Page 30 of Married With Lies

The setting is the essence of romance.

Cream colored walls are embellished with etched floral designs that swirl to the ceiling. Red flower petals are sprinkled between the lit pillar candles flanking an aisle that stretches between rows of bench seats. The seats are covered with fabric the same color as the walls. At the end of each bench seat stands a towering glass vase nearly as tall me. Every one of them contains an arrangement of ethereal white flowers.

At the front of the room waits a black-robed man who might be either a priest or a judge. The first row of seats on both sides are occupied by men wearing dark suits. They turn and peer at our arrival with curiosity.

“Here you are,” says a female voice at my elbow.

A woman wearing the hotel’s uniform and a nametag that says Maya smiles at me and hands over a tightly tied bouquet of red and white flowers.

“Congratulations,” she says as I accept the flowers.

Suddenly, a man who had been standing out of sight in the back of the room pops out with a camera. He’s rail thin and businesslike. “Let’s get a couple of shots before you walk in.”

He doesn’t wait for anyone to agree before he begins snapping away. I’ve never been able to smile convincingly for pictures but I’ll give it my best shot.

Cale slips his arm through mine. The feel of his muscled strength has caught me off guard and I glance up. He looks down at me. We lock eyes.

The photographer snaps a photo. “Perfect.”

The next ten minutes zoom by in a blur.

Cale leads me down the aisle. The priest/judge speaks a bunch of words in a throaty melodic voice. A hundred pictures are taken. The Hope Diamond of a ring is pushed onto my finger. Then I’m supplied with a thick titanium band to give to Cale.

That’s when I get a full appreciation of just how large his hands are. I’m used to laboring hard on the ranch and I do not have tiny hands but mine are dwarfed by Cale’s. Thick-fingered and rough, these are hands that are capable of carrying out powerful acts.

“I do,” says Cale and that shakes me out of my preoccupation with the size of his body parts.

“And do you, Mercedes Dawn Wingate, take Carmine Antonio Connelly as your lawfully wedded husband?”

Carmine?

I must have really zoned out. This is clearly Cale’s full legal name and somehow I missed hearing it.

“I do,” I reply, louder than necessary. Maybe I’m trying to convince myself more than the rest of the room.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

A basic peck on the lips ought to satisfy the requirement. Just enough for the photographer to grab a shot of the occasion.

I barely have time to understand the sudden gleam in the depths of Cale’s green eyes. He snakes one arm around my waist and slides his other hand up my back. His fingers crawl through my hair and massage the back of my neck just as his mouth dives down to lay claim to what he wants.

The feel of his lips is both shocking and thrilling. I’ve underestimated the instincts of my own body, deprived for so long and hungry to resolve this oversight. My mouth opens greedily and my tongue welcomes his. A faint noise vibrates in my throat and my arms circle his broad shoulders as he lifts me off my feet.

This is just acting, insists a dim, panicky part of my brain.

I don’t want him at all, it whispers more faintly as the rest of my senses dissolve into a puddle of lust.

Cale isn’t exactly immune to carnal instincts either. I can feel just how not-immune he is through the flimsy layers of fabric separating us. It’s a good thing this dress is so binding or I’d probably be wrapping my legs around his waist and giving the audience some borderline porn.

Before Grant, I dated here and there and I’ve been kissed plenty of times. Now they are all banished to faceless goo. What I’m doing with Cale isn’t just a kiss. This is mouth sex. This is fire.

By the time Cale withdraws and my feet meet the ground again, my heart is jackhammering, my skin hums and my brain is mush. I’d really like to sit down and recover for a minute or maybe an hour but I can’t. The photographer is snapping photos again and the priest/judge offers his congratulations before the stoic, suited men witnessing from the front seats approach to kiss my cheek and offer Cale a few hearty backslaps. I still don’t know who they are.

“Business associates,” Cale explains when he propels me out of the room with a firm hand on my back. “I thought it couldn’t hurt to ask a few guys who know me personally to be witnesses.”

I look over my shoulder at the suited men. They remind me of those grim looking fellows I’d see milling around at the Amato estate when I’d take a forbidden peek through the hedges.

“Where are we going now?” I ask when Cale stops at the elevator.

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