Bound By Their Nine-Month Scandal (The Montero Baby Scandals 3)

As the day pressed on, she did what she always did when the spotlight turned on her and scorched her to the center of her soul. She focused on creating order and maintaining her posture and manners. She spoke in a clear voice and approached everything with a rational, objective view.

She also pretended this wasn’t her wedding. It was one of her mother’s galas that needed an appropriate theme for decor and menu. She didn’t let herself care whether her bouquet was roses or calla lilies because if she concerned herself with small details, she would work herself into a panic attack over the fact she would eventually have to stand in front of a thousand people and reveal that Angelo could make her knees weak simply by looking into her eyes.

Finally, Angelo dismissed everyone.

Exhausted, Pia made a point of shaking hands and saying goodbye to each person, then told Angelo flatly, “I’m going to change.”

She needed to regroup.

* * *

Angelo couldn’t believe what an ice queen he was marrying.

He should probably be grateful she had shut down somewhere between the stylist and the engagement ring. When he’d looked up as she entered, he’d been kicked in the stomach by how genuinely lovely she was. Speechless. Close to stammering.

She had walked across the room with such a standoffish expression, however, he’d become freshly annoyed. Insulted, even. She acted as though everyone around her was here to serve her and not worth a sincere smile or a personal word.

At least she liked the ring he had chosen, which had leaped out at him as somehow perfect. Subtle, yet with glints of fire. Mesmerizing and more complex the longer he stared at it.

Kissing her had been an impulse. A power move, maybe. He had wanted to force the thaw, and he had, but she’d nearly burned up any thought in his head except a desire to take her back to bed. Hell, if they hadn’t been surrounded, he would have had her on the dining table.

Melodie’s voice had yanked him back to reality.

Just as quickly, Pia had put on her lady-of-the-manor act and things had deteriorated from there. The photo shoot had turned into a parody of old sepia photos and when the eager-to-please wedding planner had invited Pia to describe her dream wedding, she had pretty much recoiled.

“Stay with tradition wherever possible. Many of these decisions can be fielded by my mother’s personal assistant.”

Her mother’s assistant. Apparently, Angelo wa

s being swapped into position like an outfielder midgame. If things were different, that would give him pause as to whether he wanted to marry her, but they had a baby on the way. He went ahead with the announcement.

Which prompted hundreds of texts and emails.

He left many of those to his own assistant, but sent a quick note to his team, reassuring them nothing would change and promising to speak to them soon.

Pia might answer to her parents and their staid ideas of tradition, but Angelo had his team of gamers, misfits all of them, but who were as genuine and generous as the ones who had taken him in so many years ago. They earned disgusting amounts of money, but they were kids and they had been knocked off guard by his news. Angelo paid back his karma by looking after them as best he could.

If he had thought Pia would provide a maternal influence for them, he would be sorely disappointed. She was so freaking detached. That remark about guests, for instance. Maybe she knew he was being perverse, determined to invite as many guests as her mother, down to the exact number. Even so, she was acting as though she was planning a funeral, not their wedding.

She faltered as she realized he was following her into the bedroom.

“I want to change, too. I hate suits.” He didn’t hate them that much now that he could afford them and had them tailored to fit like a second skin.

“Try heels,” she muttered, and turned her back, gathering her hair to offer her zipper.

He almost asked if that was what had put such a sour look on her face, but as he lowered the zip, he revealed the black lace beneath.

“Strapless. I wondered what you were wearing.” He traced the band of the bra to the hook and eye closure.

She moved away, into the closet. He toed off his shoes and opened his belt, tugging it free as he followed her.

She was buttoning one of his black shirts over her delightfully pretty black underwear, shoes abandoned beside the dress on the floor.

“May I?” she belatedly asked, rolling a sleeve up her delicate wrist.

“Hell, yes, you may.” He eyed her legs. “I may refuse to buy you any clothes of your own.” He meant it.

“I’ll buy them myself.” She walked out of the closet.