The Inconvenient Bride. Anne McAllister
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accessory for a CEO to wear on his arm.
Dominic shut his eyes for a minute and saw the future. Saw himself and the bloodless blonde his father had chosen for him.
He opened his eyes and stared out the window at the streaming rain.
It was warm inside, cold out there. The windows were fogging up, reminding him of other foggy windows, of a night out of time—of steam and sex and a woman who wasn’t bloodless at all.
And he felt his body harden now at the mere memory of her—and of that night.
For the past three months he’d been doing his damnedest to forget.
He’d been trying since February to pretend it never happened, Then, because he couldn’t manage that, he’d tried to convince himself that it would never happen again.
He didn’t believe it ever could.
Sex like they’d had that night was a once in a lifetime thing. It had to be. He’d certainly never had it before—or since.
It certainly hadn’t happened with Marjorie.
What if—
He tried not to pursue that thought. He couldn’t help himself.
What if it hadn’t been a fluke? What if they could do it again? And again?
His mouth went dry. His palms got damp. A very unprofessional, unbusinesslike reaction was taking place in his fine worsted charcoal wool trousers. He tugged at his grey-and-burgundy striped tie. It was the same tie…the one she had…
He sucked air.
Then he shoved himself out of his chair, stalked across the room and flung open the door to the outer office.
Shyla held out the phone to him. “Dominic, Mr. Shiguru on line two and Ms. Beecher has been on hold—”
“Not now.” He didn’t even break stride as he grabbed his raincoat and headed for the door.
“Dominic! Where are you going?”
“To get a wife.”
Sierra should have known it was going to be one of those days.
The moment she opened her eyes to see the rain pounding down the tulips in the window box on her fire escape, she should have closed them again and pulled the covers over her head.
Instead she’d pasted on one of her eternal-optimist smiles and told herself how good the rain was for the flowers. She refused to think how bad it was for hair.
Her mistake.
Of course it was bad for hair. It was also bad for tempers and taxis and terminally temperamental clients with the artistic vision of brain-dead walruses, not to mention for photographers whose babies had been teething all night and models with naturally curly locks.
No, it was not a good day.
Sierra did not expect every day to be stress-free. But the bitch-quotient in Finn MacCauley’s studio this morning was threatening to blow Manhattan right off the map.
“Hurry up,” Finn was saying for the fiftieth time that hour. “Move it! Move it! Move it! Do you know how many damn dresses we’ve still got left to shoot?”
Sierra didn’t know. She didn’t care.
The dresses weren’t her problem. Her problem was the hair.
Sleek hair. Piled hair. Severe shellacked hair.
“She’s frizzing again!” Ballou, the temperamental client pointed at Alison, the goddess from the Bronx. “Look at her!” He grabbed fistfuls of Alison’s long wildly curling hair straight out from her head and yelled at Sierra, “She can’t frizz! She has to be sleek! Make her sleek!”
It would be easier to make a porcupine bald. Sierra sighed. “Hang on. Let me put on some more gel. Just a little gel.”
“Sierra, for Pete’s sake!” Finn was tearing his own hair. “Let’s go. Stop messing with her and get the hell out of the way.”
“I just need—”
“Sleek,” Ballou insisted. “Smooth. Straight as a die.” He made up and down knifing motions with his hands.
Then why did you ask for a model with naturally curly hair? Sierra wanted to scream.
“I’m frizzing, too!” Delilah, the other model, complained.
“And not the blue. I don’t like her in the blue,” Ballou decided, scrutinizing the dress Alison had just put on. “Let’s try the yellow.”
“I can’t wear yellow!” the model objected. “I look dead in yellow.”
“You’re going to be dead in yellow,” Finn said, “if you don’t shut up. We have thirty of these damn things to get finished and we’ve only done six! Sierra! Let’s go!”
They went. The models stood patiently while Sierra slicked them down again. Ballou fussed and fumed and fretted and changed his mind and Finn griped and growled and cussed and shot.
And all the while Sierra tried to stay up-beat because after all, she told herself, in the greater course of the universe what difference did it make?
It was rain. A yellow dress or a blue one. Curly hair. Frizzy hair. Straight hair. What difference did it make?
It didn’t.
Not like Frankie.
That was really what made it a lousy day—thinking about Frankie.
Frankie Bartelli was going to die.
Sierra hated to even think that. Her mind rebelled at the thought. Her emotions rejected it furiously. But for all her rebellion and all her rejection, it was going to happen—unless he got a kidney transplant—and soon.
Sure, some people lived a long time with kidney problems. Some people did just fine on dialysis for years and years.
But they weren’t Frankie, who for the last few months had been fading right before Sierra’s eyes.
They weren’t eight years old, either, with their whole lives ahead of them.
They didn’t dream about climbing mountains and going fishing and playing baseball. They didn’t draw the niftiest spaceships or the scariest green monsters or detailed plans for the “best tree house in the world.”
They didn’t love Star Trek and root beer floats and double cheese pizza. They didn’t have big brown eyes and sooty dark lashes and a cowlick that even Sierra’s most determined hair gel couldn’t subdue for long. They didn’t have the world’s croakiest laugh and a grin that melted you where you stood.
Or maybe they did.
Sierra didn’t know. She didn’t know about anyone—except Frankie.
He and his mother Pam had been Sierra’s neighbors since she’d moved into half of the third floor of a four-story walk-up in the Village three years ago.
Frankie had been a lot healthier-looking then. A lot stronger. And Pam hadn’t had that hunted, haunted look in her dark brown eyes.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she’d said, her voice cracking when she’d first told Sierra what the doctors had told her.
To Sierra it was simple. “If he needs a transplant, we’ll get him a transplant,” she had vowed.
But Pam, desperate but realistic, had shaken her head in despair. “The hospital wants two hundred, fifty thousand dollars up front before they’ll even agree to put him on the list.”
It seemed like highway robbery to Sierra. Extortion. Every vile thing she could think of. Just because Pam was a self-employed illustrator whose insurance coverage had managed to fall through some crack, that was no reason for them to deny Frankie.
And