The Tycoon Meets His Match. Barbara Benedict

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      He did glance at her once—actually, he scowled at the bouquet clutched in her hands—but otherwise focused his gaze on the road ahead. Trae understood that she—not the peach-colored roses in her lap—prompted his irritation. Rhys never could disguise his disapproval of her.

      “What did you say to Lucie?” he barked suddenly, downshifting adroitly as he rounded the corner.

      “Me?”

      He frowned, knowing she knew exactly who he meant, since there was no one else in the car to answer the question. Not willing to give an inch, Trae continued her pose of wounded confusion.

      “You must have said something,” he said curtly. “It’s not like Lucie to be so impulsive.”

      “Oh, really? Have you forgotten Cancun?”

      Apparently not, if his glare were anything to go by.

      Cancun had been one of those spring break moments of insanity. Having had enough of the day-to-day grind at Tulane, they’d lit out for sun-drenched Mexico. Maybe it had been the wild college atmosphere, or maybe because Bobby Boudreaux, Lucie’s on-again-off-again boyfriend, had joined them, but one minute Lucie had been quietly sipping margaritas and the next she was dancing on the table. Trae still didn’t know how the fight had started, but in a blink, they were sitting in a Mexican prison, waiting for Rhys to bail them out.

      “That wasn’t my fault,” she told him defiantly. “I didn’t get us carted off to jail.”

      “And whose idea was it to go down there in the first place?”

      “Why do you always…”

      “With all the drinking and partying,” he interrupted, “you didn’t anticipate trouble?” Shaking his head in disgust, he skillfully rounded the corner on what seemed to be two wheels.

      Trae felt compelled to protest. “Lucie is not a lost little lamb, you know. She’s perfectly capable of making decisions for herself.” She saw skepticism steal over his granitelike features, so she added, “When she’s allowed to.”

      “And what’s that supposed to mean?” In Trae’s opinion, the fact that Lucie had asked three distant relatives, and not her close friends, to be her bridesmaids made all the girl’s choices suspect in the extreme. Including—no, especially—her decision to go against their Just-Say-No oath.

      “You expect me to believe that this wedding was all her idea?” she asked.

      The car jerked as he popped the clutch. “All I expect from you,” he said tightly, regaining control of the vehicle, “is a little common courtesy. A true friend would back off and let us sort through what is so obviously a private matter.”

      The nerve of the guy. “On the contrary, a true friend would look out for Lucie’s best interests. I’ve no intention of backing off until I’m certain she genuinely wants this marriage to take place.”

      He looked at her with disbelief. “We will be married, I assure you. There’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

      “From the looks of it, Lucie stopped it just fine on her own,” Trae ground out, unable to stop herself from making the dig. She was doubly determined to reach her friend first. She couldn’t let Rhys turn sweet, fun-loving Lucie into the woman he thought he wanted—a perfect clone of her mother, a poised, self-possessed trophy wife he could trot out for public occasions.

      It appeared he’d yet to grasp that every female has the will, skill and desire to make a scene and, given the right circumstances, even a control freak like Mitsy Beckwith was perfectly capable of coming apart at the seams.

      The evidence of which greeted them as they pulled up the sloped, curving driveway of the Beckwith estate. Mitsy came charging at the car before Rhys could stop; her hands were pulling at her sculpted coiffure. Although her words were muffled, Trae was able to read her lips and make out, “She’s not here. Do you hear me? She’s not here. What do we do now?”

      Judging by his continued silence, Trae had to assume Rhys had no ready answer.

      Braking with caution, he took his time shutting off the ignition, and as he reached for the door handle, Trae could see a tiny tic beginning to spasm over his right eyebrow. For an instant, as he slowly emerged from the car, she almost felt sorry for him.

      Until she got out of the Mercedes and found him as unflappable as ever, his hesitation vanishing as if it had never been. “We’ll wait,” he said firmly to the Beckwiths. “No doubt Lucie is driving around, gathering her thoughts. When she’s ready to be logical again, she’ll return with an explanation. Let’s be calm when she arrives, okay?” Rhys looked from Hal to Mitsy, bypassing Trae entirely. “We don’t want to do anything more to upset her.”

      “Upset her?” Misty exploded. “What about me? What am I supposed to do? The orchestra, the prime rib dinners, the melting ice sculptures…” She looked down the road with a horrified expression. “The guests! What if they come here? My God, the press!”

      “Take it easy,” Rhys said calmly. “It won’t do any good to panic. Besides, I doubt the guests are going to come here for a wedding reception, considering there was no wedding.”

      He could have saved his breath.

      “This is a nightmare,” Mitsy barreled on, hysteria fueling her momentum. “People will talk. They’ll snicker behind my back. I won’t have it, do you hear me? Rhys,” she said, grasping his arm with a wild look in her eyes, “you’ve got to do something.”

      “Do what?” He didn’t raise his voice, but the words erupted out of him like a cannon blast. “Your daughter just left me stranded at the altar. What in the hell do you think I can do about anything?”

      Mitsy blinked, visibly stunned. She was not alone in her shock. Clamping his jaw shut, Rhys acted as if his mouth had just betrayed him. It was the first time Trae had seen him even close to admitting he didn’t have everything under control.

      “I can call the police,” Hal offered lamely.

      Rhys shook his head. “Let’s hold off calling the authorities. We don’t want to get them or the press involved. Not yet, at least.”

      Typical, Trae thought. Poor Luce was out there wandering around helplessly, and he was worried about bad publicity? Disgusted with Rhys, with the lot of them, she thrust the bouquet in his hands. “Isn’t there a phone in the limo?” she asked brusquely as she dug through her purse for her cell phone. “What’s the number?”

      Hal Beckwith searched his pockets, unearthing a business card with the company’s information. It took two tries and several minutes on hold before Trae got the number for the phone in the limo. Dialing impatiently, she listened to it ring and ring.

      After a few minutes of that, Rhys shook his head. Shoving the bouquet back in her hands, he grabbed her phone.

      “Hey, gimme that.” Trae reached for it, but Rhys held the phone against his ear, which, given their height difference, meant she had to jump like an overstimulated puppy to retrieve it.

      Suddenly aware of how tall he was, how physically overwhelming, she instead waved the bouquet in his face. СКАЧАТЬ