Breach of Honor by Naomi Porter

7 Miranda

“DINNER WITH WILLIAM St. James the Third?” Lily gaped. “Do you know how spectacular that is?” She breathed in, fanning herself as she paced.

“Apparently, I don’t.”

She waved me off. “The douche getting blown by that curvy Latina, right?”

I nodded, heart racing.

“You just hit the lottery with a mega-millionaire’s son! Or maybe they’re billionaires!” Lily hugged me, bouncing on her toes. She pulled back, grinning proudly. “What are you wearing tonight? You have to be ready for the paparazzi!”

Acid rose into my throat. Paparazzi? Sealing my mouth, I bolted to the bathroom and hurled into the toilet. Mobbed by photographers wasn’t my idea of a pleasant first date.

“Oh shit, shit, shit! Not the flu!” Lily rushed in behind me, cursing my misfortune. Or was it her misfortune? I continued to empty the contents of my stomach, knowing full well it wasn’t the flu but my nerves. I hurled a bit more. Fish tacos should never be raised from the dead.

“This royally sucks.” She passed me a hand towel. “What are you going to do?”

Cancel dinner, duh.

Lily wasn’t ignorant or stupid, but William and his millions had blinded her. Obscene wealth had that effect on some people. I wouldn’t fault her for it this time, but if another rich guy asked me out, I’d expect her to show some class. At the very least, she could keep her thrill of knowing a millionaire to herself.

Money didn’t matter to me as it did to Lily.

I dragged myself off the floor and leaned on the counter to look at my reflection in the mirror. “Un-fucking-believable!” Red swollen eyes with tiny purple dots below them stared back at me. Dinner was in an hour, and I couldn’t eat even if I wanted to. “Fuck my life.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll fix you up!” Lily opened her makeup drawer and started digging for a miracle potion—not that one existed. My blotchy-ass face would remain disgusting for another twenty-four hours.

Fair porcelain skin had plagued me my whole life. Happy, sad, or tossing my cookies into the toilet, all left its mark one way or another. A red nose, purple dots, or flushed cheeks. A horrible calamity to deal with when so many viewed my skin as perfect. Foolish people.

There was only one thing to do now.

I left the bathroom and went into my bedroom to retrieve my cell phone. I didn’t have William’s personal number, but I had the number for Claire’s secretary. Maybe she could get a message to him.

During the ride from SJI to my office, we’d agreed on meeting at the restaurant. William had wanted to pick me up, like a real date, but I’d insisted we meet there. In our flustered state, we didn’t exchange numbers.

I smiled, remembering how adorable and handsome he was taking care of me. I couldn’t let him see me like this, not on our first date.

“St. James Investments, the office of Claire St. James. How may I help you?”

“What are you doing?” Lily whisper-shouted.

I raised a finger, silencing her. “Hi, my name is Miranda Bradford of LA Premier Events. Could you connect me to Mr. St. James, please?”

“And may I ask the nature of the call?”

Nature of the call? I glanced at Lily sulking on the couch with her eyes closed. “I’m sorry, the nature of the call?” I asked, feeling like an idiot. I knew what she was asking, but I didn’t know what to say. My face heated.

“Yes, business or personal? Not that it matters. He’s gone for the day.”

“He is?” The disappointment in my voice oozed like a silly schoolgirl. Facepalm.

“Yes, he leaves with his wife every day at six o’clock. Shall I take a message, assuming this is a business call?”

Married? My stomach churned, bile once again rising in my throat.

“Hello?”

Stricken with panic, I lost all sense of myself. “I’m so incredibly sorry! I wouldn’t have called or agreed to dinner with him had I known he was married.” My mouth went off like a runaway train. Destination: Foolsville. “I don’t date married men or do the whole lover—mistress—other-woman thing. I feel like such an idiot. Married.” I sucked in a breath. “I was calling to cancel anyway. Turns out, throwing up lunch and swollen red eyes are a Godsend! I… I’m so sorry to have bothered you.” I ended the call.

I choked down embarrassment and shame as I ka-plopped on the couch next to Lily.

A stupid tear slipped out the corner of my eye. “He’s married.”

“I knew he was a douchebag,” Lily grumbled.

Married.

Will

There was nothing more I wanted to see than Miranda entering the restaurant in the red dress. The one I’d slip off her luscious body in my dreams, her sapphire eyes locked on mine and pouty lips taunting me.

Surprisingly, I didn’t take her as a fashionably late kind of girl. She didn’t seem the type. But then, tonight wasn’t work. It was pleasure. It certainly added some fun tension, like a little foreplay.

I’d never been enthralled with a woman before. Interested? Sure. Brain on autopilot doing what was expected? Absolutely. Fully engaged with every one of my senses on alert? Never.

The anticipation of waiting for Miranda to walk in might be the death of me.

“Mr. St. James, another scotch?”

I looked up at the server, stars in her eyes.

“Do you think your date is coming?”

I furrowed my brow; I’d only been waiting fifteen minutes.

“I mean, I’m off soon…” The brunette blushed. I’d heard that line a ridiculous amount of times.

“I’m sure my date is just running late. Traffic or a broken heel.” I nodded confidently. Miranda wouldn’t flake out on me. “Yes, I’ll have another.” I lifted my empty glass with an air of indifference. She promptly took it and disappeared to fetch me another.

Drumming my fingers on the black linen tablecloth ten fucking minutes later, my second glass empty, I’d finally accepted the fact Miranda wasn’t showing. If I didn’t get out of the restaurant quick, the rage bellowing inside me would be unleashed.

Fuck! Miranda stood me up.

Why in the hell hadn’t I gotten her phone number!

I didn’t even know where she lived so I could bang on her door and confront her for dashing all my hopes and ruining the plans I’d made for a beautiful, romantic evening.

I’d secured five-star dining in one of Los Angeles’s most sought-after restaurants. Only those on the A-list could enter without a reservation and be seated promptly. I, however, called ahead the minute Miranda stepped into her office. I wasn’t an ass nor would I strut in exuding the elite St. James status as I’d done in the past. With Miranda, I wanted to do everything differently. Better.

What had my efforts gained me? Rejection. Seemed she wasn’t interested after all. There wouldn’t be flirty gazes, hand-holding as we strolled along the beach, or breathless kissing.

The valet closed my car door, and I barreled out of there. On the freeway, I weaved in and out of traffic in my Mercedes Roadster. I put as much distance as possible between me and the fucking restaurant. I hadn’t felt so goddamned crushed since my fifteenth birthday when I’d asked for ballroom dance lessons after watching Dancing with the Stars with my mother.

“You can’t be serious,” my father had said incredulously. His astonished expression had seared into my memory with the caption: A deranged Easter bunny.

Not that I was wearing a bunny costume at the time, but the look on my father’s face had been the same as Ralph’s dad in a Christmas Story.

To my disappointment, I was sent to a youth leadership camp instead.

Come Monday morning, I’d be in that conference room bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the first gala meeting. And I’d show Miranda she didn’t affect me in the least.

Her loss.