“Busty?” Martie’s voice rose sharply. “Honey, you’re beyond busty. I don’t know what on earth is going on, but this is my wedding day and—”
“Martie, listen to me.” She grabbed her sister’s hands in hers. “I’m having a problem with PMS. I’m as bloated as a sea sponge. You know I would do anything on earth for you, especially today, but there is nothing I can do about my breasts.”
“I know, I know,” Martie said. “It’s just—well, honey, I have to tell you the truth. With that low-cut gown you look like a stripper.”
The idea was so ludicrous that they both started to laugh. “You can rest assured I won’t bump and grind my way down the aisle,” Sam promised.
The dressmaker, who had been silent during this exchange, spoke up. “I have an idea. It might not work but it’s worth considering. Why don’t I cut a length of cloth from the skirt and make a little insert for the bodice?”
“Anything,” Sam said, desperate to divert attention from the size of her breasts. “Cover me with a pink sheet. I don’t care what you do.”
“No need to get testy,” Martie said. “I certainly never suggested anyone cover you up with a sheet.”
“I know you didn’t,” Sam said, instantly contrite. “PMS, remember?”
“Maybe you should go see Dr. Bernstein. There might be something he could give you.”
The conversation was going from bad to worse. “Great idea,” Sam said. “I’ll make an appointment.”
Thank God the photographer chose that moment to make an appearance.
“Time for those candid shots we’ve been practicing,” he said with a booming laugh. “We want the bride over there, right by the window. No mother, right? How about the aunts, then? Where are they?” His gaze landed on Sam. “Va-voom! We better have fireproof film for you, sweet thang.”
It’s your sister’s wedding day, Sam told herself. She could blow up at that horse’s butt of a photographer after the reception, when Martie and Trask were on their way to the airport. Just because she looked as if she had two beige beach balls stuffed under her dress was no reason for him to be sexist and rude. So she’d put on a little weight. Was it her fault she’d gained it all in her breasts?
The photographer snapped shot after shot of Martie posed by the enormous Palladian window while the dressmaker worked a miracle with the bodice of Sam’s maid-of-honor gown.
“Last time I saw anything like this, I was four months gone,” the woman said with a merry laugh. “I swear to you, I could see my boobs getting bigger by the second.”
A wave of dizziness swept over Sam, and it took all of her strength to pretend it wasn’t happening. “I have PMS,” she stated loudly for all to hear. “That’s all. PMS.”
“Oh, I wasn’t implyin’ you were preggers, darlin’, just—”
“Pregnant?” Martie’s voice carried clear from the other side of the room. “Who’s pregnant?”
“Nobody,” Sam shot back. “Nobody!”
An uncomfortable silence fell over the room, and it occurred to Sam that she might have sounded a tad harsh, but it needed to be said. All of this talk about her pneumatic breasts was making her very uncomfortable.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t considered the possibility that she might be pregnant, because she had. She was an intelligent woman with a logical mind and she knew about cause and effect. She’d taken an enormous health risk, but thank God she was on the Pill.
She absolutely, positively could not be pregnant Normal stress could turn a woman’s cycle upside down. Imagine what a plane crash could do. This was probably nothing but some kind of delayed reaction to everything that had happened.
Get real, Sam. Admit it. All roads lead straight to Duncan Stewart.
Sometimes, late at night, she found herself reliving that interlude in his arms. She could feel the strong, warm pressure of his mouth against hers, the way his powerful body responded to her touch, how she’d actually believed—if only for a moment—that she’d found her mate.
What a fool she’d been. Gullible, vulnerable, everything she’d sworn she never would be. Yet, despite everything, her anger battled with a desire so fierce and primal it challenged every belief about herself she’d ever held. How could she possibly want him after what he’d done? He was a manipulative lowlife who’d withheld his identity in order to pry information from her, and she’d played right into his hands, telling him all of her hopes and dreams for Wilde & Daughters Ltd.
He didn’t plan that plane crash, Sam…or what happened afterward. That was fate, pure and simple.
Their lovemaking had had nothing to do with Sam Wilde and Duncan Stewart. Their lovemaking had been between a man and a woman who had faced death together and triumphed. A celebration of life.
Her hand rested briefly against her belly and she shivered.
Not possible, she told herself. Not in a million years.
Last week she’d picked up a home pregnancy test at the supermarket, but the second she got it home, she realized how foolish she was being. But she hadn’t returned it—or even tucked it away in the hall closet. It was still sitting on the dressing table in her downstairs powder room. And she was still ignoring it.
“Sam.” Martie placed a hand on Sam’s forearm. “The photographer wants you to pose with me.”
Sam snapped back to the moment. Martie’s beautiful face looked pinched and worried, and Sam was instantly contrite. The last thing Sam wanted to do was cast a shadow on the proceedings. The road to this day had been long and rocky enough for Martie and Trask.
She summoned up her widest, most photogenic smile. “I’m yours to command,” she said brightly. “This is your day.”
Sam stood and smoothed the skirt of the sleek oyster pink gown. Martie linked her arm through Sam’s.
“Thank you,” Martie said.
“For what?”
“For not giving me the lecture.”
“Lecture?” She was starting to feel like a parrot. “What lecture?”
“The one about Daddy and his marry-or-else ultimatum.”
“I came down pretty
