The Bridal Chronicles. Lissa Manley
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“Can’t you help me out here?” he asked. “It’s just one photo, and you obviously intended to be part of this whole thing. It’s no big deal, right?”
“Wrong.” She tugged on her dress. “I changed my mind because it would be a big deal if we’re chosen Best Wedding Couple. And with you in the photo, looking…so, well…good, we’re virtually guaranteed to win.”
Her compliment surprised him and lit a warm space inside of him; he still thought of himself as the scruffy, half-starved little kid from the wrong side of the tracks. “While I’m flattered, I was thinking we’d win because of you,” he said, unable to squash the male curiosity that made him want to get a clear look at her face through her veil.
“You can flatter and charm me all you want, but I’m still not going to risk winning Best Couple.”
He frowned. “Isn’t winning good?”
“Not always. I…well, I just don’t want the attention, all right?”
He held up a hand. “But we’re only talking a few pictures in wedding clothes—”
“Which will turn into more pictures and interviews and attention I don’t want.” She shook her head. “Please try to understand.”
Damn. He’d assumed she was game for the shoot since she was here, decked out in full bride gear. Obviously, for some reason, that wasn’t the case.
Contingency plan. Time to change her mind.
He touched the tip of her creamy shoulder, exposed by her off-the-shoulder gown. “Are you sure you won’t reconsider?” he said, unable to help lingering on her smooth, warm skin. Did she have the face to go with her flawless complexion and stunning body, perfectly shown off by the pretty, figure-hugging dress she wore? “Lots of needy little kids will benefit.” Needy little kids like he’d once been.
She tugged on her dress, inadvertently touching his hand in the process. “I feel bad enough as it is, so please don’t try to guilt me into helping you out. Would you please let me go?”
Heat flared in his body and he tried to ignore how the mere touch of her hand almost knocked the wind out of him. Damn, he wanted to lift that filmy veil and see what she really looked like. Sweat broke out on his upper lip.
Get a hold of yourself and focus.
He was counting on the media exposure for Mentor A Child this chronicle thing would generate. He couldn’t afford to let his obvious attraction to Anna distract him and keep him from attaining that goal, or from counteracting the recent spate of image-bashing publicity his former employee Joanna’s personal vendetta had caused. Damage he needed to repair before the Mentor A Child Board of Directors decided he wasn’t the kind of guy they wanted connected to their organization.
For the sake of the foundation, he had to find a way to make this work, to help needy kids who didn’t have a loving adult in their lives and would fall through the cracks if the foundation wasn’t around to help them.
Like he had.
One way or another, he’d convince Anna to sign that release.
Luckily he was very good at getting what he wanted.
Her jaw set, Anna watched Ryan fiddle with the lace-edged train of her dress, wishing he’d let her go and leave her alone. “I’ll say it again, Mr. Cavanaugh. Please let go of my dress.”
He looked at her with those compelling blue eyes, a speculative expression on his face. He inclined his head. “Of course.” He let go of her train and smoothed it out. “Your tail thing is ready. I’ll walk you to the dressing tent.” He walked toward the makeshift changing area, a crease marring his tanned brow.
Relieved, but wary of his sudden turnabout, she fell in step beside him, ridiculously marveling at his strong, masculine profile. “I’m sorry I can’t help you out—” Without warning, her head jerked backward. “Hey!” She spun around and caught her shoe on an uneven patch of grass and teetered on the backs of her heels, her arms flailing.
Before she could find her balance, she fell sideways. Her veil, attached to her head with small combs, ripped off, jerking her head back again. She crashed to the ground like a felled tree, landing half on her rear, half on her back with a clump next to another thorn-encrusted rosebush, her gown poofing up around her like a giant marshmallow.
Her breath whooshed out of her and it took a moment to regain her wits. She slowly sat up, shaking her veil-less head, then looked up and saw Ryan peering down at her, his face creased with concern.
“Hey, are you all right?” He held out a hand. “That was some fall.”
She grabbed his hand, ignoring how warm and strong it felt, and pulled herself up, searching for her veil. She just wanted to escape before anyone recognized her. She could see the headline now:
Heiress Anna Sinclair Turns Her Back On Millions, Pretending To Be Bridal Designer
Some terribly unflattering photo of her flopped on the grass of the Rose Garden would undoubtedly accompany the headline….
She suppressed a tremor of disgust.
When she was standing, her legs still wobbly, Ryan stepped closer and slid his arm around her shoulders. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
His masculine scent washed over her, an intoxicating combination of clean male and expensive designer aftershave, and a ribbon of attraction darted through her. She swiveled her head and stared into his gaze, unable to find her sanity and look away, tumbling into the clear, compelling depths of his eyes. Awareness crashed through her like a tidal wave and she wanted to reach out and run her fingers over the sheer beauty of his strong jaw. A light breeze stirred, mixing his scent with the heady fragrance of freshly bloomed roses.
A couple of clicks sounded.
She instinctively cringed and snapped her gaze toward the sound.
“Thanks, guys.” A photographer triumphantly held up his camera. “One of those is sure to be a keeper.”
Panic seeped through her. Her worst fantasy had come true. Some overzealous photographer had taken a photo of her without her veil! “He just took our picture!”
Ryan stepped away and plucked her veil free from the rosebush it had snagged on. “Yeah, I guess he did.” A tiny smile hovered around his mouth.
She crossed her arms in front of her, wanting to wipe that little smirk off his face with everything in her. “You’re happy about this, aren’t you?”
“Hey, I wanted the picture taken all along, and you don’t seem willing to tell me why you’re so darned determined to back out.”
The despicable schemer. Had he arranged for the photographer to snap the picture on the sly?
She drew herself up and did her best to look haughty. “Well, Mr. Cavanaugh, the picture may have been taken, but I still haven’t signed the release.” She hastily gathered her dress, snatched her tulle veil from his hand, and stomped away. “And I don’t intend to,” she called over her shoulder.
“Not even for a worthwhile cause?”
She stopped and shot him a glare. “I’ll say it again. Don’t use guilt to change my mind, Mr. Cavanaugh. Trust me, guilt isn’t in short supply today.” She turned her back on the gorgeous man with the charming dimples, bone-melting smile, and enough charisma to raise a hundred red flags in her brain.
Thankfully, this ended here and now. She wasn’t about to let her one lapse in judgment, or Ryan’s attempt to make her feel guilty, ruin her plan to meet the terms of her father’s deal so she wouldn’t have to slave away in the family banking business.
She shuddered. Even though she possessed the skill and education to help run a banking dynasty, she couldn’t think of anything worse than being relegated to the uncreative, stodgy world of high finance for the