rather than the old “Plan of Self-Destruction.” A strategy that involved seeing how many years she could accrue at her dead-end job as a receptionist at Trevard Social Services and how many Mr. Wrongs she could pack into one lifetime.
She sighed against the beat of protest that thrummed inside her. Frankly, her “New Me” plan was a lot easier in theory than in practice. Her receptionist job was comfortable. It was so simple she could do it on autopilot. Even though her boss was a colossal pain in the butt, it was definitely one of those devil-you-know situations. Or so she told herself.
But the job was getting her nowhere.
As were the men she sometimes dated.
From her perspective, the journey toward true love sometimes seemed akin to walking a tightrope strung across a dark, scary abyss. She’d walked that rope before, holding the hand of a man she loved and trusted, a man who, once upon a time, said he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. Ultimately, he’d not just let go of her hand; he’d shoved her into the darkness below.
She’d nearly drowned in the misery.
Even now, almost seven years later, when she thought about the man who’d broken her heart, the pain resurfaced like it was covered by fading Novocain.
To numb herself, she dated. She’d even had relationships—if you could call them that. The men all had one thing in common beyond the tall, broad-shouldered, feral masculinity: none were husband material.
She preferred it that way. By dating the perennial bad boy, it was a given that those relationships wouldn’t last. She kept a firm grip on her heart. That way it couldn’t be broken.
Sophie squeezed Lindsay’s hand. “I think focusing on you is a wonderful idea, and to help you with that, I have a surprise for you.” Sophie’s face lit with a certain look Lindsay had seen before. A look that meant Lindsay should probably run the other way—as fast as she could.
Her friend always meant well, and she could also be extraordinarily generous, as evidenced by the way she’d packed the past month full of fabulous surprises—from daylong, head-to-toe spa days, to designer clothes, shoes and handbags, to the custom-made Cartier diamond necklace and earrings she’d presented her attendants to wear with their bridesmaids dresses.
“What are you up to now?” Lindsay narrowed her eyes, playing along with the tone Sophie had set for this one.
“I’ll tell you in a minute. First, I have to say hello to someone.”
She followed Sophie’s gaze to a short, slight man who was making his way toward them.
“Your highness, such a lovely wedding.” The man had a thick Italian accent. He bowed and dusted Sophie’s hand with a kiss. “It is a great honor to bear witness to such a momentous occasion.”
Okay, this could take a while. But Lindsay had monopolized Sophie long enough. It was time to relinquish her friend and give others a turn. It was a good time to get a drink. The guests didn’t want to talk to her, and that was okay. Really, it was. She didn’t want to stand there, awkward as a sixth finger while this man did what every guest at this wedding endeavored to do: endear himself to the future queen of St. Michel.
She turned to Sophie. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”
Sophie smiled. “Is everything okay?”
Lindsay nodded. “Absolutely, I need something to drink. Would either of you care for something?”
“Nothing for me,” said the Italian. “But please allow me to be at your service.”
“No, no, thank you. You stay here and talk. I’ll be back.”
“You don’t have to leave,” Sophie whispered.
She’d been so good to make sure Lindsay didn’t feel out of place during her stay at the palace. The poor woman must be exhausted.
“I’m fine,” Lindsay assured her. “I’ll find you later.”
“Okay, don’t forget. Your surprise.”
Sophie had been so generous already. Lindsay couldn’t imagine what else she could pull out of her crown. Especially tonight. Sophie’s big night. It felt wrong for her friend to take time away from her wedding to give her something else. If anyone should be fussed over tonight, it was the bride.
Across the room, Lindsay spied a tux-clad server with a tray of champagne flutes. She walked over and helped herself, then turned to survey the crowd. The guest list was studded with several A-listers who melded so well with the others that sometimes Lindsay had to do a double take before she could identify them. But she was careful to not be too obvious. No one here gawked or gushed.
That’s why it was important that she honored the agreement she’d made with herself and remained cool—and not go stark raving fan girl, even though Johnny Depp was sitting directly in her line of vision at a table for two, with his arm draped around a petite woman.
Lindsay bit her bottom lip instead.
Johnny. Depp.
She watched as the actor lifted a cigarette to his lips, taking a long drag. It was just as well she didn’t try to engage him in conversation, because with all this pent-up nervous energy, she’d probably end up saying the wrong thing or bleating like a startled goat rather than forming words that made any sense.
Her toes curled in her custom-made Jimmy Choos (one of the bridesmaid gifts from Sophie), and she exhaled a full-body sigh, reluctantly tearing her gaze from him.
As she skimmed the crowd, she stopped suddenly, backtracking to a familiar face. A sulking hulk of handsomeness and broad shoulders sat alone at a table toward the back of the ballroom.
It was that famous chef. Oh, what was his name…?
As she studied his ruggedly attractive face, the olive skin and perpetual five o’clock shadow, Lindsay’s mind flipped through names one by one, but she couldn’t quite pin it down.
A couple of years ago, he’d been the poster boy of the trashy tabloids. Oh, what was his name…? He used to have a show on Food TV…but something had happened. She couldn’t remember what. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him on television. Not that she’d ever been a big fan—but boy, he was even better-looking in person than on TV, and the tabloid photos didn’t do him justice.
Montigo.
Carlos Montigo.
Yes! That was it.
She snapped her fingers. As if he’d heard her, which was impossible over the clamor of conversation and music, his dark gaze slid to hers and locked into place.
Her stomach performed a curious lurching summersault. Good grief, the guy was handsome. But based on the headlines, he was no Prince Charming. Not by any stretch of the imagination.
Still, she couldn’t make herself look away.
Ping. There it was. That steel-to-bad boy magnetic draw of attraction—pulling her in a direction her better judgment warned she shouldn’t go.
He
