Vows of Revenge

Tears of happiness, but sad ones, too. That kind of everlasting commitment to another person was her dream, but she wasn’t holding her breath that it would ever really happen. Roman cared for her. She was convinced of that much after his freak-out over her swim in the rip current, but he didn’t feel anything like what Ingrid and Huxley shared. Not the kind of love that demanded to be locked in for a lifetime.

She distracted herself by playing back-up photographer, surprised when she heard a masculine and intimate “Hey, beautiful.”

Looking up with a smile already in her eyes, she found herself confronted with Roman’s phone. It clicked and he lowered it.

“Did you seriously just take my photo?”

“I did. And don’t you dare aim yours at me. Put it down and come dance with me.”

“Since you asked so nicely,” she teased, wrinkling her nose at him, but pouting a little that he was dodging a photo. He was in a tuxedo. That was always a good look for him.

She loved dancing with him, though. They were a perfect match height-wise, and he led with smooth assurance. “Are you a natural? Or did you take lessons?” she found herself asking.

A pause, then, “Lessons seemed a wise investment once I began attending formal events.”

She let that fact absorb, along with the knowledge that Roman hadn’t hesitated very long at all before answering a personal question. Perhaps they were making progress.

“Are you enjoying this formal occasion? You were rather pithy about weddings the first time we talked.

“No,” he answered, his reply so prompt she flashed a glance upward at him.

A pang of disappointment struck. He still found weddings a waste of time, then.

“I wish they’d all go home so I could have you to myself,” he said. “You really do look incredible. That shade of blue is definitely your color, and those shoes are coming to bed with us.”

She laughed, enjoying his suggestive remark and the reassurance that it wasn’t the wedding putting that dismayed edge in his voice.

“Whatever possessed you to invite four hundred people into your home if you hate weddings so much?” she asked.

He didn’t answer and she sighed inwardly, thinking they’d lost that fragile strand of communication twining them together. It was always like this, and it created a lot of despair in her.

“I’m embarrassed to tell you,” he said so quietly she almost didn’t hear him.

She tried not to betray how surprised she was, just murmured, “Why? It’s a very nice thing to do.”

“If it was for Ingrid’s sake, it would be, but I wanted people—her sort of people—to see me as their equal. Now they’re here, I can’t be bothered speaking to them. I’d rather dance with you.” His mouth quirked in self-derision.

The importance of status was never lost on someone with a family in politics, but Melodie heard something else in his tone. Humbleness. Her sort of people.

“You are their equal,” she informed him with quiet sincerity.

“I told you what kind of mother I had.”

“One who made sacrifices for her child. Trust me. You do not own the patent on scandal or tragedy. I would think a man who makes his living running background checks would be fully aware of that.”

* * *

Roman had to hand it to her. Each time he gathered his courage and revealed a moment of personal angst, she came through, reminding him that he had every reason to stand tall.

They made the rounds after that, branching out from the bride’s and groom’s immediate family, whom they’d already met, to circulate among the other guests. Melodie fairly sparkled, she was so bright and delightful. He even found himself laughing when she described her fall into the pool that first day, only excusing them when someone joked that Roman had pushed her so he could perform mouth-to-mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Melodie murmured as he steered her toward the bar.

“It’s not your fault,” he said. “The guy is drunk.” And it was juvenile of him to feel insulted and mocked, but he didn’t want anyone to think he treated women roughly. He was past throwing punches over that sort of thing, but he didn’t listen to it. As for being so smitten with Melodie he would behave like a dolt in a romantic comedy, well, he wasn’t about to stand around for that accusation, either.

In all honesty, the whole day was a bit of a trial for Roman on that score, constantly demanding that he examine his feelings and intentions toward her. In fact, he had watched Huxley gaze at Ingrid in a way that wasn’t far off from what he was beginning to feel toward Melodie. She was precious and beautiful and captivating to him, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her or allow others to see that in him.