The Forgiven: The End Game Series (Book 5) Page 15

  “Please.” When Leda strode away, Waverly told Meg, “You’re already aware that your maid of honor gown will vary slightly from the bridesmaid dresses, but I asked Leda to design something in addition.”

  Meg touched her hair. “Don’t say it’s a tiara. It takes a unique kind of grace to pull off a tiara, and I’m just not the type.”

  “Oh… Well, first, we did have a tiara in mind for you, so we’ll go ahead and nix that. Second, you totally do have grace, but we’ll analyze that another time. Third, that’s not what I was referring to.” Waverly motioned to Leda, who revealed an image on her tablet.

  A cane. But it had the flair and kick-ass quality of a royal scepter and was by far more glamorous than any accessory she owned. It was ornamental, breathtaking. According to the notes, it was to be made of white gold and embellished with amethyst gemstones and diamonds.

  “Waverly—it’s too—I can’t possibly—” She made grabby hands for the tablet. “I love it. And you. You’re the best best friend a girl could ask for.”

  “Yay!” Waverly clapped her hands. “So in addition to being fitted for your gown, you’ll be measured for the cane. We want to make sure it’s ergonomic. Oh, and like your everyday canes, this one will be adjustable.”

  “You considered everything.”

  “Hey, I’m just a bride looking out for her crew. Since you’re hosting a wicked bridal shower that’ll scandalize my mom, I figured I owed you this.”

  Leda tsked. “Shame on you,” she said, but with a smirk.

  “Don’t warn her,” Waverly said.

  “I won’t. I told Joan when she commissioned me for this wedding that my allegiance is to the bride.” She fluffed her hair. “But it’d be nice to find myself with an invitation to this scandalizing event. There will be handsome strippers, won’t there?”

  “Absolutely,” Meg assured, while Waverly stared.

  “Miss Greer, don’t look at me like that. I’m a professional artist. I appreciate the male physique. It’s a beautiful thing, especially when it’s wearing nothing but a G-string.”

  “I think you were a nice, sweet bridal consultant before you met the lot of us,” Waverly said to Leda. “We corrupted you, didn’t we? Was it Aly? She’s the filthiest of us all… Wait, no, Meg is. She does everything.”

  Meg cheered as the others laughed. “Thank you, thank you. It’s an honor.”

  “We’ll take the cane measurement now,” Leda decided, touching a finger to the corner of her eyes to stave off tears. “Cassidy? A minute, please?”

  Two of Leda’s assistants were gliding in to prepare the dressing rooms for the rest of the bridesmaids’ fittings. Garment bags boasting the ladies’ names had been hung on the doors. The woman named Cassidy passed her task to another associate and came forth to help record measurements.

  By the time they were finished, the entire entourage had gravitated to the suite. Drinks were going around again, and since only a couple of people could indulge in the luxurious perfection of the champagne, Meg sneaked another glass when Joan was occupied by conversation.

  “Is it delicious?” Veronica Greer asked, perhaps noticing Meg’s almost-orgasmic reaction to the champagne.

  “Uh-huh. Get a glass. Flutes are still going around.”

  “Actually—” Veronica hesitated, then smoothed her wispy bangs and started slinking toward the dressing rooms. “Never mind. I think I saw someone come through with my dress. Better get this measurement out of the way.”

  “Okay.” Meg went to her own dressing room and found it stocked with a basket of sewing instruments, a wide stepstool, and a vase full of fat apricot-and-cream roses.

  It was all so pristinely elegant that she was overly careful with each movement so as not to mar or damage anything as she stripped to her undies.

  A knock on the door made her yelp.

  “Miss Fuentes, do you need any help?” someone called through the door.

  “Nope, I can manage.” Getting dressed every day wasn’t a dramatic event, so long as she kept all articles within reach and didn’t have to walk more than a few steps. Her damaged hip couldn’t bear much weight and when it locked up, motion was impossible. “Just step in, right?”

  “Right. Press the little call button near the top of the stall door when you’re ready to be zipped.”

  Meg opened the garment bag and sighed. The gown, deep lavender with a strapless beaded bodice and a flared lace-over-silk skirt, was fit for the type of princess who’d ditch the royal ball and sneak off into the night with a rogue.

  “Waverly, you know me too well, don’t you?” When she stepped into the gown and faced the mirror, she almost cried. A decent tan, proper underthings, and accessories would complete the transformation, but already she was convinced that Leda J. Dawson was more of a fairy godmother than a gown-designing bridal consultant.

  “Ow—damn it!”

  Meg’s head cocked in the direction of the outburst. She didn’t hear any knocks on the neighboring stall doors and listened to the silence closely for muffled sounds.

  “Ow, ow, ow!”

  “Uh, hello?” she called, holding the dress up with one hand and grabbing her cane with the other. The voice came from the next stall.

  “Meg?”

  “Veronica, you’re still trying on your dress?”

  “Yes.” Then silence. “Mom’s going to be pissed.”

  Uh-oh. This didn’t sound encouraging.

  “Want a stepstool chat?”

  “Yeah.”

  Meg carefully got on her stool and made it to the second tier before she was able to comfortably see over the top of the stall. Veronica was already there, her arms folded on top of the partition. “What’s the matter?”

  “The bodice of my dress is too snug.”

  “Isn’t that how it was designed? All of the other—”

  “And my nipples are sore.”

  “Uh…” Meg said again, frowning. Veronica had avoided champagne, and now she was complaining of a too-snug dress and sore nipples? “Are you pregnant?”

  “A little. I mean, yes, pregnant. Not very far along.”

  “Ay, Dios mio… This has got to be the most fertile wedding in Las Vegas’s history. I’m going to research that.” She realized something else. “I’m the only woman in Waverly’s entourage who isn’t pregnant.”

  “My sister said you’re dating someone.”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Well, regular sex has its benefits, but you might want to double down on the protection if you want to remain the only woman in Waverly’s entourage who’s not pregnant. Simon and I use condoms every time and here I am two months along.”

  They were also having copious amounts of sex, according to Greer family gossip. Since condoms were said to be only ninety-something percent effective, the odds of dodging a surprise probably weren’t exactly in their favor.

  “Does Simon know you’re preggers?”

  Veronica nodded emphatically. “I told him right away. He was as stunned as I was because we hadn’t planned for this, but he was happy. Really happy. Five minutes later we were celebrating.”

  Naked celebrating, probably.

  Meg tried to hold back her side-eye. She failed. At least Veronica couldn’t get pregnant while already pregnant. “If you think he’s happy now, just wait until you guys discover no-condom sex.”

  Veronica surrendered to a crinkly-eyed smile. “We already have, and it’s amazing.”

  Okay, then. “For someone with such exceptional control on the football field, Simon sure can’t hang on to his self-control with you.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way. We’re in love.”

  Love was good to Veronica and Simon. Even as she reminded herself that she didn’t want what they had because love required too much risk, she envied their ability to take the risk and to trust what they felt for each other.

  “It’s obvious you haven’t told Joan. W
hy not?”

  “This is the third alteration to my dress. This time she’s going to notice that only the bust needs to be let out, and, come on, that’s a glaring indicator.”

  “Veronica, I meant, if you and Simon are completely over the moon, why haven’t you shared the baby news with your parents?”

  “We wouldn’t dream of overshadowing Waverly’s wedding. She’s brave enough to allow Mom to have such influence over all of this, so she deserves the glory of a perfect day. Which she will have, providing neither Khloé nor Aly goes into early labor. God forbid.”

  Meg echoed the sentiment in Spanish, adding a blessing.

  “Also,” Veronica said, almost timidly, “Simon and I want this for ourselves. We want time for privacy, time to enjoy being together before everyone else—family and the NFL and the media—get involved. I’m not explaining myself clearly, am I?”

  “I think I understand, though, Veronica. Will you and Mr. Quarterback be squeezing in a vacation before the season starts?”

  “We’re thinking something more meaningful than that. We want to be married, before the season begins, and the fewer people who know about it, the better.”

  Uh-oh again. “Why are you telling me?”

  “Why not tell you?” Veronica shook her head. “Meg, you’re who I need in my corner for this. My best friend’s mother operates a matchmaking business. Grace would never keep this secret from Willa. Simon’s agent has agreed to stand up for him and I need you to stand up for me.” Veronica gripped the partition. “Please, Meg? Who can keep things confidential better than a sports agent and an ex-FBI agent?”

  “So I’m a chosen one because I can hold a secret?”

  “You have a good heart, Meg. You’re a sweet person even if you try not to be. And to be completely forthcoming and selfish on top of it, I need your help arranging a courthouse ceremony. We need this under wraps.”

  “Are you sure, Veronica? To be married in secret and have no one congratulate you on being newlyweds?”

  “We don’t need that. We have each other, we have love, and eventually…” She glanced down toward her tummy, and her smile could melt a million hearts.

  Meg blurted, “Okay. I’m saying yes.”

  “You’ll help us?”

  “I will.”

  “Aww, thank you!” Veronica’s eyes turned misty and she fanned her face. “Oh, God. It’s hormones. I’d better get out there. Let’s talk more later. I can’t wait to tell Simon tonight. He’ll be so happy.”

  So happy that he’d take Veronica aside and they would celebrate, which was as per their usual?

  “Then I should expect your call sometime tomorrow when you and your man aren’t within groping distance of each other?”

  Veronica laughed. “Fine. Tomorrow. Judge us now but you’ll shut up once you’re in love.”

  Descending the stool slowly, and hearing Veronica leave her stall and walk down the hall that led to the suite’s main room, Meg figured she was in no position to judge. She and Remy weren’t in a loving relationship yet he had left her exhausted and well-done every day since she’d given him her key. Not to mention they were guilty of multiple counts of dirty public foreplay.

  She wasn’t sorry for any of it. She hurt because he’d never loved her, was confused because he behaved as though he did love her, was angry that he kept himself shrouded in secrecy, but she wouldn’t erase any second of being body-to-body with him.

  She cherished the moments he was with her and inside her and close enough to make her feel safe.

  That was the strangeness in this. He made her feel protected, yet she couldn’t trust him—especially not after what she’d learned this morning. The methods he’d used to get the information he wanted from Luca Tarantino were ripped from Archangel’s playbook.

  I’m not him. I’m not that other guy.

  God help her, she did trust that. If she didn’t, he wouldn’t still have access to her house or her life.

  Meg considered her reflection again. Her shoes hadn’t yet been finalized, but the gown could stand to lose a half inch or so. She was certain the LJD staff would find plenty of imperfections she missed, and she was too in love with the garment to want to criticize it.

  A tap on the door came, and this time she was ready to be zipped. “Come in. It’s beautiful—”

  “Sono d’accordo con te.”

  Antony Grimaldi moved easily, calmly, shutting the dressing room door behind him and engaging the lock. His raven-black suit stood out like priceless ink spilled against the eggshell-colored walls. His face was jagged, unrefined stone—hard and threatening against the soft pastel environment.

  His expensive scent choked her, and the compassionless hatred in his eyes stung.

  He took a step forward and she made the civilian mistake of retreating away from anything she could use to defend herself.

  Her weight rested on her strong leg, but the position wouldn’t sustain her much longer. For a dressing room, this one was spacious—and while ordinarily that’d be a luxury she appreciated, right now it sucked major ass. The center of the room was open to accommodate extravagant dresses and multiple people fussing over this and that. She couldn’t get to a wall without hopping an awkward distance or attempting to shift her weight to a weak hip that wouldn’t hold up.

  So she stayed where she stood, cataloging the creases and beard pattern and unique characteristics of his face as her periphery monitored his hands.

  Reach for a weapon, any weapon, you bastard, and I’ll find a way to disable you.

  “Where are my friends?” she demanded.

  “Undisturbed in that outer room, belladonna. You wouldn’t accuse me of threatening them, would you?”

  “You’re here uninvited, just as you were at the Villains’ training camp the other day. Now you’re in my changing room with the door locked, and I don’t want you here. So, in case this is unclear to you, Antony, I want you to get the hell out.”

  “I see.” The man nodded deeply. “You don’t like people poking around where they don’t belong.”

  She didn’t answer. She knew where he was going with this and wouldn’t entertain him. Her mind stubbornly wanted to panic, but she tried to think clearly. She had been trained for moments like this, had encountered full-on violent attacks and managed to survive them all.

  There were no cameras in the dressing rooms. There was an emergency exit nearby—was that how he’d gained entry?

  “What you did, Meg, was stir up some…inconveniences. You interfered with my business operations. You compromised me. You damaged my profits. You bloodied my reputation—”

  “I revealed your crimes. A genius is what you are, right? For a genius, you did a shitty job of covering your tracks. Blame yourself. Intimidate yourself.” Provoking a cold and illogical criminal with an ax to grind ranked high on the foolish scale, but she was furious that this man bathed her in fear.

  “Puttana. A man should put you in your place.”

  Meg resisted gritting her teeth. She had views about men who thought women needed to be put in their place. A few branches of her family tree presented households functioning on a “me-man, you-woman, man-rules-woman” model that burned her bacon. “It won’t be you.”

  “Confident about that?”

  “Outsourcing everything keeps your hands clean, true, but it shows what a weak, no-balls coward you really are.”

  The insult struck him, crackling in his faded blue eyes, and he took a single step toward her. Closer and she could connect, fist to face.

  Although physical confrontations weren’t her preferred method of getting a point across, she was capable of defending herself.

  “I don’t outsource everything.” Antony raised a hand but ran it down his crisply cut silver hair. “Your house is full of life. Bright. Welcoming. But you do own an alarming amount of clothes. Vanity is a vice, isn’t it?”

  Meg’s throat felt tight. “Bastard. You wer
e in my house.”

  Antony watched her a moment, and she hated the slide of his gaze down her body. She held the dress tighter to her breasts. “Anytime, Meg. Anytime that I want to get to you, I will. I will use my hands and I will make you curse the day you interfered with my casino. The law can’t protect you. Neither can your man. He’s not here, but I am.”

  He took yet another step, but not toward her. He picked up her cane and tossed it over the partition then unlocked her stall and walked smoothly out.

  Meg started to shiver and she hated that. Weakness, vulnerability, inadequacy—it all began pushing to the surface. Why had she let down her guard, even for a moment, and allowed Antony Grimaldi to catch her unprotected? Why hadn’t she kept a weapon strapped to her thigh? Why had she set her cane down when she couldn’t move without it?

  She tried to get to the call button next to the stall door. Two steps forward and she spilled onto the floor.

  Fuck!

  She reached to grip the edge of a table, but ended up catching a sheer cloth and yanking down everything that had been arranged on top of it. The vase broke into large chunks and the roses…

  The roses bounced and quivered and lay in a puddle of water.

  And she started to cry.

  When someone shouted her name, she didn’t know how many minutes had passed.

  “Miss Fuentes, I am so sorry! The door was locked, if you can believe it. It locks from the inside to protect our clients’ items, but the emergency door was locked, too. It’s the strangest thing. No one locks the dressing entry during salon hours. We can’t find the key. Oh, Lord, what happened to you?”

  Meg sniffled and saw Leda, Waverly, Joan, and an assistant barreling into the stall. “I fell.”

  “Oh, the dress,” Joan said. “It’s wet.”

  “Mom, I’m more concerned about her than I am about the damn dress,” Waverly said tersely. “Would you please unlock that outer door and let everyone know we’ve had an incident?”

  Joan did an about-face, murmuring coolly to her daughter, “Watch your tone. Grow up, get married, but I’m still your mother.”

  Waverly accepted Leda’s profuse apologies on Meg’s behalf, stepped beside her, and lowered to her haunches. “You fell?”