Nancy Robards - Accidental Cinderella

“What are you up to now?” Lindsay narrowed her eyes, playing along with the tone Sophie had set for this one.

“I’ll tell you in a minute. First, I have to say hello to someone.”

She followed Sophie’s gaze to a short, slight man who was making his way toward them.

“Your highness, such a lovely wedding.” The man had a thick Italian accent. He bowed and dusted Sophie’s hand with a kiss. “It is a great honor to bear witness to such a momentous occasion.”

Okay, this could take a while. But Lindsay had monopolized Sophie long enough. It was time to relinquish her friend and give others a turn. It was a good time to get a drink. The guests didn’t want to talk to her, and that was okay. Really, it was. She didn’t want to stand there, awkward as a sixth finger while this man did what every guest at this wedding endeavored to do: endear himself to the future queen of St. Michel.

She turned to Sophie. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”

Sophie smiled. “Is everything okay?”

Lindsay nodded. “Absolutely, I need something to drink. Would either of you care for something?”

“Nothing for me,” said the Italian. “But please allow me to be at your service.”

“No, no, thank you. You stay here and talk. I’ll be back.”

“You don’t have to leave,” Sophie whispered.

She’d been so good to make sure Lindsay didn’t feel out of place during her stay at the palace. The poor woman must be exhausted.

“I’m fine,” Lindsay assured her. “I’ll find you later.”

“Okay, don’t forget. Your surprise.”

Sophie had been so generous already. Lindsay couldn’t imagine what else she could pull out of her crown. Especially tonight. Sophie’s big night. It felt wrong for her friend to take time away from her wedding to give her something else. If anyone should be fussed over tonight, it was the bride.

Across the room, Lindsay spied a tux-clad server with a tray of champagne flutes. She walked over and helped herself, then turned to survey the crowd. The guest list was studded with several A-listers who melded so well with the others that sometimes Lindsay had to do a double take before she could identify them. But she was careful to not be too obvious. No one here gawked or gushed.

That’s why it was important that she honored the agreement she’d made with herself and remained cool—and not go stark raving fan girl, even though Johnny Depp was sitting directly in her line of vision at a table for two, with his arm draped around a petite woman.

Lindsay bit her bottom lip instead.

Johnny. Depp.

She watched as the actor lifted a cigarette to his lips, taking a long drag. It was just as well she didn’t try to engage him in conversation, because with all this pent-up nervous energy, she’d probably end up saying the wrong thing or bleating like a startled goat rather than forming words that made any sense.

Her toes curled in her custom-made Jimmy Choos (one of the bridesmaid gifts from Sophie), and she exhaled a full-body sigh, reluctantly tearing her gaze from him.

As she skimmed the crowd, she stopped suddenly, backtracking to a familiar face. A sulking hulk of handsomeness and broad shoulders sat alone at a table toward the back of the ballroom.

It was that famous chef. Oh, what was his name…?

As she studied his ruggedly attractive face, the olive skin and perpetual five o’clock shadow, Lindsay’s mind flipped through names one by one, but she couldn’t quite pin it down.

A couple of years ago, he’d been the poster boy of the trashy tabloids. Oh, what was his name…? He used to have a show on Food TV…but something had happened. She couldn’t remember what. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him on television. Not that she’d ever been a big fan—but boy, he was even better-looking in person than on TV, and the tabloid photos didn’t do him justice.

Montigo.

Carlos Montigo.

Yes! That was it.

She snapped her fingers. As if he’d heard her, which was impossible over the clamor of conversation and music, his dark gaze slid to hers and locked into place.

Her stomach performed a curious lurching summersault. Good grief, the guy was handsome. But based on the headlines, he was no Prince Charming. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

Still, she couldn’t make herself look away.

Ping. There it was. That steel-to-bad boy magnetic draw of attraction—pulling her in a direction her better judgment warned she shouldn’t go.

He kept watching her and she kept watching him back, over the top of her champagne flute.

She’d known guys with bad reputations like him. He was exactly the type of guy she was drawn to.

If there was one thing her résumé of postengagement relationships had taught her it was you can’t rehabilitate a bad boy.

That was the short-term draw.

A slow, lopsided smile that barely turned up the corner of Montigo’s lips promised trouble. Those were definitely bad-boy eyes gazing at her. Dark, sexy, bad-boy eyes that were meandering brazenly down the length of her body.

It wasn’t the way Luc looked at Sophie. No, this was something altogether different. Her mind skittered through all sorts of possibilities involving bare broad shoulders, rumpled bed sheets and a lot more skin than he was showing now….

It kind of took her breath away.

It was her last night in St. Michel….

Even if he wasn’t part of her “New Me” plan, she’d never see him again.

But then the strangest thing happened. Her better judgment kicked in.

What was the point of a one-night stand—besides a night of great sex?

Back home, her friend Ida May Higgins, the woman who’d known Lindsay since she was born, who’d cared for her after her mother died and had in many ways been a surrogate mother to her, insisted that the only way Lindsay could fix what her former fiancé, Derrick, had broken was by simply taking the time to be alone so that she could get to know herself.

Alone.

As in no one-night stands.

Besides, Sophie had yet to cut the cake and toss the bouquet. As the maid of honor, Lindsay needed to be available for Sophie, not formulating a plan to hook up with Mr. Hottie.

Willing herself not to look back at him, Lindsay swallowed the rest of her champagne, set the empty glass on a busing tray and made her way toward the terrace for a breath of fresh air.

Something—anything—to clear her head.

If she were at home right now, she’d pull out her mother’s recipe book—a small red notebook filled with pages of handwritten recipes, mostly desserts—and bake. The kitchen was her sanctuary; baking helped her keep her sanity.

Even though she’d been so young when her mother had died she didn’t have memories of her, she had her recipes. And bringing them to life somehow made Lindsay feel connected to this woman she never really knew.

She’d brought the red notebook to St. Michel with her but she hadn’t been near a kitchen in the month she’d been there. So, since baking wasn’t an option, she made her way toward the ballroom’s open doors.

The terrace was dotted with a smattering of people. Mostly couples who’d stepped out into the moonlight for a little romance, it seemed, from the way people were paired up, some with arms entwined, others stealing little kisses—one couple, off in the far corner, getting a little too frisky for public decency.

Lindsay hated intruding on the romance, but she couldn’t go back inside. Not just yet. To give them some privacy, she walked to the other end of the terrace, leaned against the ornate wrought-iron railing and tilted her face into the briny breeze that blew in off the ocean.

It was a gorgeous night. In North Carolina, she’d need a parka and gloves to be outside on a December evening. Here, the temperature was a little chilly, but it was brisk and fresh—just what she needed. She was already starting to feel revived.