I’m struck with the overwhelming urge to kiss him there. To lick him and taste him. Because he is truly mine now. Every delicious inch of him.
I manage to control myself; after all, we now have all the time in the world.
Unlike my husband, I’d taken the beachside nature of our wedding into consideration. I’m wearing a white silk tank top embroidered with delicate silver threads and a flowing white skirt. It’s not sheer, but gives the illusion that it is, and the layers of gauzy material flicker in the breeze as we walk.
One of the resort’s bands is playing when we arrive at the restaurant, and there is a beautiful three-tiered wedding cake standing in the middle of the dance floor. Ronnie takes off running for it, and when she turns back, her eyes are big. “Mommy! Daddy! Cake!” She claps her hands, delighted, and everyone around begins to laugh. I, however, am about to cry.
Because today, finally, I really am Mommy. And next month it will be even more official, because that’s when my adoption of Ronnie will be finalized.
I know that I’m not a perfect mother, and there are times when I still look at Ronnie and wonder what the hell I’m doing, but at the same time, I know that I’m doing my best. And I know that Jackson has my back.
More than that, I’m not scared anymore because I know that Ronnie is growing up healthy and happy and loved, and that’s what matters most.
I take Jackson’s hand and squeeze. He looks down at me, then gently kisses my forehead. “I know,” he said softly. “Me, too.”
We dance, Jackson and me, then Jackson and Ronnie, then me and Ethan who has been grinning like a fool through the whole wedding. He passes me off to Cass, who whispers that I’ve given her ideas as she glances over at Siobhan who is sitting at one of the tables having what appears to be a very serious conversation with Ronnie. I even dance with Damien once, while Jackson spins Nikki on the floor.
Betty and Stella are here, too, along with Megan, who is looking happy and healthy in a flowing yellow sundress. Jackson takes both her and Ronnie onto the floor when the band starts playing “The Twist.” It doesn’t last long; the little girl keeps dissolving into giggles before shouting “Daddy! Meggie! I twisting!”
Of everyone in our lives, only our fathers and my mother are notably absent. My father, because he still has months to go on his negotiated sentence. My mom because that’s who she is, and I have come to terms with that. And Jeremiah because he is not welcome.
Jackson told me about what happened with Graham Elliott, of course. And though Jeremiah had later sworn to Jackson that he would never have pursued the movie if he’d known about Ronnie, to Jackson that was too little, too late.
Because the betrayal that Jeremiah perpetrated wasn’t about Ronnie. It wasn’t even about the movie. It was about Jeremiah playing off Jackson’s life for personal gain. And Jackson told his father firmly and finally to stay away from his life, and also away from his wedding.
But I am not thinking about Jeremiah Stark today. Not when it’s my wedding day and all around us is food and laughter and fun. Most of all, there is love. And when the festivities end—when Damien and Nikki scoop Ronnie up to take her back to the Malibu house for a long weekend—I hold Jackson close as we say goodbye to our friends, then kiss our little girl goodbye.
“I realize a honeymoon is no place for a toddler,” Jackson says as we stroll hand in hand toward our bungalow. “But I’ve gotten so used to having her around, that it’s a little weird now that she’s gone.”
The sun has begun to set, and the sky is a brilliant glow of orange and purple. “Good,” he adds. “But weird.”
“Maybe I can make it a little less strange for you.” I pull him to a stop beside me on the path. Then I take our joined hands and place them gently on my lower abdomen.
I hesitate only a moment, then tilt my head back to look at him. “There’s still a child with us on the island, Jackson.”
The look of surprise and wonder and—thank goodness—happiness that I see in his eyes almost knocks me off my feet.
“You’re pregnant?” he asks, but I don’t get to answer because my “yes” is swallowed up by my squeal when he scoops me into his arms and holds me close to his chest. “I love you,” he says simply, and I feel a quiet glow spread through me. The warmth of anticipation and wonder and excitement. Because for Jackson and me—for our family—our life together is just beginning. And it will be spectacular.
Sexy. Confident. Commanding. Have you met Damien Stark?
Read on for an extract of
A powerful man who’s never heard ‘no’,
a fiery woman who says ‘yes’ on her own terms,
and an unforgettable indecent proposal . . .
Available now from
1
A cool ocean breeze caresses my bare shoulders, and I shiver, wishing I’d taken my roommate’s advice and brought a shawl with me tonight. I arrived in Los Angeles only four days ago, and I haven’t yet adjusted to the concept of summer temperatures changing with the setting of the sun. In Dallas, June is hot, July is hotter, and August is hell.
Not so in California, at least not by the beach. LA Lesson Number One: Always carry a sweater if you’ll be out after dark.
Of course, I could leave the balcony and go back inside to the party. Mingle with the millionaires. Chat up the celebrities. Gaze dutifully at the paintings. It is a gala art opening, after all, and my boss brought me here to meet and greet and charm and chat. Not to lust over the panorama that is coming alive in front of me. Bloodred clouds bursting against the pale orange sky. Blue-gray waves shimmering with dappled gold.
I press my hands against the balcony rail and lean forward, drawn to the intense, unreachable beauty of the setting sun. I regret that I didn’t bring the battered Nikon I’ve had since high school. Not that it would have fit in my itty-bitty beaded purse. And a bulky camera bag paired with a little black dress is a big, fat fashion no-no.
But this is my very first Pacific Ocean sunset, and I’m determined to document the moment. I pull out my iPhone and snap a picture.
“Almost makes the paintings inside seem redundant, doesn’t it?” I recognize the throaty, feminine voice and turn to face Evelyn Dodge, retired actress turned agent turned patron of the arts—and my hostess for the evening.
“I’m so sorry. I know I must look like a giddy tourist, but we don’t have sunsets like this in Dallas.”
“Don’t apologize,” she says. “I pay for that view every month when I write the mortgage check. It damn well better be spectacular.”
I laugh, immediately more at ease.
“Hiding out?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re Carl’s new assistant, right?” she asks, referring to my boss of three days.
“Nikki Fairchild.”
“I remember now. Nikki from Texas.” She looks me up and down, and I wonder if she’s disappointed that I don’t have big hair and cowboy boots. “So who does he want you to charm?”
“Charm?” I repeat, as if I don’t know exactly what she means.
She cocks a single brow. “Honey, the man would rather walk on burning coals than come to an art show. He’s fishing for investors and you’re the bait.” She makes a rough noise in the back of her throat. “Don’t worry. I won’t press you to tell me who. And I don’t blame you for hiding out. Carl’s brilliant, but he’s a bit of a prick.”