swept over her. In fact, she looked as fresh as a spring morning. Another bad sign. "Why don't you?"
"Why don't I what?" she murmured suggestively, barely swallowing a laugh.
Brandon squirmed. She was too sexy for her own good. "Look haggard," he said, sounding grouchy.
"Because, my darling, I didn't overindulge. If you'll remember, after we left the Sovereigns' Ball, I stuck to either juice or Perrier for refreshment. Besides—" her smile was the most intimate and wicked she could muster "—I have every reason to look wonderful."
Brandon scowled. His head was killing him, and he was tired of being the mouse to her cat. And the plain truth was he didn't want to know if they'd made love. Because if they had, he would want to again. And he didn't think that was a good idea. "I have to go. I have an appointment."
Veronique sat up, feigning petulance. "We haven't had a chance to talk." She plucked at the blanket. "And we haven't had breakfast."
Breakfast—another sure sign. His determination wavered, and he cleared his throat. "I'd love to have breakfast another time. But I'm meeting with George Sebastian, the store's attorney, in an hour..." He tossed back the covers and got out of bed.
Veronique fell back against the pillows. Her shoulders shook with contained laughter as she watched him fumble with his clothes. She had him on the run. Her expression changed from amused to admiring. He really did look good in his shorts. She folded her arms behind her head. A woman could get sidetracked from the game at hand by those legs.
"But I'll call," he continued, trying to sound reassuring but coming across as nervous. "We'll go out. Really, I... where's my shirt?"
"Don't know." Her eyes crinkled at the corners. "My guess is somewhere between Esplanade Avenue and Bourbon Street."
Brandon's head jerked up. "Excuse me?"
"You took it off after it was soaked with red wine," she explained patiently. "Don't you remember?"
"No." He dragged a hand through his hair. "Then what did I wear?"
She lifted a shoulder. "Your tie and jacket, your slacks and... that."
He looked down a the colorful object laying on the chair. It was a plastic headband with long loose springs attached. On top of the springs were glitter-covered balls. He picked it up. Now he remembered—no shirt on his back and dealie-bobs on his head. A regular freak show.
"You looked sexy, take it from me." She rolled onto her side. "I use one of my grandfather's old shirts for a painting smock. If you don't mind the odor of turpentine... it's in the kitchen closet."
"Thanks." He put on his socks, then stuck a leg into his pants. "Did anyone I know see—damn." One of his trouser legs was inside out, and he cursed again under his breath, dropped his pants and started over.
Veronique caught her bottom lip, breathing deeply through her nose to steady herself. He would be furious if she laughed. When she trusted herself to speak, she said, "You know, I think photographers are the first thing we should decide on. A good photographer can make or break—"
Brandon's head snapped up. He'd just maneuvered the first leg into the now right-side-out trousers. "What?"
"Photographers," she said slowly, as if explaining something to a child. "Of course, our trip to Uptown Finery shouldn't wait too long. And a jeweler—"
Brandon stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Veronique stood and walked toward the bathroom. When she reached the door, she looked back at him. "Why, darling, I'm talking about our wedding plans." His jaw dropped. She laughed and blew him a kiss. "I think I'll take a shower."
Veronique shut the door behind her, then leaned against it, overcome with laughter. She'd played dirty, taking advantage of his hangover and nonexistent memory of the night before. The poor guy didn't know what had hit him.
Wiping her eyes, she crossed to the shower and turned on the water. She was just giving him what he'd wanted: a night of
"Why don't I what?" she murmured suggestively, barely swallowing a laugh.
Brandon squirmed. She was too sexy for her own good. "Look haggard," he said, sounding grouchy.
"Because, my darling, I didn't overindulge. If you'll remember, after we left the Sovereigns' Ball, I stuck to either juice or Perrier for refreshment. Besides—" her smile was the most intimate and wicked she could muster "—I have every reason to look wonderful."
Brandon scowled. His head was killing him, and he was tired of being the mouse to her cat. And the plain truth was he didn't want to know if they'd made love. Because if they had, he would want to again. And he didn't think that was a good idea. "I have to go. I have an appointment."
Veronique sat up, feigning petulance. "We haven't had a chance to talk." She plucked at the blanket. "And we haven't had breakfast."
Breakfast—another sure sign. His determination wavered, and he cleared his throat. "I'd love to have breakfast another time. But I'm meeting with George Sebastian, the store's attorney, in an hour..." He tossed back the covers and got out of bed.
Veronique fell back against the pillows. Her shoulders shook with contained laughter as she watched him fumble with his clothes. She had him on the run. Her expression changed from amused to admiring. He really did look good in his shorts. She folded her arms behind her head. A woman could get sidetracked from the game at hand by those legs.
"But I'll call," he continued, trying to sound reassuring but coming across as nervous. "We'll go out. Really, I... where's my shirt?"
"Don't know." Her eyes crinkled at the corners. "My guess is somewhere between Esplanade Avenue and Bourbon Street."
Brandon's head jerked up. "Excuse me?"
"You took it off after it was soaked with red wine," she explained patiently. "Don't you remember?"
"No." He dragged a hand through his hair. "Then what did I wear?"
She lifted a shoulder. "Your tie and jacket, your slacks and... that."
He looked down a the colorful object laying on the chair. It was a plastic headband with long loose springs attached. On top of the springs were glitter-covered balls. He picked it up. Now he remembered—no shirt on his back and dealie-bobs on his head. A regular freak show.
"You looked sexy, take it from me." She rolled onto her side. "I use one of my grandfather's old shirts for a painting smock. If you don't mind the odor of turpentine... it's in the kitchen closet."
"Thanks." He put on his socks, then stuck a leg into his pants. "Did anyone I know see—damn." One of his trouser legs was inside out, and he cursed again under his breath, dropped his pants and started over.
Veronique caught her bottom lip, breathing deeply through her nose to steady herself. He would be furious if she laughed. When she trusted herself to speak, she said, "You know, I think photographers are the first thing we should decide on. A good photographer can make or break—"
Brandon's head snapped up. He'd just maneuvered the first leg into the now right-side-out trousers. "What?"
"Photographers," she said slowly, as if explaining something to a child. "Of course, our trip to Uptown Finery shouldn't wait too long. And a jeweler—"
Brandon stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Veronique stood and walked toward the bathroom. When she reached the door, she looked back at him. "Why, darling, I'm talking about our wedding plans." His jaw dropped. She laughed and blew him a kiss. "I think I'll take a shower."
Veronique shut the door behind her, then leaned against it, overcome with laughter. She'd played dirty, taking advantage of his hangover and nonexistent memory of the night before. The poor guy didn't know what had hit him.
Wiping her eyes, she crossed to the shower and turned on the water. She was just giving him what he'd wanted: a night of
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