Lady Luck (Colorado Mountain #3)(17)

One minute after that, his hand came to my elbow, fingers curling around, that strange, intense heat hit my skin where his fingers touched and he led me to an open corner, a small space but the only space void of happy, soon-to-be linked for eternity (maybe) lovebirds.

His hand dropped and my mind centered on the touch that still burned the skin around my elbow. Then my eyes caught on something and I forced myself to focus.

Across the way, there was a silver gild framed, full-length mirror and in it, Walker and I were reflected.

I was wearing a blush-colored, silk crêpe, to the knee, snug fitting, sleeveless dress, the bodice a wide vee that showed lots of chest and hints of cle**age, the material skimming over the points of my shoulders to dip into another vee that exposed my back to the bra-line. My hair was down and I’d curled it in chunky curls so there was a lot more of it than normal and normally there was a lot of it. My shoes were fantastic. My diamonds, more so. Much more.

Even being such a big guy, he wore his suit well. The one hour tailors had done a good job. The suit wasn’t shit, not at all. And it fit him perfectly. It was fabulous, it was expensive. Maybe not top-of-the-line Italian but nothing to sneeze at including the shirt, the material of which was very fine, the tailoring, for one hour, spectacular.

My heels were four inches. I was five nine so my heels put me at six foot one. He still towered over me. I had ass, I had tits. I was not petite or slender, not even close. His mass still dwarfed me.

The bouquet I held looked like it was made for my dress. The shoes I’d found, the same (I had a sixth sense when it came to shoes – it took me an hour and a half to find the dress – the two pairs of shoes I found, tried on and purchased in twenty minutes).

I couldn’t help but think we looked good together. If you had showed me his picture and told me to build his perfect mate, I would have said, first, lithe, graceful African-American with a long neck, slender arms, elegant hands and a short-cropped afro that exposed her perfect skull. Second, I would have said a California girl, tan, blonde who looked like she spent her days surfing and her nights f**king his brains out.

But seeing us, we worked. And seeing us in that mirror, I couldn’t help but think we not only worked but we worked in a big way.

I turned to him and tipped my head back.

“Thanks for the signing bonus,” I whispered. “And the bouquet.”

His eyes dipped to mine. Then he jerked up his chin. Then he looked over my head and scanned the room.

Thirty-seven minutes later, we were in the chapel with Liberace.

Ten minutes after that, Walker was rumbling at Liberace to stand aside as the photographer angled for our picture, a picture he wanted Liberace to have no part in. Liberace looked crushed. I gave him a dazzling smile to help with his despondency and was pleased to see this worked. Then Walker yanked me into his side with an arm around my shoulders and pointed his blank stare at the camera. I wound my arm around his waist, tilted the front of my body, pressed it into his side and aimed my dazzling smile at the photographer. Then the photographer snapped our photo.

Ten minutes after that, rhinestone lady handed us the folder with our photos and our marriage certificate.

A minute after that, we were in my car.

Which brings me to now. Married. With a bouquet in my hand and wedding photos and a marriage certificate resting on my thighs.

And I was thinking, the minute Ronnie had his scholarship yanked and copped a plea; I should not have been the girlfriend who stuck by her man.

I should have dumped him and moved on.

But I didn’t.

And now I was married to a man I didn’t know who had a gun, a history where he was in the position for Shift to owe him big and was the kind of man who casually bestowed what had to be very expensive diamonds on “his woman”.

But even though all this was irrefutably true, there was also no denying Ty Walker and I just had one kick-f*cking-ass wedding.

The Charger growled up the front of our hotel, we did the valet gig then I followed Walker into the hotel. I clocked the bag of bones guy the minute we entered. He was hanging around, waiting, watching and he clocked us about two seconds after I clocked him.

That tightness took hold of my gut and instantly, without me telling it to do so, my hand transferred the folder, envelope and my clutch to press them between my arm and my body, freeing my hand so I could take hold of his. I shoved my fingers between his, lacing them together and I edged closer to him.

His chin tipped down even as he carried on walking and his fabulous, arched eyebrows went up half a centimeter.

“Bag of bones,” I whispered, pressing into the side of his body even as we moved.

“Come again?”

“Bag of bones dude. Your shadow.”

His fingers tightened in mine and he stopped us in front of the elevator, leaning forward and hitting the button but not looking around.

He came back and I got even closer.

He stared at the elevator doors but muttered, “You tagged him.”

“You didn’t?” I muttered back.

“Yeah. Just surprised you did.”

“He’s hard to miss.”

“Part-idiot,” he mumbled.

“Hmm,” I mumbled back.

You’ll be my wife, you’ll act like my wife and you’ll do it until this is done.

That’s what he’d said.

That was the deal.