The Tycoon Meets His Match. Barbara BenedictЧитать онлайн книгу.
agenda to actually listen. “That leaves me,” she said quickly. “And I won’t marry until I’ve made partner in a law firm.”
A loud clap of thunder rattled the walls, as if in answer to Quinn’s pronouncement. Trae, Lucie and Alana shuddered, but Quinn faced them all squarely. “All those in agreement,” she droned like a high priestess at some sacrificial offering, “shall now place their right hand in the circle.”
With a solemn expression, Alana put her hand over Quinn’s. Lucie gulped, then extended hers, forcing Trae, who still felt ridiculous chanting mumbo-jumbo in the dark, to stand alone outside the circle.
Reluctantly, she placed her hand on top of the others’.
As if they’d been struck by one of those accompanying lightning bolts, Trae could feel a current flowing between the women, filling her with warmth and a sense of belonging. Edifying her with a sense of commitment.
Never mind the melodramatic hoopla. This was what mattered. Them, here and now, joined in resolution, their grasp solid, their unity unbroken. Even with all the Beckwith money, you just couldn’t buy a moment like this.
“When it comes to marriage,” she chanted in unison with her friends, “just say no!”
Chapter One
Six years later…
They can’t think I wanted to catch the bouquet, Trae thought with a frantic glance around her. The stupid thing had just landed in her lap. She wanted to toss the peach and white floral confection to the floor, but her Catholic upbringing wouldn’t allow her to litter a church.
Not that anyone paid any attention to her. Each stunned face was focused on the door Lucie had just slammed behind her, the force of the sound still reverberating in the otherwise silent church.
She did it, Trae realized with a sudden sense of wonder. Little Lucie Beckwith finally said no.
No small feat, either, considering the three-ring circus her mother had assembled.
The picture-postcard chapel was filled to the brim with wealthy relatives, influential guests and a media army lining the walls. Clearly, Mitsy Beckwith had wanted her only child’s wedding to be an event, The Event, talked about by everyone-who-has-ever-been-anyone for years to come.
Looked like Mitsy would get her wish. They’d be talking about this one forever.
Against her will, Trae’s gaze went to the altar, where the groom still stood stiffly at attention. Rhys Allen Paxton III, owner of the Paxton Corporation, was accustomed to having everything go according to his plans. The epitome of tall, dark and handsome, his meticulously groomed appearance—as well as every other aspect of his life—was as well-ordered as a military parade.
Though if you asked Trae, he sure didn’t seem so self-possessed at the moment. Maybe it was all that black—his hair, the tuxedo, the sleek Italian shoes—but all color seemed to have drained from his face.
As if sensing her gaze upon him, Rhys suddenly focused on Trae, his clear blue gaze probing her. Under his intense scrutiny, she felt like a butterfly pinned to the mat. “What?” she almost asked aloud, wondering if he was seeking her help.
But then she noticed the hostility animating his features. With a quick scowl, he sprang into action, leaping down the altar steps to go marching to the door.
It took Trae a few more beats to realize he was going after Lucie.
Sparing a quick “Be right back” for the still-speechless Quinn and Alana, Trae scrambled past her friends to the end of the pew. Lucie might have worked up some gumption at last, but she was a novice at this and she’d need support. No way was Trae giving Rhys any opportunity to bully her friend into a marriage she obviously didn’t want.
As Trae hurried down the aisle, she saw that Hal and Mitsy Beckwith were close at her heels. If it was going to be three against one, Luce really needed her help.
Bursting out of the church, Trae squinted against the sudden bright sunlight as she searched for her friend, but the only remaining evidence of Lucie’s exit was the blinking taillight on a sleek black limo, as it took a hard, fast left at the corner.
Mitsy Beckwith spoke the thought uppermost in everyone’s mind. “She’s gone”. And then, as an afterthought, “I bet she’s going home.”
Luce, no, Trae thought. If her friend retreated to Mitsy’s territory, she’d never get out alive.
Unfortunately, judging by Mitsy’s pursed lips and narrowed eyes, Trae must have uttered the “no” aloud. “All her things are there,” the woman articulated, as if dealing with an imbecile. “She’d never go anywhere without her ATM and credit cards.”
She had a point there. Far too accustomed to the Beckwith resources, Lucie wouldn’t know how to last five minutes without her money. As if recognizing this truth as well, both Hal and Rhys simultaneously dug in their pockets for car keys.
Watching the Beckwiths jump in their Lincoln and peel away, Trae felt a spurt of panic. She’d taken a taxi from the hotel and had no way to follow them. “I’m coming with you,” she announced to Rhys. “To talk to her,” she insisted, trailing behind as he strode to his black Mercedes. “Lucie will need someone to confide in.”
“That would be me.” Yanking open the door, he slid into his car.
Trae reached the passenger door just as he started the engine, but when she tugged on the handle, she found the door locked. Rhys, smiling grimly, seemed more than content to drive off without her.
“Let me in,” she shouted through the window, giving him her “look.” A girl didn’t grow up in the Andrelini household without coming up with a way to let the males in her life know she meant business. Rhys merely narrowed his gaze as he shifted into Reverse.
Desperate, she dug in her purse and pulled out her cell phone. “She’ll probably try to call me. If you leave me here, you’ll never know what she said.”
Though he said nothing, Trae heard the telltale click of the lock. Jamming her phone back in her purse, she yanked open the door and hopped inside. Rhys pulled away before she could completely close it.
Then again, he was smart to hurry. Everyone in the church had begun spilling out the doors, the press included.
Rhys didn’t waste time with words, driving to the Beckwith house as if he were racing the Indy 500. Trae could have been invisible for all the attention he paid her, but watching him stomp on the clutch and jam the gearshift, she was just as happy to remain under his radar.
He did glance at her once—actually, he scowled at the bouquet clutched in her hands—but otherwise focused his gaze on the road ahead. Trae understood that she—not the peach-colored roses in her lap—prompted his irritation. Rhys never could disguise his disapproval of her.
“What did you say to Lucie?” he barked suddenly, downshifting adroitly as he rounded the corner.
“Me?”
He frowned, knowing she knew exactly who he meant, since there was no one else in the car to answer the question. Not willing to give an inch, Trae continued her pose of wounded confusion.
“You must have said something,” he said curtly. “It’s not like Lucie to be so impulsive.”
“Oh, really? Have you forgotten Cancun?”
Apparently not, if his glare were anything to go by.
Cancun had been one of those spring break moments of insanity. Having had enough of the day-to-day grind at Tulane, they’d lit out for sun-drenched Mexico. Maybe it had been the wild college atmosphere, or maybe because Bobby Boudreaux, Lucie’s on-again-off-again boyfriend, had joined them, but one minute Lucie had been quietly sipping margaritas and the next she was dancing on the table. Trae still didn’t know how the fight had started, but in a blink, they were sitting