TWO
THERESA IVARSON HAD been flying for twenty-four hours. Worse, she looked like she’d been on a plane for twenty-four hours. There was a stain on her white blouse that could have been airline quiche or airline chicken salad—it was hard to tell the difference, as they’d both been blobs of maybe food, even in first class. Her hip-length red hair was no longer curly, but a frizzy tangle of knots tied at her nape, and the dark circles under her eyes made her look like she’d sparred with Rocky and lost. She also had cigarette-smoke funk thanks to her cab ride to The Seaside, though that could have come from the old man they’d sat her beside in coach on her flight from Atlanta to the Big Easy, too.
The one who wouldn’t stop looking at her and telling her she was a movie star.
“I’m a photojournalist,” she replied kindly the first time.
“No, you’re not. You’re a movie star.”
“No, I take pictures for a living.”
“Bah. You should be a movie star. You’re beautiful.”
She wasn’t going to be insulted that he’d trivialized her career because of her looks. No, not at all. He’d complimented her in his weird, old way! Right?
Wanker.
She was completely fried. She’d returned to the States early for Rain’s wedding crises, but her contribution to the day-one fiasco would be cursory pleasantries followed by a shower hotter than the sun and a long drool into a pillow. That was it. That was all they were going to get from her. Wedding bonanza could wait a day.
Except she was at her core an artist, and pulling up outside of The Seaside stirred her travel-weary soul. It was an exceptionally beautiful building. With five stories of peach clapboards, tall white shutters, and white woodwork adorning the front facade, it reminded her of a dollhouse, especially with its gas lanterns and wrought-iron railings on the upper stories. Flowers bloomed everywhere, in potted gardens and in well-cared-for nooks lining the fleur-de-lis-patterned walkway. There were frog fountains, too, spouting water from their mouths onto lacquered lily pads with colored bulbs at the center.
Everything was perfect New Orleans charm, and she pulled out her camera and got snapping, her luggage abandoned on the sidewalk as she darted this way and that to capture the little details. A bee on an azalea bloom. The water splashing inside the fountain. The menu at Gustav’s.
Her rig was a top-line Canon, something she’d rewarded herself with after her photos made Time the previous spring. It was heavy, like a brick in hand, but considering that most of her field work already required heavy zoom lenses, she’d long ago gotten used to the extra weight. She snapped at least a hundred pictures of the front of the hotel, wanting to catalog Rain’s special place and what would be—even if it was currently in tatters—Rain’s special day.
It’ll be perfect even if I have to burn New Orleans a third time to do it.
That’s not nice.
She winced and silently apologized to the oh-so-patient Lord who’d had to put up with a plethora of her cranial unpleasantness over the last day and a half.
She dropped the camera and eyed the journalists swarming the front doors of the hotel. None of them she recognized, but that wasn’t a big surprise; you weren’t exactly going to get Annie Leibovitz clawing and scratching for a gossip rag snapshot of the bride- and groom-to-be even if the bride was American royalty. Theresa grabbed her suitcase and pressed forward, toward the doors. There was a line of mooks, giant security men who formed a shoulder-to-shoulder wall, and for a moment, Theresa wondered how the hell she was supposed to check in.
She pushed toward the door, using her suitcase as a battering ram when the crowd tried to shove her back. An overzealous paparazzo cut in front of her, but she kicked the back of his leg. He whirled around, furious, but seeing the look on her face . . .
That’s it, Chuckles. Move along.
He stepped aside. She approached Mook One, dead center, and forced a smile. It probably looked more like slathering fangs than anything else, but it was all she could manufacture.
“Hi. I’m checking in.”
“Name?”
She gave it, he checked the list, and the giants parted the sea of scrambling reporters to allow her through the double glass doors. The commotion was unfathomable, but as soon as she was nestled safely inside, the world quieted. It wasn’t soundproof by any stretch of the imagination, but the barrier was enough to put the reporters away and her in relative peace. She let out her breath and wiped a sweaty film of plane-gross and New Orleans humidity from her brow.
The Seaside’s interior was as lovely as the exterior, a round table of flowers in the middle of the foyer centered beneath a large crystal chandelier. The floor was black-and-white tile with hand-woven red area rugs. The marble check-in desk had gold accents along the sides and top and was flanked by two ivory-colored pillars. Theresa dropped her suitcase and lifted the camera, again cataloging every beauty she could find in the lovely slice of heaven, from the tufts on the dark leather couches to the coasters on the end tables hand-painted with scenes of the Mississippi to—
“What are you doing?”
Theresa lifted her head. Striding toward her from the back hallway was the widest man she’d ever seen. Everything about him was thick, from his shoulders to his barrel chest to his tree-trunk thighs. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, and she couldn’t help but stare at the man who was surely named Björn or Christof or Bruno . . .
“No press,” he said, his voice low and booming and with a dash of . . . Texas? “Out.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Out.”
“I don’t think you understand. I’m Theresa Ivarson.”
“I don’t think you understand. I don’t care who you are. Let’s go.” Before she could retreat, the giant was there and his hand was on her upper arm. She eyed it and him, trying to jerk away, but he was as strong as he looked and just as insistent as he tried to maneuver her to the doors. It didn’t hurt per se, but it was unwelcome touching, and after her day?
Ain’t happening.
“Get your hands off me!”
“Make this easy, please? I don’t know what paper you’re with, but the family demands privacy at this time. There will be public photographs later, I’m sure—”
Theresa lashed out, ripping herself from his grasp and damned near tripping over the coffee table behind her legs in the process. He reached for her, but she scampered away from him with a hiss. Her head whipped around. The tall blond woman at the desk was reaching for the phone—oh great, police—and the large man with the black suit coat, black slacks, and shiny shoes was closing in again.
“Are you all ri—”
“Get away from me!”
She recoiled, he reached for her, and his enormous fingers tangled in the cord of her camera. It probably wasn’t intentional, but when she tugged up, he tugged down, and the Canon tore from her grasp and smacked the ground, skittering across the tile floor to bump against the opposite wall.
Theresa stared at it.
So did he.
“You stupid fucker! Do you know how expensive that is?” she bellowed.
She scrambled through the foyer to retrieve her equipment, and seeing the splintered crack on the casing as well as the spiderweb break in the lens, she sank down onto her ass and closed her eyes. It’d been a long, horrible day with three separate layovers in three different parts of the world. She was tired. Her back hurt. She smelled funny and looked funnier, and she was hungry and nauseous at the same time. She hadn’t thought it could get any worse until the behemoth emerged from hell to manhandle her and break the camera that was supposed to take Rain’s wedding pictures.
I won’t cry.
I want to cry.
I also want to punch him, but I’m fairly sure I’d break my hand on his fat skull.
She breathed in and out, hard, her shoulders heaving. The man was strangely silent. Theresa cradled the Canon to her chest like her mechanical baby, trying to recall whether it was under warranty still, and if so, was “Death by Giant Arsehole” one of the covered clauses?
“Theresa? Oh my God. Theresa!”
Rain. Here.
Theresa opened her eyes just as her petite blond friend whipped around the corner, running past the front desk to dive-bomb her. Theresa had seconds to ready herself before Rain wrapped her short arms—T. rex arms, Theresa joked in college—around her and clung like Saran Wrap. Theresa hugged back, the broken camera nestled in the crook of her pretzeled legs.
Hold it together. Hold it together.
“Oh Christ.”
It was his voice, the man who’d grabbed her, and he sounded horrified. Theresa glowered at him over Rain’s shoulder, her palm smoothing down Rain’s silky tresses. “I’m Theresa Ivarson,” she spat. “The maid of honor. I was supposed to be one of the wedding photographers but I’m not so sure of that now. Thanks for that.”
“Alex DuMont. Sol’s brother. And the best man. I am . . . exceedingly sorry. Very sorry.”
The way he said it made it sound like there was an invisible hand choking the words from his throat. His cheeks were flushed, his chin up. His ham-sized hands were clenched into fists by his side. He peered at her from beneath lowered brows, his blue eyes intense.
Is he mad at me for breaking my camera?
Seriously?
“You should be. You don’t touch women. Ever. Period,” she snarled.
“I would nev— I was guiding y— I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m sorry.”
There was the click of smart shoes on cold tile as another stranger emerged from the back of the hotel, this one lean and with hair so pale it gleamed silver beneath the chandelier light. Theresa recognized him from pictures Rain had sent over the last few months. Sol DuMont, heir to the DuMont hotels and Rain’s future husband. Also Arsehole’s brother.
“Hello, Theresa. Lovely to meet you. Why are you on the floor?”
Rain pulled back to peer at Theresa, her little hands cupping Theresa’s cheeks. Rain looked good, rosy and smiley despite her wedding conundrum, though her eyes and nose were rimmed with red and suggested recent tears.
I could punch that wedding planner in the arse.
If she wasn’t dead already.
That’s a sinful thought, but in my defense, Darlene was a bitch.
“Yes, why are you on the floor? Are you all right?” Rain asked.
The giant man went redder.
“I broke her camera,” he spat. “Accidentally. I thought she was press. Cylan said no press and I . . . it was an accident.” He sounded like he’d gargled with razor blades. “I’ll buy her a new one.”
Theresa snorted. “No, you won’t, because it’s a Canon Mark IV and they don’t stock those at Walmart. Nor do they stock the lenses and you broke that, too.”
The man named Alex dropped his head, finding something remarkably interesting to look at within the depths of his shoe tips.
“You’re as diplomatic as ever, Alex. Do you remember the woman with the bat in her hair? You handled that so well we got sued.” Sol cast him a sharp look before crossing the room to crouch by Theresa’s side. “Kitten, let’s get her up and settled. I’m sure she’s tired from flying.”
“I’m exhausted,” Theresa muttered. She should have been spouting off at Alex DuMont like a broken sprinkler, but the last thirty hours had drained her of her energy. Or, as her Scottish grandmother liked to call it, her “piss and vinegar.” On any other day, Theresa would have called the great mountain curse words in at least four languages and threatened him with any number of unsavory, violent acts, but right then, she couldn’t muster a single one.
My camera.
She heaved a sigh as she accepted Sol’s hand, finding her feet and wobbling away. Rain touched the small of her back and guided her to the check-in desk. The unsmiling desk woman handed her a key card with a fleur-de-lis logo printed on the back.
“Third floor, 301,” the woman said matter-of-factly.
“Thanks,” Theresa said.
For calling Rain and not the cops, she added silently.
Sol snapped his fingers and a bellhop appeared to take her luggage. Rain accompanied her into a glass elevator behind the desk, her arm looped around Theresa’s waist, their height disparity planting Rain’s cheek firmly against Theresa’s right boob. Theresa didn’t mind. Rain was family as far as Theresa was concerned, and she bent down to press a kiss to the top of her head.
As the elevator began its ascent, Theresa looked out at The Seaside, her broken camera clasped in her slender white fingers. Alex DuMont stared at her from his same position near the front doors, his wide mouth pressed into a frown.