicky knew the exact moment when Tyrell stepped onto the terrace.
    Isabelle’s friend Annemarie, who’d been describing to her and Isabelle in her charmingly halting English the challenges of balancing her graduate studies in anthropology with her weekend job as an exotic dancer, broke off in the middle of a sentence.
    “Ooo la la,” she breathed.
    Glancing over her shoulder, Vicky rolled her eyes.
    Ty stood just outside the door, wearing cowboy boots and a hokey Western shirt tucked into faded jeans, his sun-streaked hair as carelessly mussed as if he’d just come in from a hard ride across dry prairie. All he needed was a Stetson and he could pose for a Marlboro ad.
    Isabelle giggled. “I told you.”
    “Yes, you did,” murmured Annemarie, “but I thought you were . . . how do you say . . . exaggerating?” Her eyes raked him. “He is here alone?”
    “For now,” Isabelle hedged. She cut a glance at Vicky. “Although he might be interested in someone.”
    Annemarie licked her glossy red lips. “Ah, but he is. Me.” And lifting another glass of champagne off a passing tray, she ditched Vicky and Isabelle and made a beeline to the terrace.
    Isabelle let out a sigh. “I suppose I can’t blame her. I had the same reaction the first time I saw him.” She gave Vicky an encouraging smile. “She won’t get anywhere, though. Ty’s a one-woman man. When he’s interested in someone, other women simply don’t exist for him.”
    At that very moment, Ty’s gaze latched on to the dark-haired beauty sashaying up the stone steps. His lips curved in an appreciative smile.
    As Annemarie crossed the