“Helen,” said Max.
“Pretty,” said Hunter.
“Hmm.” Max smiled. “Yes. She is.”
The church was packed to the gills, with a congregation that looked alarmingly like a Who’s Who of American television. Hugh Orchard was there with his partner, a small part of him dying inside to watch Hunter getting married, in silent sympathy with teenage girls all across the country. Tiffany’s buxom castmates from Sea Rescue flashed white-toothed smiles across the aisle at the various perma-tanned hunks from Counselor. On Hunter’s side of the church, Caroline sat looking glamorous if somewhat underdressed in a green halter-neck Armani dress that showed off rather a lot of her still-excellent cleavage, bottle-feeding a beautifully behaved Theo. Beside her sat an obviously jet-lagged Christopher, who kept falling asleep and then waking himself up with a particularly violent snore, asking people in a loud British accent where on earth he was, much to the amusement of Claire, who sat on his other side.
“That’s my son,” Caroline was whispering proudly to anyone who would listen, gesturing toward the altar. “Isn’t he handsome? Tiffany is a very lucky girl. Of course, Hunter and I have always been terribly close.”
Outside, kept back twenty feet from the church steps by solid steel fencing and six burly security guards, a growing crowd of fans and photographers jostled for position, trying to catch a glimpse of the famous guests as they arrived. Emma Duval, the frozen-featured face of the L.A. 9 News who had cornered Hunter at the now infamous Dodgers game with Siena and Randall, was engaged in a frantic battle with the bimbo from E! as to which of them had the right to the spot closest to the steps.
“I was here first, Tanisha,” Emma pouted as the Amazonian black goddess pushed past her.
“Whatever, Emma,” replied her rival. “I’m sure there’s room for both of us.”
Meanwhile, the latest of the stragglers dashed past them into the church, the actors stopping for a few seconds of courtesy poses, everybody else darting inside as quickly as possible in the hope of bagging a late seat. The atmosphere, both inside the church and out, was electric.
After what seemed like an eternity to Hunter, the organ finally started playing Purcell’s Trumpet Voluntary, and the entire church let out a collective gasp as Tiffany appeared on her father’s arm and began her slow procession up the aisle.
She looked lovelier than even Hunter had imagined, in a simple bias-cut cream silk dress and a full-length veil that somehow made her look both demure and sexy. She was gazing directly at him and smiling, the same loving, serene smile that he had fallen in love with the very first day he saw her in the studios when he’d helped her with her audition. Suddenly, everyone else in the room seemed to melt away. He felt as though he might burst with pride and happiness as she drew nearer and nearer. What had he ever, ever done in life to deserve a girl so truly beautiful, inside and out?
Max, standing beside him, was probably the only man in the church not mesmerized by the bride.
He had sworn he wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t stare at her or make an idiot of himself the moment she walked through the door. But he couldn’t seem to help himself.
His eyes were drawn like magnets to Siena.
She was walking sedately in front of Tiffany in a full-length, pale gold dress, its subtle color glinting seductively against the unusually bronzed glow of her skin, and its slick folds clinging to her beautiful body as though she had been poured into it.
He felt his chest tighten, and made a conscious effort to breathe.
Her hair was loose, her face . . . different, although nothing like some of the terrible photographs he’d seen in the New York press. Not that he would have cared how bad her scars were. She would always be infinitely beautiful to him.
Oh God, thought Siena, don’t look, don’t look, don’t look!
She could feel Max’s eyes boring into her like lasers. He must be shocked by her face. Revolted, probably.
The last time he’d seen her, she’d been at the height of beauty. Now look at her. He must be thanking his lucky stars that he had his beautiful French girlfriend here with him, instead of a washed-up freak like her. Siena had seen her the moment she arrived, standing in the second row, just behind Caroline. She’d only been able to catch a quick glimpse from all the way in the back, but it was enough to reveal the girl’s elegant figure, tiny-waisted in a fitted pink silk dress, and her mane of shining titian hair.
Then she’d seen Max turn and smile at the girl, and Siena felt her own heart shatter, like an egg in a microwave. There could be no more hope. They might be in the same room. But Max was lost to her. He was somebody else’s now.
Somehow she had to find the strength to walk down the aisle. She knew it was ungenerous and selfish, but she found herself wishing that Tiffany weren’t looking quite so stunning. By comparison, she thought miserably, her eyes fixed to the gleaming parquet floor of the church, she must appear uglier than ever.
Christ, thought Max. She can’t even look at me. Does she really still hate me that much?
Somehow they both made it through the service.
Siena was sitting next to a hugely pregnant Ines, who looked like a flame-haired stork with a giant beer belly. The father, apparently some feckless Argentine model she’d met on a shoot in Buenos Aires, was nowhere to be seen, but Ines seemed blissfully unconcerned.
“I ’ave ’is genes already,” she told Siena happily. “What else do I need ’im for?” The two girls had become friends again in recent months, and Ines tried to cheer her up and distract her from Max and pink-dress girl during the ceremony by making rude comments about all the Sea Rescue bimbos. “Look at that one,” she whispered, pointing to a ludicrously “enhanced” bottle blonde opposite. “What deed she play—the inflatable safety ring?”
Siena smiled dutifully, but inside she felt utterly devastated.
How was she going to get through a whole evening, knowing he was only feet away from her? Watching him dancing and laughing and kissing his stunning French girlfriend? The whole thing was unbearable. He would have to make a speech! She hadn’t even thought about that. What if he started talking about the old days with Hunter? Would he mention her? He would have to, wouldn’t he? And then everyone would be turning around to look at her, remembering that the two of them used to be together, back when she’d still had her looks, thinking how much better off he was now with Mademoiselle Perfect Body.
Oh, God. She couldn’t do it, she couldn’t! Why hadn’t she told Hunter not to invite him when she’d had the chance?
Once the torturous service was finally over, all the key players were ushered out onto the steps for formal photographs. As best man, Max was standing within a few feet of the bridesmaids, so it was impossible for Siena to ignore him completely.
He glanced across at her and gave a tentative nod of acknowledgment. She nodded back before hurriedly turning her attention to the photographer. Please God, just get this over with.
“Right.” Caroline’s cut-glass English accent pierced through the excited hum like a dart from a blowpipe. Everybody turned to listen. “I’d like a picture of the bridesmaids, please. Oh, and Maxie, darling, you too. Chop-chop! The bridesmaids and the best man.”
Like two zombies, Max and Siena edged reluctantly closer together. Max, his heart pounding, frantically scanned the crowd for Helen but couldn’t see her anywhere. Meanwhile, Siena practically hurled Liza, the only other adult bridesmaid, between herself and Max. But Caroline, never famed for her sensitivity, intervened. “No, no, no,” she said bossily. “Max in the middle, big girls on either side, little girls at the front. Come on, you lot!”
Stupid cow, thought Siena. Stupid, stupid cow. She hadn’t seen Hunter in donkey’s years, and now she was acting like the star of the fucking show. Why couldn’t she just fuck off back to England and leave them all alone?
Max, who knew Caroline a little better, suspected that her rearrangement of their places was entirely deliberate. She’d made it clear
at Batcombe that she was fully aware of his feelings for Siena, the meddlesome old witch. Unfortunately, he was in no position to argue with the mother of the groom and shuffled around Liza to do as he was told.
He and Siena were now side by side. He could feel her bare arm brushing against the dark wool of his suit and could have fainted with longing. Where the fuck was Helen when he needed her? She was supposed to be protecting him from this. That was why he’d brought her with him, for God’s sake. Even now, despite their physical closeness, or perhaps because of it, Siena refused to look at him. He could feel himself sweating beneath his too-tight morning coat. Evidently, its lucky properties had run out.
This was torture. He wanted to reach out and pull her to him, and never, ever let her go again.
“Say cheese!” said Caroline brightly.
The camera flashed and caught for posterity the image of four smiling girls, and two wretched souls gazing in miserable desperation into the distance.
“Oh, Max, there you are.”
Siena’s heart leaped into her mouth and stayed there. It was the girl. She was even more stunning close up, with her creamy-white cheeks and liquid blue eyes that made her hair look even more goddesslike than it had from a distance, and her clinging raw-silk dress showing off her tall, lean body in all the right places. Siena didn’t think she had ever felt so much hatred for another human being.
“Are you done with the pictures?”
She didn’t sound very French.
“Yes, yes, I think so.” Max sounded relieved, thought Siena. Probably pleased to be able to get away from her at last.
“Helen, this is Siena,” he mumbled, somehow managing to introduce the two of them without making any eye contact. “Siena, Helen.”
Siena opened her mouth to say something. How do you do, pleased to meet you, anything. But suddenly, as if an elastic band had just snapped inside her, she found the words had stuck in her throat, and the tears that she had been holding back for so long began pouring out of her in an uncontrollable flood. Oh Jesus. What must she look like?
She looked from the girl to Max and back again and was horrified to hear herself emit a sort of howl, like a dying animal.
She had to get out of there. But there was nowhere to go. A solid wall of photographers hemmed her in on all sides.
Pushing her way past Caroline and the other bridesmaids, she turned and ran, sobbing, back into the empty church, slamming the heavy wooden door behind her. It was her only chance of escape.
“Siena!” Hunter started after her, followed by a concerned-looking Tiffany.
“Oh my goodness,” said Helen. “D’you think she’s all right?”
But Max was too quick for all of them.
“No, leave it,” he said, pushing past Hunter and barring his way. “This is between me and Siena. I’ll go.”
He stepped inside. Immediately, the cool, dank air of the church, smelling faintly of extinguished candles, incense, and the lingering miasma of a hundred different perfumes, assailed his senses. For some reason, the smell reminded him of England, of home.
At first he couldn’t see her. It was gloomy with the doors shut and all the lights out, and his eyes took a moment to adjust from the glaring sunshine outside. But then he heard a stifled sob and saw a tiny figure curled up in a ball at the foot of the pulpit, half hidden by a vast spray of white bridal lilies.
“Go away!” she wailed as she heard footsteps approaching. “Please. I just want to be alone.”
The footsteps kept coming, louder and louder, with a firm male tread. When she looked up and saw it was Max, she put her head in her hands and moaned even louder. He squatted down on his haunches beside her and waited for her to look up at him. When she did, her beautiful dark blue eyes were still wet and glistening with tears, and she was biting down on her lower lip to prevent it from trembling. She looked ten years old again.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Siena sniffed, wiping her eyes briskly with the back of her hand. “You didn’t,” she said quickly. “It was . . . something else that upset me. Really, I’m fine.”
“Oh.”
He frowned, disappointed. How arrogant she must think him for assuming her tears would be over him. After all, she had hundreds of reasons to be feeling overemotional on Hunter’s wedding day. “Okay,” he said awkwardly. “Well, er, do you want to talk about it? Can I help?”
He noticed that she had pulled her mane of hair forward to cover the scars on the left side of her face. Without thinking, he reached his hand toward her and pushed it back again.
“Don’t,” she said, hurriedly placing her hand over his.
She felt the familiar warm roughness of the back of his hand. The physical sensation of his skin against hers was so powerful she almost stopped breathing.
Oh God, what was she going to do? She loved him so much.
Neither of them released the other’s hand.
“Why not?” His voice was deep and gentle, like a caress, and when he spoke, he never took his eyes from hers. “You look beautiful. So beautiful.”
“Please.” She pulled away from him with another involuntary sob and cringed back behind the lilies. Max sat down on the cold stone of the altar steps beside her. “I don’t look beautiful.” He could hear the anguish in her voice. “I look horrific.”
“That’s not true,” said Max.
“It is!” she insisted. “You know it is!”
“Siena . . .” he began again, his voice breaking. How could she possibly think she looked anything other than perfect to him?
“Max, no,” she said desperately, putting her hand across his mouth.
His kindness—his sympathy—was more than she could bear. Especially with his girlfriend waiting outside for him. At last, all pretense at self-control went out the window.
“Please don’t say any more,” she implored him. “I don’t want your pity! I know what I look like now, and I know who I am, all right? And, and . . .” she stammered. “Whatever has happened between us in the past, however awfully I’ve behaved”—she wrung her hands together desperately, unable to look at him—“we loved each other once.”
Max felt the tears stinging his own eyes. “Oh, darling,” he began, but she wouldn’t allow him to speak.
“And I want to remember that the way it was. The way I was. I know that you’re happy and settled with someone else now.” A solitary fat tear rolled off her cheek and splashed noiselessly down onto the gold silk of her dress, spreading into a dark, round patch across the top of her thigh. “And she’s beautiful, absolutely beautiful, and she seems very nice and everything as well . . .”
“Siena,” he tried to interrupt her, but she knew if she didn’t say this now, she would never find the strength again.
“And her English accent is really good for a French girl,” she found herself adding irrationally, unable to stop the words from coming now that they had started.
So that was it, thought Max. She thought Helen was Freddie. But how did she even know about Freddie?
“I’m happy for you, Max, truly I am,” she went on. “Hunter already told me all about her, Helen, is it? You deserve someone decent and kind, someone who loves you and will treat you—”
“Siena!”
He bellowed the word so loudly that it echoed around the empty church, bouncing off the walls like the booming voice of God. She looked up at him, startled.
“I don’t know what Hunter has told you,” he said. “But Helen is not my girlfriend. She’s just a friend I’ve known for years. I brought her here because . . .” He hesitated. “Well, because I thought I might need a shoulder to cry on. Moral support. Or something.” He was having difficulty getting the words out. “Because I knew I’d be seeing you again. And I didn’t know if I could handle it.”
She looked at him blankly. She’d heard what he said, but she couldn’t quite take it in.
“There is no one else, Siena. There was
someone for a while, but it ended. Months and months ago.”
For a moment she couldn’t speak at all. When she did, her voice was so hoarse, it was almost a whisper. “Why?”
“Because I love you,” he said quietly, reaching down for her hands and pressing them both in his. What was the point of denying it now? “Because I never stopped loving you. And I know I behaved appallingly, and there’s no reason why you should ever forgive me, for Camille or anything else, let alone love me again. But I need you to know.” He gazed at her solemnly. “That I’ll always love you, Siena. And I’ll always be here for you whenever you need me. Even if it’s only as a friend. I just want to be near you.”
Could it really be true?
Did he really still love her? Even now, after everything?
She looked across at his beautiful face as if it were a dream. The floppy blond hair, the broken nose with its perpetual smattering of freckles, the soft, loving eyes, searching her own anxiously for a response.
“Max,” she whispered, almost to herself.
“Siena,” he said. “My darling, darling Siena.”
Suddenly she found herself leaning toward him, her fingers wrapping themselves around the back of his neck, her lips locking with his into the kiss that both had fantasized about for so, so long.
When they finally, reluctantly released each other, Max sighed and slowly allowed his face to relax into an enormous, boyish grin. “I want to pinch myself,” he said. “I can’t quite believe this is real.”
“I know,” said Siena, leaning forward to kiss him again, this time on his forehead, eyes, nose, and chin. She needed to remember every inch of him. To never, ever let him out of her sight, or her arms, again.
Just then, the huge wooden door of the church creaked open, and a shaft of brilliant, blinding sunshine burst in on them, lighting up their embrace like a theater spotlight on Romeo and Juliet.
“Oh, sorry.” It was Hunter, silhouetted awkwardly in the glowing doorway. “I thought I’d come and see if Siena was okay. But, er, I see things are, er, are all fine. So I guess I’ll just leave you guys to it.”