by Julie James
But obviously, the situation was different between him and Simon. Of course, Simon could confide in him about things like this—they’d always been close as brothers. Or at least . . . he’d always assumed they were.
Vaughn mulled that question over in his mind while finishing his club soda. He was on his last sip when something caught his eye. A flash of pink and auburn to his left.
Truth be told, this wasn’t the first time this particular flash of pink and auburn had caught his eye. Sidney had been everywhere at this party tonight, mingling and smiling and laughing and seemingly always in his line of sight with her sleek legs and that damn ruffle that fell off her shoulder. It was a very clever trick, this peekaboo sleeve of hers. It made a man think . . . things.
Things a man definitely had no business thinking about a woman he’d gone out of his way to avoid all night.
Brushing that aside, Vaughn set his empty glass on the tray next to the bar. Just then, his ear caught the conversation of the group standing behind him.
“. . . heard that the reception is going to be at the Lakeshore Club,” said a woman.
“Wasn’t that the place where Sidney was going to have her reception?” asked a second woman.
“Yes. Maybe Isabelle can have her sister’s wedding dress and veil, too. Somebody might as well use them,” the first woman snickered.
“No way. That dress is a curse. You heard what happened, right? How she found out her fiancé was cheating?” said the second woman.
A third woman jumped in, shushing the first two. “Shh. Sidney’s standing right there,” she whispered.
Vaughn looked over his shoulder and saw Sidney mid-conversation with two men who, if he recalled correctly from the whirlwind of introductions, worked at her father’s hedge fund. She stood closest to the gossiping women, so it was certainly possible she’d heard them talking. But her expression gave nothing away as she carried on, business as usual.
Then Vaughn heard another voice. His own.
Well. On behalf of the male population, let me be the first to apologize for whatever he did.
So he’d been a little . . . sarcastic at the coffee shop. Maybe more than a little. Sidney certainly hadn’t held back with her self-righteous speech, which meant he’d been entitled to respond in kind. Still, after hearing that her ex-fiancé had cheated on her, he felt a touch guilty about his comment right then.
Definitely time to call it a night.
He found Isabelle and Simon, and had every intention of saying a quick good-bye. But instead they introduced him to yet more people—people who, as often was the case, were fascinated to hear that he was an FBI agent and immediately hit him with the standard litany of questions. Do you carry a gun? (Yes.) Do you have it on you right now? (Yes.) Can I see it? (No.) How many people have you arrested? (Probably less than expected; undercover operations take time to carry out.) You work undercover? Cool! What’s that like?
And so on.
Finally, he made his getaway twenty minutes later. He decided to walk around the house instead of going back inside, thinking it would be his quickest escape route. He immediately shucked his suit coat as he followed the paved walkway past the swimming pool and guesthouse, and into a more secluded garden with an elegant three-tiered fountain.
Sitting on a bench, tucked away from the rest of the party, was Sidney.
She jumped and stood up, clearly startled by his arrival. For a split second, he felt bad for intruding, thinking perhaps she’d overheard the gossip and had come out here to get a short break from the party.
But then she spoke.
“You again,” she said.
“Me again,” Vaughn drawled in return. As if it was his fault they kept crossing paths at this party. If he had his druthers, he and The Cantankerous Miss Sidney Sinclair would go their separate ways and—wow, the V-neckline of that dress dipped enticingly lower than he’d realized.
Focus, Roberts.
“I was just leaving,” he said.
“So I gathered.” Her gaze fell on the jacket he’d thrown casually over his shoulder and held with one hand. “You must’ve been roasting in that thing.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She looked confused. “I’m sorry?”
“It’s considered poor form for an FBI agent to have his gun exposed in public,” he explained.
“Oh.” Her eyes traveled down to his right hip, where he carried his Glock. “You must have to get creative when wearing a swimsuit.”
With anyone else, Vaughn would’ve said that was a joke. But with Sidney, he couldn’t quite tell. He cocked his head, trying to get a read on her, and looked her over.
It was that damn sleeve of her dress. Suddenly, he found himself fighting the urge to reach out and tug it up over her shoulder.
Or tug it lower, perhaps?
Their eyes met over the soft, ambient lights of the fountain.
“You said something about leaving?” she asked.
Right. “Enjoy the rest of your party, Sidney.”
Then he turned on his heel and walked away, the sounds of the string quartet fading in the distance.
Six
AFTER WORK ON Monday, Vaughn met Huxley and Cade in the state-of-the-art gym located on the second floor of the FBI building. They were in the second week of their triathlon training program, which meant they’d added a fifty-minute run on the indoor track to their usual weight-lifting workout.
They fell into an easy groove during the run, talking mostly about Officer Pritchett and Co.’s smuggling ring. Because Cade was in the special prosecutions group at the U.S. Attorney’s Office, the division that handled corruption cases, he often served as a consultant on any legal issues that arose during Vaughn and Huxley’s investigations.
“We met with Batista last week,” Vaughn said to Cade as they began their fourth lap around the track. “He agreed to set up a meeting with Pritchett and wear a wire. He’ll tell Pritchett he knows a guy who needs a few things moved from point A to point B. That’s where I come in.”
“What’s your name this month?” Cade joked, referring to the multitude of identities Vaughn had assumed over the years as part of his various undercover operations.
“Mark Sullivan. Gun buyer. Drives a Hummer H3, wears expensive suits, and carries a Kimber 1911 handgun,” Vaughn said.
“No clue what that is,” Cade said.
“Let’s just say, it’s a gun with swagger.” He took his tools very seriously when working undercover.
In the locker room after their workout, Cade and Huxley asked about the engagement party, both of them having met Simon on several occasions.
“You should’ve seen the place,” Vaughn said, drying himself off after a quick shower. “Huge mansion on the lake, in-ground swimming pool, guesthouse, the whole works. Isabelle’s father runs a hedge fund. Obviously quite successfully.”
“And you approve of your future sister-in-law?” Cade asked.
“Sure. Isabelle seems great.” Her sister, on the other hand . . .
Huxley studied him as he slid on his boxer briefs. “What’s the ‘but’?”
“No ‘but,’” Vaughn said. “I like Simon’s fiancée.” And, fortunately for him, she inherited all the good-natured genes in the family.
Cade furrowed his brow. “There it is again—that look. Like you want to say more.”
Vaughn scoffed at that as he pulled on his clothes. “There’s no look.”
Cade pointed. “Huxley just put on his underwear. Not once, in the two years that you two have been partners, have you ever missed an opportunity to smirk at the fact that the man irons his boxer briefs.”
“Hey. They fold neater that way. It saves space in the drawer,” Huxley said.
Cade gave Vaughn a look. I rest my case. “So? What gives?”
Vaughn took in the
tenacious expression on his friend’s face and knew that any further denials would only bring on more questions. He sighed. “Fine.” He thought about where to begin. “Isabelle has a sister.”
Huxley rolled his eyes. “Here we go.”
“No, no. Not here we go. She and I are not going anywhere,” Vaughn said emphatically. “The woman’s a . . .” He paused, trying to think of the right word. He caught sight of another agent, Sam Wilkins, passing by their row of lockers. The man was a walking dictionary. “Hey, Wilkins—what’s that word you used the other day, to describe the female witness who kept arguing with you?”
“Termagant,” Wilkins called over. “Means ‘quarrelsome woman.’”
Vaughn nodded at Cade and Huxley in satisfaction, thinking that definition perfectly captured Sidney Sinclair. “There. She’s a termagant.”
“It can also mean ‘vixen,’” Wilkins shouted from the next aisle over.
“Thank you, Merriam-Webster,” Vaughn called back, with a half growl. “I think we’ve got it.”
Cade raised an eyebrow teasingly. “So. Does the vixen have a name?”
Yep, Vaughn had walked right into that one. “Sidney.”
“You just met her this weekend,” Huxley said. “What could you two possibly have to quarrel about?”
“Actually, we met the weekend before last. Simon and Isabelle invited us both to dinner to tell us about their engagement.”
“And you and Sidney had some sort of falling out then?” Cade asked.
Vaughn hedged. “Technically, the falling out happened before dinner, at a coffee shop around the corner.” He paused. “When I hit on her.”
“You hit on your future sister-in-law’s sister?” Huxley asked, his tone clearly indicating that this was a big no-no.
“I didn’t know she was Isabelle’s sister at the time,” Vaughn said, in his defense. “I saw a hot single woman and I acted. That’s what I do.”
“How did you know she was single?” Huxley asked.
“I could tell that she was on a first date. Things didn’t work out between her and the other guy, so I walked over and tried to pick her up,” he said matter-of-factly.
“How’d that go?” Cade asked.
“Not well.” Vaughn zipped up his fly, and saw his friends fighting back grins. “She profiled me.”
Cade let out a bark of laughter. “Get out of here.”
Vaughn grabbed his duffle bag and shut his locker with a resounding clang. “I’m serious. There was a speech and everything. She told me that I run around with my ‘obviously healthy ego’ and compared me to a kid in a candy store when it comes to women—trying to get my hands on as many ‘shiny treats’ as possible.”
Cade’s mouth twitched. “How dare she. That’s just so . . .” He trailed off, as if thinking about how best to respond.
“Dead-on balls accurate,” Huxley finished.
The two of them began laughing.
Vaughn glared. “I’m starting to get the impression that you guys are enjoying this.”
“Oh, definitely,” Huxley said, still chuckling.
“Why?” Vaughn asked, annoyed. They were his closest friends, which meant they were supposed to be on his side.
Cade answered that question with one of his own. “When’s the last time a woman rejected you, Roberts?”
Vaughn paused, having to think that one over.
Cade grinned, his point made. “That is why we’re enjoying this.”
• • •
“I’M SURE SHE’LL be here any minute,” Sidney said assuredly.
Jackie, the bridal shop sales associate who’d squeezed Isabelle into this appointment during her lunch hour as a favor to a friend, smiled politely. “Not a problem.”
Given the bridal shop’s location on Oak Street, home to many of the city’s most upscale stores and boutiques, Sidney guessed that Jackie had perfected the art of saying “Not a problem” in response to a wide variety of comments, questions, and situations. Still, given the efforts the sales associate had gone through to accommodate them, Sidney felt bad that Isabelle was late—which was not like her. She checked the clock on her phone, and was about to send her sister a text message, when the door to the shop flew open and Isabelle hurtled inside.
“Oh my god, where’s the bathroom—I need it now!” she shouted at Jackie.
Mouth open, Jackie pointed to a corridor on her right.
Isabelle took off at lightning speed.
A moment later, a door slammed down the hallway. After an awkward pause, Sidney turned and smiled at Jackie. “Well, at least she’s in the shop now. Yay, progress.”
“Perhaps you have some idea of your sister’s taste and could begin looking over the dresses I’ve pulled?” Jackie suggested. “I’m afraid there aren’t that many choices. Given the extremely short time frame we have to work with, Isabelle’s only option is to go with a dress we already have here in the shop in her size.”
Five minutes later, Sidney found herself in a dressing room, surrounded by yards of tulle, silk, charmeuse, duchess satin, and organza. She flipped through the gowns that Jackie had pulled for them and then paused when she came to a one-shoulder silk gown with a draped bodice that looked remarkably like the wedding dress she’d ordered for herself back in New York.
She fingered the delicate material as the memories washed over her—the first time Brody had kissed her on the steps outside her apartment in SoHo, his spontaneous proposal in Central Park, the rush of excitement and happiness she’d felt when trying on her wedding dress for a final fitting, just two weeks before the big day.
Then came another memory, one of betrayal and hurt and shock.
Sidney grabbed the hanger and emphatically slid the dress to the other end of the rack, out of sight and out of mind. She’d learned her lesson, and she had her plan now—never again would silly, fanciful emotions cloud her judgment when it came to men.
The dressing room door opened. Isabelle stepped in and sank onto a love seat. “Well, that wasn’t fun,” she groaned.
Sidney had gathered that. “Morning sickness?” She took a seat next to her sister on the love seat.
“Afternoon and evening, too. The doctor says it can happen at any time. Yippee,” Isabelle said, raising her fist mock cheerfully. “So far this week, I’ve had to run out of four client appointments.”
“You had your first doctor’s appointment? How did it go?” Sidney asked.
“I peed in a cup, they confirmed that I’m having a baby, then I puked into a bedpan while a nurse took four vials of blood from me.”
“And who says pregnancy isn’t a beautiful thing?”
Isabelle smiled weakly at that and pushed herself upright. She eyed the rack of gowns. “So. One of those is going to be my dream wedding dress.”
Sidney got up from the couch. “I’ve gone through most of them. These dresses here are the ones you’ll want to focus on.”
Isabelle wrinkled her nose, pointing to the first one on the rack. “I’m not a big fan of empire waistlines.”
“In three months, I’m thinking that’s the only waistline that’s going to work if the goal is to keep the peanut on the down-low.”
Isabelle blinked. “Right. Duh.” She took a deep breath and put on a smile. “Okay, empire waist, it is.” She stood up and joined Sidney at the rack. She leafed through the dresses with somewhat lackluster interest at first, but then she stopped when she saw the last one. “Wait. This one’s not so bad. Actually, I really like this one.” With an enthusiastic flourish, she pulled the dress out to show Sidney. “What do you think?”
The gown was sleeveless, with straps that widened into a deep V. With a sweetheart neckline trimmed in lace, high waist, and full tulle skirt, it was sophisticated in a classic 1940s Hollywood kind of way. “It’s perfect,” Sidney said, completely genuine. “Let�
��s see it on.”
Giggling excitedly, Isabelle twirled with the dress in the direction of the private dressing area. She stopped mid-spin and put her hand over her stomach. “Oh, boy.”
Jackie chose that moment to stick her head into the dressing room. “How’s everything going so far? Is there anything I can get you?”
“I’d say a trash can,” Sidney told her. “Quickly.”
To her credit, Jackie didn’t even bat an eye.
“Not a problem.”
• • •
“OH MY GOSH, Izz. You’ve got to try at least one bite of this.”
Isabelle, who’d insisted on treating Sidney as a thank-you for going dress shopping, held up a hand, refusing the forkful of red velvet cupcake. “Ugh. No thanks.” She put a hand on her stomach. “Apparently, the peanut doesn’t like the looks of that cream cheese frosting.”
They walked along Oak Street as Sidney ate from the plastic container the woman behind the counter at Sprinkles bakery had hurriedly tossed at them, presumably after seeing Isabelle’s face turn greener than the sugar topping on their key lime cupcakes. The original plan had been to eat in the bakery, but then Isabelle had covered her mouth with another “Oh, boy,” muttered something about “strong smells,” and they’d hightailed it out of the place ASAP.
“I will make a mental note not to serve anything with cream cheese frosting at your bridal shower,” Sidney said. “I’m thinking it would put a slight damper on the festivities if the guest of honor throws up on the cake.”
Isabelle half-smiled at the joke, seeming distracted. “True.” She cocked her head, as if pondering something. “So what do you think about Vaughn?”
Sidney paused, mid-cupcake bite, as several responses immediately sprang to mind. Irritating. Cocky. Player. Delicious.
She gave herself a mental face slap for that last one.