That's Amore! - Janelle Denison [69]
The tryst thing probably wasn't a bad supposition, considering Rachel's incredible, traffic-stopping figure, and her smile which had left Lucas speechless on more than one occasion. Not to mention the emptiness of the shop and the sinfully seductive lingerie hanging on display in one corner of the quiet, closed bridal boutique.
Then Rachel whacked the guy upside the head with one of those plastic bride and groom statues that went on top of a wedding cake, and all hell broke loose. The bride separated from the groom, who went flying into a rack of wedding shoes. There he sat, like a wooden soldier in a white satin canoe.
The plastic bride—broken and smeared with some red stuff he quickly identified as blood—stuck sideways out of the thick, sandy-colored hair of the jackass in the brown suit.
And Rachel Grant heaved with anger.
"Ow, you hit me!" the amorous guy said, his yelp loud enough to be heard out on the street.
"I gave you fair warning, now get out before I call the police. You can feel free to explain to your fiancée why I am no longer able to do her fittings."
"I'm bleeding." As if shocked by his own words, the guy touched a fingertip to his temple where a miniscule scratch was visible. Then he disentangled the plastic bride's arm from his hair and threw her to the floor.
"I'm sorry I hurt you, Freddy," Rachel conceded, a grudging tone in her voice. "But I had the right to defend myself."
Luke's jaw clenched, as did his hands. His pulse began to throb in his temple as he realized he most certainly hadn't interrupted a tryst. He'd walked in on an assault.
"I think I'm gonna need stitches."
"Be glad it wasn't one of the cake knives or you'd be bleeding like a stuck pig," she snapped, obviously having used up her tiny bit of sympathy for the whining assailant.
The man didn't look very glad. In fact, he began to look entirely pissed off. Luke realized the time had come to step in when the stranger's two hammy hands curled into fists and he leaned toward Rachel in a threatening manner.
"Stop right there, Freddy," Luke murmured, his voice steady and even. Probably only those who knew him well would recognize the tone and realize he was damn near furious.
He dealt with some scummy people in his job at the Chicago D.A.'s office, and had prosecuted some really bad ones. None angered him as much as those who abused women or children. "Lay a finger on her and you'll be spending your wedding night in intensive care."
The bastard finally turned around and saw him standing there. So did the blonde—Rachel. Initially, the man's scowl betrayed his annoyance at being interrupted. Then, when he saw the fury on Luke's face—not to mention his tall, threatening form—his eyes widened in fear.
Sighing visibly, Rachel stepped back to lean against the checkout counter. She began to look a little stunned, as if her bravado had been used up and she'd realized this bastard might have hurt her had Luke not arrived on the scene.
"You okay?" Luke asked as he strode across the store to her side, taking her arm to steady her since she suddenly appeared a bit wobbly on her feet. She nodded.
"You want me to call the police?"
"This is none of your business," the other man blustered. "Besides, it wasn't what it looked like."
"Yes, it was," Rachel said, bringing a hand to her face and pushing a long strand of her pale blond hair off her cheek.
Her hand shook. But her voice didn't.
Luke glanced at the counter. "Where's the phone?"
"Don't," the man said, sounding desperate. "I'm sorry, I obviously misread your signals."
Rachel Grant's spine snapped straight and fire appeared in her eyes as she stared the man down. Obviously her quick flash of uncertainty had evaporated. "Signals? What signals would those be? The dozen times I've told you 'no'? The afternoon last week when I said I'd rather stick flaming pins in my eyes than have anything to do with you?"
Luke