The Bridal Chronicles
Autor
Lissa Manley
Lecturas
16,3K
CapĂtulos
11
Socialite Anna Sinclair was a budding bridal dress designer, but her love life was a cocktail-party joke. Disguising herself, she went west and vowed to avoid romance! Then handsome businessman Ryan Cavanaugh appeared as her pretend groom for an important photo opportunity, and Anna fell hard for his kindness. Would Ryan still want her if he knew who she really was? No one took Ryan Cavanaugh for a ride. While an adorable dress designer left him dreamy-eyed, he hoped she was as honest as she seemed. He'd never considered marriage, but now he ached to make Anna his. After Ryan's battle to trust in true love, would discovering her secret identity ruin their powerful connection?
Chapter One
Anna Sinclair looked across the Rose Garden Park through her veil and raised a shaky hand to her throat. She watched the tall, incredibly handsome hunk stride confidently toward her.
Smiling, he paused to talk to the pretty, female photographerâs assistant, and his dark blond hair glinted like gold in the midmorning June sun. Dark green, leafy foliage, framed by the cloudless blue summer sky, provided the perfect backdrop for his stunning male beauty. His black tuxedo, hugging his wide-shouldered, athletic body like a glove, made him look like every brideâs dream come true.
But not Annaâs. Designing wedding dresses was as close as she would ever get to that romantic nonsense.
Wondering if she was an utter fool for getting anywhere near a camera, or a gorgeous man like that, she looked to Colleen Stewart, the tall, blond reporter assigned to âThe Bridal Chronicles,â a newspaper special feature. âPlease tell me that male model is not my groom.â Anna gestured to the god across the lawn, his head bent in thoughtful discussion, one hand casually shoved into the pocket of his tuxedo pants.
Colleen fluffed the train on Annaâs dress and looked in the direction she had gestured. Colleen whistled under her breath and her blue eyes gleamed. âHeâs not a male model, Anna, even though he looks like one. His name is Ryan Cavanaugh and heâs the wealthy owner of a local chain of coffee houses, Java Joint. The Bachelor Chronicles was so successful featuring Jared Warfield, who owns a competing chain of coffee stores, that we decided to feature another coffee guy.â She put a hand on Annaâs arm. âDonât tell me you have a problem posing with good-looking men.â
Anna spun around, inadvertently ruining the billowing train Colleen had taken so long to arrange. âYes, I do.â Good-looking men always made her do foolish things. âI only agreed to pose because the woman originally scheduled to wear my gown didnât show up.â
âSo, whatâs the problem?â Colleen asked. âYou want your gown in the spread, right?â
âOf course I do. Iâm hoping that my gown being in âThe Bridal Chroniclesâ will help me land that account Iâve come to Portland to acquire.â Landing the Perfect Bridal account was her last chance to fulfill the terms of her fatherâs deal.
She took a deep breath, telling herself to calm down. âBut when I agreed to pose at the last minute, I didnât anticipate that my groom would be soâŠso gorgeous. What if we win Best Wedding Couple?â
âThen you pose for more pictures and your gown gets more publicity.â
More pictures. Concealing her real identity with a veil for one picture was going to be risky enough, even though sheâd dyed her dark brown hair auburn and by some miracle Colleen hadnât recognized her. âMore pictures would be very bad,â Anna said under her breath. âVery, very bad.â
âActually, with a hunk like Ryan around, I imagine itâll be very, very good.â
âYes, indeed.â Anna fluffed her dress, needing air circulation. âItâll be too good, and weâll be a shoo-in for Best Wedding Couple.â She fanned herself with her hand, convinced the warm June sun was getting to her. Would anyone notice a woman in a pristine white wedding gown, her face fully covered by a fluffy veil, sneaking off before any pictures could be taken?
She should have never agreed to this. She certainly didnât want to end up where well-known heiresses often didâon the front page of a tacky tabloid, the subject of an unflattering picture for all the world to see. âI assumed Iâd be posing for one picture. Nothing more.â
âJust relax,â Colleen soothed. âYou have no way of knowing whoâs going to be voted Best Wedding Couple.â
âNo way of knowing? Look at him.â Anna followed her own instructions and looked back to this Ryan guy. Heâd left the fluttery-eyed assistant, who looked like she was about to melt into a pool of water on the lush, rolling lawn of the Rose Garden, and he was again striding confidently toward Anna and Colleen. With smooth male grace, he casually unbuttoned his tux jacket, staring at Anna. Even through her veil, his gaze pinned her in place like an electric-blue laser.
Her heart missed a beat.
He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a cell phone. He stopped to talk, his riveting eyes never leaving her.
She ripped her gaze from him and leaned in close to Colleen, fighting off panic. âHeâs the perfect male,â she whispered, her voice shaky. âEvery woman in the city will be wiping away drool as they cast their vote for him.â She shook her head. âIâm not sure this is a good idea.â Yes, she wanted her gown in the photo spread. But not if it would reveal her real identity. She was simply humble working girl Anna Simpson, designer of the Anastasia line of wedding dresses for the time being. She didnât want anyone to know she was really Anna Sinclair, the daughter of one of the richest bankers in the country. How would she know if she were a true success if the Sinclair name followed her around?
Colleen pressed a hand to Annaâs arm. âPlease donât leave me in the lurch. Iâll never find another model on such short notice.â
A shaft of familiar guilt poked Anna. Her father always made her feel like she was letting him down, too. Before she could reply, her âgroomâ stepped closer, cell phone in hand. His well over six-foot frame towered above both her and Colleen.
âWell, well,â he drawled, giving Anna an intense once-over. âYou must be my bride.â He extended his hand. âRyan Cavanaugh.â
She took his hand. âAnnaâŠSiâŠmpson,â she managed to say, using the fake last name sheâd come up with because it was similar to Sinclair and sheâd be less likely to make mistakes.
He shook her hand and flashed a blinding smile. The skin at the corners of his astoundingly blue eyes crinkled. Deep dimples formed on both sides of his mouth. He peered closer to her veil. âYou look pretty good under there. Lucky me, I guess.â
She pulled her hand away. In all of her twenty-four years, she had never seen such a stunning man. His brilliant smile almost made her knees buckle.
Her earlier misgivings exploded into a ball of pure dread. Ryan obviously possessed the kind of innate male charm and incredible good looks that sheâd sworn to avoid since a similarly handsome, seemingly charming manâGiorgio The Italian Scumbagâhad taken off with a chunk of her heart a year ago.
She fell back a step, needing air and space and to think, and stumbled on her gown thanks to her shaky legs. Ryan quickly reached out and grasped her upper arm, steadying her with his warm, very large hand. Arrows of fire darted from his hand into her body and she barely managed to pull her arm from his hot touch.
Ryan moved closer and the scent of his aftershave washed over her. âHey, are you all right?â
No, Iâm not. Sheâd never been able to keep her distance from handsome men, and, unfortunately had a history of making bad choices regarding them.
History being the key word.
Fighting the thoroughly ridiculous urge to lean closer and inhale more of his wonderful smell into her nose, Anna looked for an escape. She had no intention of exposing her real identity by posing for a fake wedding photo with a gorgeous man like Ryan. It was time to follow her instincts and do what she should have done when Colleen had suggested Anna fill in for the missing model an hour agoârun for her life, wedding dress and all. Thank goodness she hadnât signed the required photo release waiver yet.
She pointedly ignored Ryan and looked at Colleen. âIâm sorry, but I canât do this.â She put herself into motion and marched across the grass in the general direction of the temporary dressing area on the upper level of the Rose Garden Park.
âHey!â Ryan shouted. âWhere are you going?â
âAnna!â Colleen called. âWaitâŠâ Anna ignored their calls, not wanting to deal with either of them. She didnât want anyone suspecting she wasnât simply Anna Simpson, humble bridal designer, struggling to make it on her ownâwithout the benefit of the Sinclair name.
Before she had walked ten feet, she was jerked backward. Regaining her footing, she spun around. Ryan had placed a foot on the very edge of her dressâs lacy train.
Pushy man. âRemove your foot, please,â she said, her lips barely moving. âDo you have any idea how many hours went into the creation of this dress?â Sheâd spent months on this design, and had put blood, sweat and tears into the deceptively simple lace, satin, and pearl design. The beaded neckline alone had taken a professional seamstress three days to complete.
He shoved his cell phone into his pants pocket. âLook,â he said, a shadow of contrition in his eyes. He bent and gently took the fragile Brussels lace of her train in his hand and pulled up the slack, effectively holding her in place while he pretended to brush it off. âIâm sorry for stepping on your dress. I just want to know why youâre leaving. I thought we were supposed to have some pictures taken together.â He smiled again, showing teeth that looked as white as snow next to his lightly tanned face. âWeâd make a great couple, donât you think?â
Her stomach flip-flopped at his smile.
Oh, no, not again.
She took a deep breath and tried to calm her racing nerves. She had no desire to be part of a couple with him, not even a pretend couple. After Giorgio, the last in a short but illustrious line of cheating, lying, beyond-handsome men, she didnât do âcoupleâ anymore. Sheâd learned that what was on the inside of men was never as good as the outside looked. âObviously Iâve changed my mind, Mr. Cavanaugh. Now would you please let go of my dress?â
âOh, come on,â he said softly, his face pulled into an appropriately serious expression. âCanât you just stay for one picture?â
Strangely, he seemed sincere, and his gentle tone caught her off guard. She slanted a glance up at him, reminding herself of how easy it would be for him to simply pretend to be sincere. âLook, I know I agreed to pose for these pictures, but Iâve changed my mind. IâŠuh, I didnât realize you were going to be my groom.â
He swung his free arm wide with what looked like a forced smile on his lips. âWhat? Iâm not good enough?â
Youâre too good. She managed a tremulous smile. âThatâs not it.â
âThen whatâs the problem?â He leaned in close. âYou did agree to this, didnât you?â
She stepped back, out of his scentâs reach, and crossed her arms over her midriff, pressing the gownâs delicate beading into her skin. He had a point. She didnât want to leave Colleen without a bride any more than she wanted to sacrifice the media exposure and possible contract a photo of her dress in âThe Bridal Chroniclesâ might bring.
But the extra media exposure that Ryanâs good looks might bring frightened her for several reasons. Though it was silly, she detested having her picture taken; sheâd been a gawky, unattractive child and had had too many unflattering pictures of her land on the front page of numerous publications. Also, she wanted to succeed as modest dress designer Anna Simpson, not heiress Anna Sinclair. Concealing her real identity was central to her plan.
And to succeed, she had to land the Perfect Bridal exclusive and make a profit. Then she would meet the requirements of the deal she and her father had made almost a year ago, within the time frame heâd decreed, which expired in less than a week. Then, sheâd be able to follow her dream instead of working for her father at Sinclair Banking.
Wishing she possessed no sense of duty or fair play, she asked Ryan, âWhy do you want me to do this shoot so badly?â She tried not to admire the absolute perfection of his chiseled face, heart-stopping sky-blue eyes, and full, sensual lips. And those dimplesâŠ
He lifted one broad shoulder. âSimple. Iâm involved with a local charityâs fund-raising campaign, and Iâd like to raise awareness with as much publicity as I can.â
A charity. Sounded like a worthwhile cause, one she wished she could help him with. But she couldnât. Hiding her face in one photo was feasible. More than oneâshe sincerely doubted it. There had to be another way. âThen why donât you just find another woman to be your bride?â
He bent close to her ear. âOh, the answer to that is obvious,â he whispered, his warm breath tickling her ear. âWith a woman as beautiful as Iâm certain you are, I bet weâd win Best Couple for sure. As a bonus, my charity is almost guaranteed lots of publicity.â
A ribbon of hot excitement unfurled inside of her, joining a hard lump of guilt for letting him down. But she ignored the unsettling sensation and focused on what was importantâher business, the one thing she could call her own, the one way she could show her true worth to the worldâand her father. She didnât want to win Best Couple and be faced with more pictures.
Then again, she wasnât a heartless witch, either. She didnât want to be responsible for keeping his fund-raising efforts from garnering publicity. A giant arrow of guilt poked her.
She tried to move away from him, unable to think clearly with his big body looming over her, scrambling her senses and judgment like a banana in a blender.
Why did she always let attractive men keep her from thinking clearly? Had her sheltered childhood, spent at exclusive, all-girl boarding schools and under the close supervision of her autocratic, ultraconservative father warped her judgment? Had her lack of experience made her into a woman who perpetually made bad choices in the man department?
Maybe in the past. Not anymore.
Drawing a deep, cleansing breath, she wished she had the luxury of lapsing into a soothing session of meditation to calm her nerves. But she didnât. She would have to deal with Ryan without the benefit of her daily mantra.
âSo,â he said, letting out her train just enough to allow her to put some space between them. âHow about being my bride?â
His âproposalâ brought forth a familiar yearning. She had once dreamed of happily ever after with the man of her dreams. But now she had to be wary of men. Sheâd played the he-really-loves-me fool before and had fallen for attractive, charming men like him and had paid the price in heartache and tears. She didnât intend to make the same mistake one more time.
Sheâd finally acquired some sense.
She looked at Ryan again, liking the slightly humble expression on his face, even though she doubted it was real; charismatic men like Ryan usually got what they wanted without the need for humility. Even so, when Ryan threw her a small, hopeful smile, the foolish, appreciative, female side almost made her relent. And to her everlasting surprise, she found herself on the verge of giving him whatever he wanted.
On the verge, but not over the edge. Despite how guilty he was making her feel, probably deliberately, she just couldnât go through with this photo shoot. She had belatedly realized that being in the public eye wasnât someplace she could risk being. She might as well announce her true identity on the evening news, thereby sacrificing her âanonymousâ identity.
Even though she still felt incredibly guilty that she couldnât help his charity, she said, âIâm sorry, Mr. Cavanaugh, but Iâve made up my mind. I have no intention of signing the photo-release waiver and allowing this photo to go to print.â She looked pointedly down at the part of her dress he had in his arms, then clasped her hands together at her waist and gave him an imperious look. âNow please put my dress down. This photo shoot is over.â
Sheâd have to find a way to live with her guilt and with disappointing him and Colleen, just as she would have to sacrifice the exposure âThe Bridal Chroniclesâ would have given her design business. Not exactly what sheâd planned.
But not appearing in the paper did have its upside. At least she wouldnât have to risk having her identity publicly unveiled, so to speak, and she certainly wouldnât have to live through some awful, unflattering picture gracing the cover of the newspaper.
Not much of an upside. The guilt alone would probably choke her. But it was the best she could do given the circumstances.
Fighting frustration, Ryan gripped Annaâs dress, vaguely wondering what she looked like under that veil and why she was wearing the darn thing at all. Standing there, her hands clasped in front of her, the form-fitting, lacy dress she wore showing off her jaw-dropping curves, it was obvious she had a body for sin but was holding it like a schoolmarm.
Trying to ignore that sinful body, he focused instead on the question on his mind. Why was she so damned determined to run away from the shoot? Wouldnât it be good for her business?
Whatever the reason, there was no way he was going to let her walk out on their stint as pretend bride and groom. Keeping other kids from going through what he went through as a child, with nobody who gave a damn about them, was a long-standing goal. He wanted the publicity for the Mentor A Child Foundation and he wanted the media exposure to improve his tarnished reputation. He wasnât about to give up yet. He had to convince her to sign the release.
Time to appeal to her sensitive side.
âCanât you help me out here?â he asked. âItâs just one photo, and you obviously intended to be part of this whole thing. Itâs no big deal, right?â
âWrong.â She tugged on her dress. âI changed my mind because it would be a big deal if weâre chosen Best Wedding Couple. And with you in the photo, lookingâŠso, wellâŠgood, weâre virtually guaranteed to win.â
Her compliment surprised him and lit a warm space inside of him; he still thought of himself as the scruffy, half-starved little kid from the wrong side of the tracks. âWhile Iâm flattered, I was thinking weâd win because of you,â he said, unable to squash the male curiosity that made him want to get a clear look at her face through her veil.
âYou can flatter and charm me all you want, but Iâm still not going to risk winning Best Couple.â
He frowned. âIsnât winning good?â
âNot always. IâŠwell, I just donât want the attention, all right?â
He held up a hand. âBut weâre only talking a few pictures in wedding clothesââ
âWhich will turn into more pictures and interviews and attention I donât want.â She shook her head. âPlease try to understand.â
Damn. Heâd assumed she was game for the shoot since she was here, decked out in full bride gear. Obviously, for some reason, that wasnât the case.
Contingency plan. Time to change her mind.
He touched the tip of her creamy shoulder, exposed by her off-the-shoulder gown. âAre you sure you wonât reconsider?â he said, unable to help lingering on her smooth, warm skin. Did she have the face to go with her flawless complexion and stunning body, perfectly shown off by the pretty, figure-hugging dress she wore? âLots of needy little kids will benefit.â Needy little kids like heâd once been.
She tugged on her dress, inadvertently touching his hand in the process. âI feel bad enough as it is, so please donât try to guilt me into helping you out. Would you please let me go?â
Heat flared in his body and he tried to ignore how the mere touch of her hand almost knocked the wind out of him. Damn, he wanted to lift that filmy veil and see what she really looked like. Sweat broke out on his upper lip.
Get a hold of yourself and focus.
He was counting on the media exposure for Mentor A Child this chronicle thing would generate. He couldnât afford to let his obvious attraction to Anna distract him and keep him from attaining that goal, or from counteracting the recent spate of image-bashing publicity his former employee Joannaâs personal vendetta had caused. Damage he needed to repair before the Mentor A Child Board of Directors decided he wasnât the kind of guy they wanted connected to their organization.
For the sake of the foundation, he had to find a way to make this work, to help needy kids who didnât have a loving adult in their lives and would fall through the cracks if the foundation wasnât around to help them.
Like he had.
One way or another, heâd convince Anna to sign that release.
Luckily he was very good at getting what he wanted.
Her jaw set, Anna watched Ryan fiddle with the lace-edged train of her dress, wishing heâd let her go and leave her alone. âIâll say it again, Mr. Cavanaugh. Please let go of my dress.â
He looked at her with those compelling blue eyes, a speculative expression on his face. He inclined his head. âOf course.â He let go of her train and smoothed it out. âYour tail thing is ready. Iâll walk you to the dressing tent.â He walked toward the makeshift changing area, a crease marring his tanned brow.
Relieved, but wary of his sudden turnabout, she fell in step beside him, ridiculously marveling at his strong, masculine profile. âIâm sorry I canât help you outââ Without warning, her head jerked backward. âHey!â She spun around and caught her shoe on an uneven patch of grass and teetered on the backs of her heels, her arms flailing.
Before she could find her balance, she fell sideways. Her veil, attached to her head with small combs, ripped off, jerking her head back again. She crashed to the ground like a felled tree, landing half on her rear, half on her back with a clump next to another thorn-encrusted rosebush, her gown poofing up around her like a giant marshmallow.
Her breath whooshed out of her and it took a moment to regain her wits. She slowly sat up, shaking her veil-less head, then looked up and saw Ryan peering down at her, his face creased with concern.
âHey, are you all right?â He held out a hand. âThat was some fall.â
She grabbed his hand, ignoring how warm and strong it felt, and pulled herself up, searching for her veil. She just wanted to escape before anyone recognized her. She could see the headline now:
Heiress Anna Sinclair Turns Her Back On Millions, Pretending To Be Bridal Designer
Some terribly unflattering photo of her flopped on the grass of the Rose Garden would undoubtedly accompany the headlineâŠ.
She suppressed a tremor of disgust.
When she was standing, her legs still wobbly, Ryan stepped closer and slid his arm around her shoulders. âAre you sure youâre all right?â
His masculine scent washed over her, an intoxicating combination of clean male and expensive designer aftershave, and a ribbon of attraction darted through her. She swiveled her head and stared into his gaze, unable to find her sanity and look away, tumbling into the clear, compelling depths of his eyes. Awareness crashed through her like a tidal wave and she wanted to reach out and run her fingers over the sheer beauty of his strong jaw. A light breeze stirred, mixing his scent with the heady fragrance of freshly bloomed roses.
A couple of clicks sounded.
She instinctively cringed and snapped her gaze toward the sound.
âThanks, guys.â A photographer triumphantly held up his camera. âOne of those is sure to be a keeper.â
Panic seeped through her. Her worst fantasy had come true. Some overzealous photographer had taken a photo of her without her veil! âHe just took our picture!â
Ryan stepped away and plucked her veil free from the rosebush it had snagged on. âYeah, I guess he did.â A tiny smile hovered around his mouth.
She crossed her arms in front of her, wanting to wipe that little smirk off his face with everything in her. âYouâre happy about this, arenât you?â
âHey, I wanted the picture taken all along, and you donât seem willing to tell me why youâre so darned determined to back out.â
The despicable schemer. Had he arranged for the photographer to snap the picture on the sly?
She drew herself up and did her best to look haughty. âWell, Mr. Cavanaugh, the picture may have been taken, but I still havenât signed the release.â She hastily gathered her dress, snatched her tulle veil from his hand, and stomped away. âAnd I donât intend to,â she called over her shoulder.
âNot even for a worthwhile cause?â
She stopped and shot him a glare. âIâll say it again. Donât use guilt to change my mind, Mr. Cavanaugh. Trust me, guilt isnât in short supply today.â She turned her back on the gorgeous man with the charming dimples, bone-melting smile, and enough charisma to raise a hundred red flags in her brain.
Thankfully, this ended here and now. She wasnât about to let her one lapse in judgment, or Ryanâs attempt to make her feel guilty, ruin her plan to meet the terms of her fatherâs deal so she wouldnât have to slave away in the family banking business.
She shuddered. Even though she possessed the skill and education to help run a banking dynasty, she couldnât think of anything worse than being relegated to the uncreative, stodgy world of high finance for the rest of her life.
Her fatherâs world.
That was enough to keep her walking. She set her shoulders, needing to get away from the exasperating man with the gorgeous blue eyes, stunning smile, and his compelling reason to make sure the picture was printed.
Even though it went against her natural sense of fair play and altruism not to help him out, she had to ignore the guilt ripping through her and stand firm. Her future, her happiness, her self-worth were at stake. That picture would never see the light of day. Ryan would just have to get his publicity some other way, and she knew from experience that that was doable.
After all of the schemers who had betrayed and used her, she was done serving any manâs purpose.
