Wedding Party Collection: Always The Bachelor. Barbara Hannay

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СКАЧАТЬ looked so relaxed and serene. At peace with herself and the world.

      A grin curled his mouth. What better time to mosey up and say hello?

      “Well, well, what a coincidence,” he drawled from behind her in that counterfeit twang he knew grated on her nerves.

      Her hand stilled midair, just short of the colorful silk shawl she’d been about to look at, and every inch of her went rigid.

      This was too easy. Better than greeting her this morning in his underwear, although that had been pretty damned funny. She obviously hadn’t noticed the robe draped over the chair beside him.

      Still only seeing what she wanted to see, believing what she wanted to believe.

      Ivy paused and took a deep breath, as if gathering her strength—or May be her patience—then turned to face him. She’d sufficiently wiped any trace of emotion from her face, but she forgot who she was dealing with. He picked up on the subtle signs no one else noticed. The crinkle in her brow and the slight tightening of her jaw. The way she ground her teeth and narrowed her eyes the tiniest bit.

      Things she probably wasn’t even aware she was doing.

      She could pretend she wasn’t annoyed, but he knew better.

      “Why do I sincerely doubt this is a coincidence?” she asked.

      He shrugged. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with you bein’ somethin’ of a pessimist, now would it?”

      “What are you doing here?”

      He flashed her a grin and held up the bag he was carrying. “Souvenirs. For my secretary.”

      “Lingerie?” she guessed.

      “Nah. My preferences in sleepwear lean toward the casual. Oversize T-shirts…” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Or nothing at all.”

      She rolled her eyes.

      “Not to mention the fact that my secretary is sixty-eight.”

      “Aren’t you supposed to be playing golf?”

      “Shopping sounded like more fun.”

      She let an undignified snort slip out. “Now I know you’re lying. You love playing golf, and you always hated shopping.”

      “That is true. It’s the company I wasn’t all that thrilled about. What was it you called them? The Tweedles?”

      It wasn’t a lie. He’d had more of those two than he could stomach at dinner last night. And torturing Ivy won out over golf any day of the week. He just had to accidentally bump into her, the way he’d “accidentally” walked into her room. What he hadn’t counted on last night was getting himself sucked into a touchy-feely debate about their failed marriage.

      She was still trying to pin the blame on him. No big surprise there.

      Miss Perfect. Miss Nothing-is-ever-good-enough-for-me. May be he’d made a mistake or two, minor ones, but if anyone was ultimately responsible for the divorce, it was her.

      And why had she assumed that what he’d done at dinner last night had anything to do with her? He was merely helping a friend. Blake was a good guy, the kind who would give a stranger the shirt off his back in the middle of a blizzard. But as long as Dillon had known him, Blake let his family walk all over him. With golf cleats on.

      Deidre was the perfect match for him. Soft-spoken and demure, and May be a little awkward. Although Dillon sensed there was more to her than met the eye, the spark of something more complex. A confidence that she hadn’t let herself explore. If that was the case, Dillon suspected that she would only take so much more from his family before she blew a gasket.

      He hoped so. Otherwise, they would eat her for breakfast.

      “Well,” Ivy said with a forced smile. “It was…nice seeing you again.”

      He chuckled. “Now, that’s a lie if I ever heard one.”

      “You’re right, it is a lie. Goodbye.” She turned and marched off, weaving her way through the crowd of people clogging the streets. Did she really think he was going to let her off that easy?

      This was a vacation, and he intended to have fun.

      Ivy zigzagged her way through the crowd, resisting the urge to break into a run and let Dillon see her desperation.

      The market was hot and noisy, the air filled with the spicy scent of unfamiliar and delectable foods she had been hoping to sample. There were a million different things to see and do, places to explore.

      And she’d planned to do it alone.

      Barely thirty seconds passed before she heard Dillon say, “Where’s the fire?”

      She groaned to herself. He wasn’t going to leave her alone. He was going to dog her all afternoon, like a joy-sucking leech. And how had he managed to find her? She’d waited until no one was around to sneak out of the house, and she hadn’t told anyone, not even Deidre, where she was going.

      Had he lied about golf? Had he hidden somewhere and waited for her to leave, then followed her? Would he be that devious?

      Dumb question. Of course he would.

      What had she done to deserve this?

      She could play this two ways. She could act as though she didn’t care, or she could bluntly tell him to leave her the hell alone. But she knew Dillon. Admitting he was annoying her would only fuel his determination. The best way to possibly get rid of him, the only way, was to pretend she didn’t care either way. Eventually he would get bored and find someone else to torture. She hoped.

      Either way she would be stuck with him for the rest of the afternoon. May be longer.

      Yahoo. She could hardly wait.

      She cast him a sideways glance. He walked beside her, thumbs hooked loosely in the front pockets of his jeans, casual as you please, and for an instant she felt a tiny bit breathless. He wore a pair of faded Levi’s, polished cowboy boots and a white tank top that accentuated the golden tan of his shoulders, the lean definition in his biceps. His hair had that casual, slightly mussed look, as if he’d just rolled out of bed and run his fingers through it. Which is what he used to do ten years ago.

      But when a person looked at him, really looked, it was clear there was more to him than just a pretty face. You could see the breeding, the auspicious roots.

      He wore his status well. It complemented, but didn’t define him.

      “So, you’re a hotshot author now,” he said.

      “If you say so.” She tried to keep it light and brief. She didn’t want to say the wrong thing and give him a new round of ammunition to fire her way.

      “I heard you’re writing a followup to that little book of yours.”

      “Did you?” He could condescend all he liked, but that “little” book had made more money than she and the coauthor, СКАЧАТЬ