When Size Matters. Carly Laine

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СКАЧАТЬ thought was pre-empted. With a scowl of fierce concentration, he pressed my arm out to full extension—totally ignoring the crystal flute I still had clutched by its stem—and stuck a dripping jowl to my cheek. We swayed backward to gain momentum and then lunged theatrically forward into a full-body tango. I had to take several quick, ridiculous-looking, little running steps to keep from losing my balance, from being swept, literally, off my feet with my little dyed-to-match orange satin shoes dragging behind me, heels up, across the floor.

      “Please don’t do this,” I managed to gasp when I finally quit trying to swallow my tongue in surprise and actually took a breath.

      The band, knowing for sure upon which side their bread was buttered—and by whom—gamely switched to a tango. The dance floor cleared in a flurry of self-preservation. People crowded around the perimeter, unable to spare themselves the discomfort of witnessing my humiliation. And as we raced by their faces, I caught the looks of distaste and nervous glances. Groom Daddy was rich, old and male. Somehow this would all be my fault.

      When we reached the far edge of the portable dance floor, I saw the guy I’d come with—finally—rushing to my aid, angling in on us for a cut-in rescue. Sing Hallelujah! I didn’t think he had it in him.

      But Groom Daddy wasn’t having any of that. Switching arms without loosening his grip even a notch, he angrily executed that one-eighty tango turn, slammed his pot roast body back into mine and sped with long, bent-kneed strides toward the center of the floor.

      “I need to…Please stop,” I squeaked out in a pathetic little wheeze. Like a gnat to a rhino, I was ignored.

      Okay, okay, think! As my body tried to find some rhythm, some little bit of grace, my mind started whirling with the adrenaline rush. Options, I thought, you have to do something. Scenarios formed in my head. In one, I’d scream, he’d freeze, the band would shut down. As the echoes of my shrieks vibrated in the silence, the sobbing bride would stumble up the granite steps to the looming stone fortress, dragging her ring hand behind…Nope, no good. The bride was my friend, or at least she was before I got stuck with the orange dress. How could I mess up Her Day?

      I could swoon and faint, slump against my tormentor in total dead-weight collapse. That might stop him. Oh, great, Dylan! Then they’d all think you’re drunk. You have no choice, I reasoned with myself. You have got to pull this off.

      Bracing for further indignities, I composed my face into the amused and tolerant countenance of a good sport. I smoothed the stress from my forehead, brightened my eyes and just as I was working on a sparkly, little laugh, Groom Daddy stopped dead, leaned precariously and flung me backward over his knee in a back-snapping dip. Our arms were stretched overhead, the crystal flute inverted. One perfect drop of champagne splashed on the tip of my nose and slowly seeped inside. All good-sported sentiments drained away as I hung upside down and tears of frustration began trickling up, or rather down, my forehead, the rush of blood and humiliation burning my cheeks.

      In another flash, I was restored to vertical and hauled off flailing in a different direction. Okay, that’s it. Rag-doll helpless was not my style and I…had…had…enough. A cold, clear fury crackled down my still throbbing spine. I hesitated just a moment, debating whether to turn and bite the hair-filled ear attached to the side of my head—blech!—or to stick out my dainty orange shoe and trip him violently, mid-stride. But before I could maneuver my foot into position, Groom Daddy tangoed us—wham!—into a guy who’d materialized on the dance floor directly in our flight path.

      The impact jostled us around and we bounced off each other a few times until this guy steadied me with a firm grasp on my elbow and eased me off to one side. I shot a quick glance at Groom Daddy and then couldn’t look away as he burst into a snarling rage. Thwarted? his look said. You think you can stop me? You. Stop me? N-e-v-e-r. Apparently you don’t get a house on your very own hill by letting things slide.

      Oh, God, this was gonna be ugly. I just had the time to wonder, as I slammed my eyes shut, how my high-strung friend—the “everything has to be perfect” bride—was going to handle this little digression from the program. I turned away, held my breath and braced for the blast.

      And then…nothing.

      Risking a quick one-eyed peek, I saw Groom Daddy’s scowl had been arrested midsquint and amazement was washing back over his face. The guy bowed to him, low from the waist. And then I, along with everyone else under that tent, watched as he straightened into an elegant long-necked pose, miming a tango embrace with his arms. His voice was low but it rang out in the silence as he politely inquired of Groom Daddy, “Shall we dance?”

      No one breathed. But he was too perfect—serious, gracious and so very ballroom proper. In one giant gust, the crowd exhaled a collective breath of relief and puffs of delighted laughter floated through the saffron dusk.

      Even Groom Daddy, sniffing the odds, half chuckled with them. “Aww, let’s get a drink,” he barked, grabbing the guy’s neck with one arm. He raised his other arm to the bartender, hollering for a glass, and dragged the guy with him toward the bar. As he was towed off the floor, taking my place in the prison grip of Groom Daddy’s soggy embrace, my rescuer turned to look at me and winked.

      Whoa. Just like a movie! I pictured a gorgeous actress lifting her chin, flashing the spectators her dazzling smile and then turning to float imperiously away. I pictured her, however, wearing a stunningly simple column of a dress and not the offensive orange pouf. I reapplied my good-sport face, thrust out my vacuum-packed marshmallows and glided off the floor, daintily twirling the delicate and apparently indestructible stem of the crystal flute.

      As I cleared the dispersing crowd, my date rushed to my side. Except he wasn’t really a date. Matt was the discarded ex-fiancé of my best friend, Eva. Wounded and hurting, he’d started working on me, trying to convince me that he and I could be more than friends. I didn’t buy it. But I did—at the risk of sounding somewhat mercenary—need a date for the wedding. So there we were, not buddies, not dates. Matt took my arm and leaned to whisper in my ear. Solicitous murmurings? Embarrassed apologies?

      “Dylan,” he said, “you could see everything!” I cut my eyes at him and gave him my look.

      “Your thong!” he groaned and peered anxiously around him to see who was watching us. Everybody.

      Thong? My little peach lace thong? A hollow spot began to grow in my stomach. Oh, God! It must have been when I was hanging upside down and my leg flew up in the air. What did a thong look like from that angle? I winced. No wonder everyone was staring. The hollow place turned into a knot. I widened my eyes, trying to blink away the sting of tears. Because I never cried anymore. Ever.

      I took a big breath, and…There was the guy, looking right at me, all the way across the dance floor, held captive at the bar, paying too steep a price for his gallantry. A humid hug. Another toast. And Groom Daddy roared, “To the tango, to beautiful girls, to cham-pagne!”

      I looked at my rescuer. Who was this guy? He seemed fairly standard-issue. Maybe late-twenties or thirty. Hard to tell. Really tall but otherwise pretty ordinary. Definitely not a hunk, but not bad, either. Right then he had hug-rumpled brown hair. It’s too long. Or maybe not…Yeah, no, it’s too long. And long legs. Not too long, though, just long. And a dark tan. In October? Probably looks better wearing jeans and a T-shirt than that dark suit. Then I looked at his eyes, his midnight-black eyes and it was as if he was standing a foot away. I felt a zap, a physical jolt. The skin all over my body shrank up and I could feel him, feel the change in the ions between us. I stood there gawking. I just hoped my mouth wasn’t hanging open.

      Then he grinned.

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