Stealing the Bride Read online

  Other Titles by Nadia Lee

  The Sins Trilogy

  Book 1: Sins

  Book 2: Secrets

  Book 3: Mercy

  ——

  The Billionaire’s Claim Duet

  Book 1: Obsession

  Book 2: Redemption

  ——

  Sweet Darlings Inc. Series

  Book 1: That Man Next Door

  Book 2: That Sexy Stranger

  Book 3: That Wild Player

  ——

  Billionaires’ Brides of Convenience Series

  Book 1: A Hollywood Deal

  Book 2: A Hollywood Bride

  Book 3: An Improper Deal

  Book 4: An Improper Bride

  Book 5: An Improper Ever After

  Book 6: An Unlikely Deal

  Book 7: An Unlikely Bride

  Book 8: A Final Deal

  ——

  The Pryce Family Series

  Book 1: The Billionaire’s Counterfeit Girlfriend

  Book 2: The Billionaire’s Holiday Obsession

  Book 3: The Billionaire’s Secret Wife

  Book 4: The Billionaire’s Forgotten Fiancée

  Book 5: The Billionaire’s Forbidden Desire

  Book 6: The Billionaire’s Holiday Bride

  ——

  Seduced by the Billionaire Series

  Book 1: The Billionaire’s Revenge

  Book 2: The Billionaire’s Pursuit

  Book 3: The Billionaire’s Baby

  Book 3.5: The Billionaire’s Crush

  Book 4: The Billionaire’s Scandal

  Book 5: The Billionaire’s Secret

  ——

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  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Titles by Nadia Lee

  About Nadia Lee

  Copyright

  Stealing the Bride

  Nadia Lee

  To Dawn.

  Chapter One

  Court

  The bride is over my shoulder, wriggling like a trout caught between a bear’s paws. And it’s true: my paw is on her ass, so maybe she feels like a trout, even though we’re on a beach and there are no bears in Maui. And she’s screaming like a banshee.

  I run like hell down the aisle, past the tropical flowers lining each side, feet churning the sand. Somewhere a Chihuahua is barking insanely. The bride’s head bounces on my back, the white veil brushing my thighs and knees. The guests in semi-casual beachwear are too stunned to move. They just stare, their mouths open. It looks comical—like something from a third-rate chick flick.

  “Stop, you son of a bitch!” comes from behind me. The groom’s finally gotten his shit together.

  Sissy. I didn’t even push him out of the way that hard. I look over a shoulder to give him a superior smirk.

  He’s started after me, his feet pounding the sand. But the guy’s not fast enough. Even with a struggling woman over one shoulder, I can outrun him. I didn’t get my muscles from one of those jiggle dumbbells that simulates jerking off. I got them the old-fashioned way—sweating on Icarian fitness equipment in a gym.

  Oh yeah. You aren’t getting married. Not until pigs win the Super Bowl.

  Besides, he’s going to thank me. As soon as the fact that his intended and I slept together only two weeks ago sinks into his microscopic brain.

  My getaway Maserati convertible is waiting. Hell yeah. Stealing this bride in style.

  I dump her in the passenger seat. Cursing, she struggles against the tangled veil and a small sea of white fabric.

  I start the car. The engine roars like a lion, while the bride screams like I’m Hannibal Lecter coming off a month-long fast. The Hawaiian breeze ruffles my hair. I smack the wheel in triumph and give the car some gas.

  Someone in red runs right in front of the car. Shit! I slam on the brakes.

  “You fucking crazy?” I shout, my heart knocking hard against my chest. The Maserati could’ve turned her into a bloody human pancake. “I almost ran you over!”

  A tall, slim brunette places her hands on the hood of my car, almost like she’s daring me to run her over. Then she lifts her chin.

  What the fuck?

  The familiar aquamarine eyes send a jolt through me. I blink. The bride is right next to me, still cursing. What the hell is she doing over there in that red dress? Am I seeing things? I’ve been thinking entirely too much about her over the last two weeks.

  “Skittles?” I say.

  “Yeah.” The same husky voice.

  Damn… It is her.

  I glance at my kidnapped bride…who has finally gotten her veil out of the way and has the exact same face as Skittles. What the fuck is going on?

  Chapter Two

  –two weeks ago

  Court

  My phone goes off again, but I don’t bother checking it. I know who it is, and it’s better for my sanity that I don’t look at the notification.

  Besides, the car’s coming soon.

  Sure enough, within a minute, a blue Prius rounds the corner and starts slowing down. Finally! Time to forget parental drama for the night.

  Nate stares at it the way a zoo tiger might stare at an offer of hay. “Oh, come on! Court, man. Seriously?”

  I try not to laugh at his tragicomic face. “Do you see anything else?”

  “That’s a…” He squints. “What is it?”

  “Pretty sure it’s called a Prius.” I slap his shoulder in mock sympathy. “Uber drivers don’t usually tool around in Bugattis.”

  “But…a Prius?”

  I shrug. “So? It’s environmentally friendly, reliable and will take us where we need to go.”

  “You know I have a brand spankin’ new Lamborghini right over there.” He gestures at the valet parking.

  “Uh-huh. And how many beers did you have with dinner?”

  “Two. No more than three.”

  I don’t know why he even t
ries. “Four. You need to go back to preschool.”

  He gapes at me. “You were counting?”

  “I saw the receipt.”

  “Oh.” Nate takes a moment to regroup. “Well, I can hold my liquor.”

  “The Pryces can hold their liquor,” I correct him, referring to his older brother’s in-laws. They drink scotch and whiskey like water. “The last time I checked, you were Nate Sterling. And it was your idea to go clubbing, which means more drinking. You don’t want to wreck your car so soon, do you?”

  He bristles. “I’m a great driver.”

  True enough. And he actually can hold his liquor. I’ve seen him execute perfect backflips and make complex, six-figure stock trades after more than ten whiskeys. Still…I have my own rules.

  I give him a quick pat on the back. “Don’t be a snob.”

  That’s guaranteed to annoy the crap out of him. Even though he was born with a gold-plated silver spoon, he hates it when people treat him like he’s snooty. According to him, liking the finer things in life doesn’t make him stuck-up.

  “I’m not a snob,” he says stiffly.

  “Of course not. Which is why you won’t mind riding in a Prius.”

  He rolls his eyes and sighs, then climbs in with all the enthusiasm of someone forced to share an airlock with a bunch of Klingons who’ve eaten too many beans.

  To be fair, Nate has been looking forward to taking his brand new car for a drive. And as far as I know, he’s never ridden anything that costs less than six figures.

  Me? I’m more…down to earth. It’s a small price to pay for some semblance of a normal life.

  The driver confirms our destination—Z, a club my brother Tony owns—and the car takes off. Well, “takes off” as much as it can in L.A. traffic. There are lies, damn lies and car commercials. Open roads and just you and your car, my ass. The reality is crawling along over-congested streets full of people, cars and busses. Count your blessings if they aren’t farting black smog that smells like the love child of an oil rig and a rotten egg.

  My phone goes off again. The knot that’s been sitting in my gut for I don’t even know how long tightens some more.

  “Got a vibrator in your pocket?” Nate says.

  “I wish. At least that would come with some entertaining possibilities.”

  “Shouldn’t you answer it? Whoever it is has been texting you all evening.”

  “Eh. It’s nothing important.”

  “How do you know?”

  Sigh. He won’t let this go until I tell him everything. “Because it’s the nine million, ten thousand, six hundred and fifth text from Mom.” I should charge her a penny a text. It’d push me into a new tax bracket.

  “Or maybe it’s Tony. And didn’t you say Edgar’s in town?”

  Edgar’s the oldest of us three brothers. Tony’s the middle one, and I’m the youngest. “Tony doesn’t need me,” I say. “He has Ivy.” Whom he’s married to now, and so in love with I feel like I’m inhaling cotton candy every time I’m around the two of them.

  But I pull out my phone to check anyway. Just in case Tony or Edgar needs me for anything.

  Buuuut it’s from Mom. While I’m glancing at it, her nine million, ten thousand, six hundred and sixth text arrives. Why couldn’t it be one from God telling me I won the superpower lottery? Like the power to disable pointless texting.

  Fed up, I shove the phone back into the pocket. “My mother. Told you.”

  “Oh.” He grows silent.

  Like the rest of the world, he knows about the scandal that blew up like a Molotov cocktail last year. The law says Mom didn’t do anything illegal, but it sure as hell doesn’t feel that way. A pit in the bottom of my gut burns. I swear there’s a lava pool inside me that wants to spew its rage.

  She should’ve done something. And not just her. Me too.

  Every time I think about it, part of me wonders if I was complicit. After all, I indulged her and catered to her whims. If I’d pushed just a little more…

  “You know you could just block her,” Nate says finally.

  “I’ve thought about it. But once in a while, she gets hospitalized and needs somebody to be there with her.” I’m almost certain she does it to get attention, but I can’t ignore a call from a hospital. So I go, like a well-trained puppy, because Dad certainly isn’t going to, and Tony and Edgar… Well, they’re too strong-willed and experienced to put up with her theatrics.

  “Maybe it’s something important,” Nate says.

  Yeah, important to her. “It’s not. You know what’s really messed up?”

  He waits.

  “Why do moms who hate texting in general stoop to doing exactly that to get their son’s attention?” I pause—dramatically—but I’m not expecting an answer from Nate. He’s too normal to know. “They text you things like… Hey, when are you getting married? When are you going to give me a grandkid or two? I met just the girl for you. When are you free? You know what I’m saying?”

  “Uh, I guess?”

  Why the hell is he turning that into a question? He’s my best friend. He’s supposed to just agree with me. “Yours does it.”

  He winces. “Yeah, but only because Justin gave her a baby. Now she wants one from me, too, so she can have a nice set of two to bounce on her knees.” His face scrunches like an aluminum can under pressure. “She forgets I need to find a woman first.”

  Sometimes it slips my mind that Nate’s mom is normal. “At least yours doesn’t want you to fix her marriage. Mine does.”

  He pulls back in surprise. “Isn’t the divorce already final?”

  “She’s trying to delay it.” Like that’s going to change what she’s done.

  “And you’re supposed to fix it? What does she think you can fix? And why you? You’re the King of Short Flings and One-Night Stands.”

  “Dunno.”

  Now that you’re finished with your Master’s, you can spend some time convincing your father, one of her texts said last month. She’s obviously forgotten that my degree is in Gender Studies, not Matrimonial Repair.

  Nate gives me a look full of sympathy, and I glance away. I don’t need his pity. He doesn’t understand what it’s like to be in the mess my family’s in. The worst drama he’s ever been through was his grand-uncle Barron throwing a temper tantrum once or twice because he didn’t get his way. But unlike my mom, Barron isn’t morally bankrupt.

  A tiny bit of resentment squirms like a worm pulled from deep, dark soil. I hate myself for feeling jealous of Nate for having a normal family. I should just be happy for him.

  And I am happy for him. I just wish I had some normalcy, too.

  Mentally I stomp the worm into a petty little death, then look out the window, hoping something out there will make me laugh or forget. There are twelve million people in Los Angeles. Surely someone will do something to put a smile on my face.

  But no. People rush like slithery eels on the streets, and cars move with impotent fury, as though there’s some massive conspiracy to keep them going well below the speed limit.

  It’s too bad my sense of humor isn’t warped enough to find any of that funny. Maybe it’s time I develop one.

  Harcourt Roderick Blackwood. Laugher at All Things.

  But until then, I need to settle for more standard fare—drinking, clubbing, finding a hot girl to spend the night with… The usual.

  The Prius makes the final right turn. I start to say something to Nate, then something catches my eye. I stop, then stare at a woman in the long-ass line to get inside Z.

  I can’t pinpoint exactly what about her that captured my attention. The lights show her face, and it isn’t stunning. She’s not ugly or anything. But every feature on her face is just a little too large. The aggregate should look slightly off…maybe even unattractive. But not in combination, not on that heart-shaped face. It’s not classically beautiful, but it’s arresting.

  My gaze drops to her body. Long and slim, it’s the exactly opposite of what I lik
e. I prefer melons and a bountiful ass I can grab. But she does have T and A…just smaller. Like going from a watermelon to a peach.

  But somehow the size doesn’t matter. Heat curls inside me anyway as I watch her. How weird. Is my taste changing for some reason? Even steak can get old if you eat it all the time. Maybe it’s that tube dress… It’s bright red—the same shade of red as a Skittles wrapper. Her heels are hot too—high and strappy and sparkly silver.

  Then it finally hits me—why she’s so mesmerizing.

  Everyone around her is feigning a bored “I’m too hot to wait” expression, like that will move the line faster. But she’s moving to some kind of music only she can hear.

  Her hips swivel, her waist sinuous. Her movements aren’t big or wild—she’s on a sidewalk, after all—and they aren’t the slickest, but there’s so much joyful exuberance in her. It’s bubbling like hot, sugary syrup, and I want to lap—it—up.

  When she gives a small smile, I swear a rainbow arcs over her head.

  “You getting out?”

  Nate’s question is like an annoying gnat. “What?”

  “We’re here.”

  I blink and look around. Oh yeah. I didn’t even realize the car had come to a stop. The driver’s staring at me like I’m an intellectually challenged sloth. With a broken leg.

  I climb out and glance back at the girl. That line is long. She’s going to have to wait an eternity in those heels. And a woman bubbling with that much joie de vivre shouldn’t have to.

  I start toward her, but Nate stops me. “Where are you going?”

  I raise my hand to point, but catch myself. I don’t want him to see her. Not yet. Not until I put up an electric fence around her and hammer a huge sign on it that reads: Harcourt Blackwood’s Woman. Keep Out. Trespassers Will Be Beaten and Fed to Rabid Piranhas. “Sorry. Thought I saw someone I knew.”

  A plan forms in my head. Step One: get Nate out of the way.

  We go to the VIP entrance. Nate and I are both on the list. The bouncer there looks like the result of a lab experiment involving a silverback gorilla and a T-Rex. His black shirt is stretched so tightly across the pecs that I swear he’s going to pop a few buttons if he breathes too hard, like a bride who’s sucked in everything she can to fit into a vanity gown. His scowl seems permanent. Every time he smiles, his face looks like it’s going to crack.