“So what is the going price for marrying the Darling heiress?” Lucinda felt herself pale, but she fought back her tears. She’d die before she let Donald or her father see her cry.
Before either could answer, Nina, her best friend and maid of honor, popped her head out the door. “Lucinda! Come on, it’s time. You shouldn’t be out here. Especially not with Donald. It’s bad luck.” The smile on Nina’s face died. She stopped, her jubilant expression changing to one of bewilderment as she took in the scene on the church steps.
Lucinda could only imagine. An ashen-faced bride and a groom with lipstick on his face. Lipstick that matched another woman’s, not the bride’s. And it was the other woman who had her hands all over the groom.
“Lucinda?”
“Nina, tell Mother I’m sorry. So sorry.” Her voice broke. “I have to leave.”
Donald came to life, moving toward her.
She backed up a step. Silk and organza whispered around her ankles. Tulle from her one-of-a-kind veil caressed her arms.
Pushing the groom aside, her father started down the stairs. “This is ludicrous, Lucinda. You get back in—”
“No, Daddy.” She put up a defensive hand. “Don’t come near me. Here’s the bottom line, plain and simple. I’m taking myself off the market. I’m not for sale.”
Donald’s face darkened. “This isn’t done, Lucinda. Not by a long shot.”
Ten minutes later, squished into her sports car, Lucinda headed north toward the Florida state line. Loreena McKennitt’s powerful, haunting voice poured from her CD player. Her Porsche Carrera Cabriole ate up the miles, carrying her away from the chaos, rescuing her from the disaster at church.
She didn’t care where she ended up—as long as it was far away from Donald Kimball…and her father.
Her heart ached, and she swiped at the hot tears that blurred her vision. Donald was bad enough, but… Her own father! The heel of her hand bumped the steering wheel in anger. True, her dad was always the businessman. Everything was about the bottom line. He’d never been one to show much emotion, but this? This was below the belt even for him! Did he love her at all? And what was so special about Donald Kimball that her father was willing to sell her to bring him into the company?
“Stupid question,” she grumbled. “Donald’s a male, the missing son. That bottom line again.”
Her designer gown poofed around her, the oversized silk flower at the waist a scrunched, wrinkled mess, the layers of skirt tucked around and under her, away from the gas pedal. She ripped her veil loose and tossed it into the tiny backseat.
Oh, she could kick herself! So much of this was her own fault. She hadn’t listened to her gut, had gone into this whole marriage frenzy for the wrong reasons.
There’d been no rush, no quickening of her heart.
True, butterflies had danced in her stomach, but they hadn’t been a happy species. More the kind that took flight while you watched a doctor fill a hypodermic needle with your name on it.
She raised one hand and pressed her fingers to her temple.
Zipping around a slow-moving car, she wondered what was happening back at the church right now. She’d created a scene, and there’d be hell to pay.
Her parents had always handled their marriages and the dissolution of them in a dispassionate, civilized manner. If there had ever been anything ugly said or done—and she was sure there had—it happened behind closed doors in “inside” voices.
Not her, though. Nope. She’d left Donald, along with any of the assembled guests within shouting distance, in no doubt as to her feelings. And then she’d stormed away, leaving a church full of relatives and friends—and members of the media—with nothing to look at but the backside of a runaway bride.
The Darling heiress had failed. Again. And on her wedding day, in front of all those people. Such a public humiliation. Her parents would never, ever forgive her.
Well, que será será.
Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten anything all day. Wedding nerves, she had told herself. Now, though, after she’d pulled the stunt of her life, she was hungry. Go figure.
She scowled into the rearview mirror. “Stunt of my life? Huh, I should have taken it one step further and knocked Donald’s and my father’s heads together.”
Lucinda looked down at herself. She couldn’t very well waltz into a restaurant or a convenience store dressed like this. A billboard advertised a fast-food burger chain, and she pulled into the right lane behind a truck, then veered onto the exit ramp. Quicker than she could say “I won’t,” a gangly boy with hair the color of a rusty nail handed her a chicken sandwich and a supersized Coke from the drive-through window.