Underfoot
IT WAS LATE when she sank onto the barstool. Still wearing her best dressed-to-kill sexy tuxedo dress, Trina Roberts had received immediate attention from the bartender.
"Hot night?" he said. "What'll you have?"
Hot didn't cover it. Train wreck didn't cover it. Nuclear explosion didn't cover it. "Mojito, please."
"Coming up," he said.
While she waited, she took a deep breath and glanced around the bar. The crowd had thinned out. Her gaze stopped on a man seated at the other end of the bar, his head bowed over a squat glass of amber-colored liquor.
His tux tie was unfastened along with the top buttons of his shirt. She knew that profile, the hard jawline, straight nose and dark hair uncharacteristically mussed over his forehead.
Walker Gordon.
Her heart clenched for him. He looked miserable, desolate, destroyed. She couldn't blame him. After all, he'd just been publicly dumped at the altar by Brooke Tarantino, the great-granddaughter of the founder of Bellagio Shoes. That was bad enough, but the dumping had been conducted on live television with millions of witnesses.
Trina had attended the wedding becaus ... read full excerpt from Underfoot ebook
