Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(13)

4


Sam Petrie lurked ouside the small, packed church, having shown himself to Bruno, and to Zia Rosa, the formidable Ranieri matriarch. That duty done, he’d slunk out to have a smoke.

Damn, this group was heavy into weddings. It gave him an unpleasant sense of déjà vu. He’d lurked outside during Kev and Edie’s ceremony, too. He didn’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings, but the giddy nuptial scene made him feel smothered and vaguely depressed.

Next time this crowd inflicted a wedding invitation on him, he’d send a salt and pepper shaker and his apologies, and stay far away. For now, he compromised by lurking, which was why he was perfectly positioned to witness Miles Davenport’s arrival.

He didn’t recognize Miles at first. He was giving a habitual once-over to each person as he or she approached, and his attention snagged on the tall man striding purposefully toward the church. He pegged the guy as a potential problem instantly. Dark, hard eyes. Leathery, dark, tanned skin. Shaggy, unstyled hair. He’d been sleeping rough, in spite of the nice suit. Flinty gaze. Granite-lipped. A walking unexploded bomb. Not an element you wanted waltzing into a friend’s wedding. He was stepping forward to do his civic duty both as friend and cop, to ask if the guy had mistaken his venue when the recognition slammed in.

Jesus, that nose. Was it . . . holy shit. He stared. “Miles?”

“Hey.” Miles shook his shaggy mane off his face. He did not smile.

Petrie reached out to clasp his hand. Some instinct stopped him, a sixth sense, of stray wires, high voltage. “Good to see you, man.”

Miles nodded. “Yeah.”

He did not offer further pleasantries, or say it was good to see Petrie, too. That part of Miles Davenport had been rendered away, along with twenty-five percent of the guy’s body weight, from the looks of him. His big hands contrasted starkly with the cuffs poking from the sleeves of his suit. Brown, covered with scabs, nails battered. Like he’d been crawling through rocks and thorns under a desert sun.

Where the f*ck have you been, man? Everybody’s been worried sick about you. He stopped the words. The unlucky bastard was going to be fielding that question all afternoon. He did not look up to the task.

Before Petrie could come up with anything, the limo pulled up. Rosettes, with streamers flying from the antenna. Behold, the bride.

Doors opened, and a confusion of gartered and stockinged legs and fluffy skirts started spilling out. Lily straightened up, adjusting her gown, which was a graceful, pleated Grecian goddess sort of thing, which looked awesome on her. Nina was also looking hot, her figure set off in a clingy, eye grabbing shade of sunset orange. She adjusted her friend’s hair. The wind caught the veil, flipping it out like a banner.

And there she was. It never failed. Petrie’s mouth went suddenly dry as Sveti emerged, in a satin sheath that clung to her like she’d been dipped in slate blue liquid. She came out ass first, focused on the squalling occupant of the car seat. Marco Ranieri, the newest addition to the McCloud Crowd’s progeny. An opportunity to gawk at Sveti’s awesome booty with no repercussions was precious, so Petrie took advantage of it, forgetting Miles altogether as Sveti emerged, swinging shiny locks back over her pale shoulders. Marco was drapped over her bosom, hiding what the gown’s neckline was designed to showcase. Damn shame, but predictable as sunrise.

Aaro and Kev McCloud unfolded themselves from the front seat. Miles shrank back, as if hoping not to be noticed. A vain hope.

Aaro spotted Miles first. His face went blank. He murmured to Kev, who was offering Lily his arm. Kev’s bright gaze instantly zapped up to Miles, but he’d positioned himself well out of their trajectory, and the bride was busy getting up the steps without tripping on her train.

Nina glanced over at them, a puzzled frown between her eyes, but Aaro hustled her in to do her maid-of-honor duty.

Sveti lagged behind, joggling the fussing Marco to calm him down. The movement made her tits quiver. Her shoulders were creamy pale in contrast to her long, dark hair. Petrie wrenched his gaze away. Down, boy. Daring to look at the lofty goddess’s perfect ta-tas. But her scolding attention was focused mostly on Miles, not him. So no worries.

She stopped on the step below, frowning up. “Miles?” she asked, as if she didn’t quite believe it.

“That would be me,” Miles said.

“Where in hell have you been? Do you know how worried—”

“Don’t.” Miles’ voice was hoarse. “Don’t start.”

Sveti’s lips tightened up. She looked almost like she might start to cry. “At least you are here,” she said. “How nice of you to make such an effort. So generous of you, no? Such a loyal friend.”

Miles looked relieved. Sarcasm was easier to deal with than tears.

“Thought I’d missed it,” he said. “Good thing Lily was late.”

“Marco had a terrible attack of colic,” Sveti told him. “Lily ended up having to take her whole outfit off so she could nurse—”

“Christ, spare us the gruesome details,” Petrie cut in.

Her eyes flicked over him. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

Miles peered down at the creature squirming on Sveti’s chest. “Marco. Wow. He’s, uh . . .” He paused, at a loss. “Bigger.”

“Oh, yes.” Sveti held the wriggling striped entity up to be inspected, as proudly as if it were her own. “He’s gained three pounds in two months. Almost up to the 50th percentile in length and weight for a full-term baby. But the colic is very bad. Want to hold him?”