Stop that Wedding!
Chapter 1
Chaucer Percival Somersbee was fuming. Rage bubbled up inside of him in a way he
hadn’t experienced in decades. He wanted to roar, to scream, to stomp his feet to let the
world know how incredibly asinine it was at this moment. His black bowler hat, perched
precariously on the top of his thick white hair, bobbed as furiously as his carefully groomed
white moustache and beard. He barely controlled himself. A public loss of temper would be
poor behavior for the retired CEO of a respected family-owned dynasty. He settled for
glowering at the scene before him.
To the casual observer, it was an ordinary scenario taking place in the department store’s
beauty salon: a beautiful young woman was having her hair done. She was striking with her
white blond hair, porcelain skin and high, finely sculpted cheekbones. Her soot-colored
impossibly long lashes framed emerald green eyes, and her full lips exhibited a classic Mona
Lisa smile. Even clad in a modestly tailored sundress, it was obvious that her figure was
slender yet lushly curved. Overall, she was an exceptionally stunning woman.
Her hairdresser, the incomparable Jacques, routinely styled masterpieces for the rich, the
famous, and the powerful. The beautiful young socialite fell into the first two of those
categories. After her impending marriage she would fit easily into the third.
It was the upcoming wedding that made Chaucer, or Chauncy as his friends and family
called him, so infernally mad. He’d returned two weeks ago from the perfect three-month
vacation in Europe. While there he’d played, gambled, dozed in the sun, swapped stories with
old friends and basically had a wonderful time. Those memories were obliterated when he
discovered his favorite grandchild planning a June wedding to that pompous ass, Chadwick
Hartinel Chalmers.
Chalmers was a budding lay-about and useless chaff of society, whose only possible
redeeming feature was his father’s political power as a former state governor and his fortune
he routinely bragged about. Since Chauncy had more money lying around his mansion than
Chadwick’s papa could ever hope to gain, and since he cared little for politicians, Chauncy
personally saw nothing worthwhile in the boy.
He could understand why his granddaughter, Zenith Priscilla Rose Somersbee, could be
taken with him, since he was a handsome devil and was quite charming when moved to be so.
But he knew in his heart of hearts that she didn’t love the toad. She saw an advantageous
union, a good social match, and she was comfortable with him. Sound reasons to enter a
business deal, perhaps, but not good enough for a marriage.
They’d ruined her, he raged. They’d sent her off to that fancy boarding school and filled
her head with self-importance and fluff about how upper society needed to help the poor by
being the best snobs they could be. They’d taken that sweet, innocent ball of enthusiasm and
polished the stars right out of her eyes. And even now, as the horrendous day of matrimony
approached, his own son, Cecil Ambrose Somersbee, stood gloating, oblivious or uncaring of
the older man’s black mood.
“It’s a wonderful match, Father,” the younger Somersbee gushed, bouncing on the balls of
his feet in enthusiasm. “Zenith will be able to do so much in her new position, be the
reckoning force in San Francisco society. The Chalmers have so much political clout. Think of
the committees she can command, the funds she can control, the people who will look up to
her and listen to her every word. Think –“
“I’m thinking,” his father snapped, “that the real reason you’re so happy about this marriage
is because you’ll get Rupert Chalmers as your permanent golf partner, and that should
improve your golf scores immensely.”
Although Cecil still had the decency to flush at his father’s words, he quickly brushed them
aside. “I’m sorry you can’t be happy for her.” Glancing at his watch, he frowned. “I’m late.”
With that, Cecil left, heading no doubt for an early-afternoon martini at the nearby men’s club
where he spent most of his days. Chauncy glared after his son. A human waste, he thought
sourly. He exhibited no drive, no desire to accomplish anything. His only motivation in life was
the prestige his family’s money could buy. Chauncy’d done his best to develop some purpose
in the boy but without success.
With the birth of Zenith, new light had entered Chauncy’s world. He’d endeavored daily to
teach the little girl the real fun of life: to create, to think, to accomplish something. For many
years he’d succeeded. She was his friend, his co-conspirator, the one who looked up at him
with adoring eyes that could see no wrong. When his precious wife, Rose, had passed away
while Zenith was still a young teen, Chauncy and Zenith had been each other’s strength.
Then he’d decided to retire and enjoy the rest of his life. That summer was his first true
vacation.
He was thoroughly convinced that his family had known exactly what they were doing by
sending Zenith to that blasted boarding school in England that year, while he’d been away.
She went in a free spirit and came out another mindless upper-crust débutante, all perfumed
and powdered, plucked and polished into the perfect vision of high society. Her parents were
thrilled and Chauncy hated it.
He spent the next several years trying to break her out of her expensive shell. He took her
to hockey games when she clamored for the opera. He gave her fast food when she craved
fancy finger sandwiches. He plied her with Tequila Sunrises when she requested
champagne. She never gave him an inch.
Every once in a while he thought he saw a glimmer of hope, some slight sign of real life
inside the shell. Like the time she switched the classical music for some Led Zeppelin at one
of her mother’s luncheons. Another time she’d stood at the edge of a pool at a boring
luncheon, and he’d hoped she’d jump in, but she’d simply stood there as if longing to fly.
These glimpses were rare; despite his best efforts she stayed cool, calm and depressingly
upper crust.
He still held out hope that even at the ripe age of twenty-five she could be saved from the
abyss of worthlessness that claimed her parents and her younger brother Taft. Her sister,
Luna, just sixteen, was a wild card in his family’s deck. He had yet to figure out that young
minx.
But if this farce of a marriage occurred, he was positive it would be the last nail in the coffin
of Zenith’s free spirit. He’d lose all chances to bring her back to earth with him, to renew in her
all the wonder of being one-of-a-kind, instead of a clone of all the high-society posies that
preceded her. He couldn’t just sit there and let all that potential die.
The plan he’d concocted was very radical. It was one of those ideas that started small and
grew in momentum. He didn’t know if the situation warranted such a thing. His indecision
held him captive in the salon entry as the noon hour ended. He was trying to decide what to
do about his lovely Zenith.
Tiffany Laurel Dansereau happily flaunted her huge diamond and ruby engagement ring
that she’d received from Jeffrey Van Der Geld. It was much larger than Zenith’s, she pointed
out. And she happily told Zenith that she’d snagged the incomparable Terrence as her
caterer, whose dinners were considered the most incredible in the world. Zenith seethed.
She hoped Jacques pulled Tiffany’s curlers just a little too tight.
Zenith’s major coup was the exquisite wedding gown, a one of a kind confection made by
Beverly D’lang of Beverly Hills. The designer created only a few wedding dresses a year, and
Zenith was fortunate enough to snag one. To compliment the gown, she’d wear an antique
diamond choker dripping with cascades of small diamonds in a becoming floral and vine
pattern. She’d persuaded her great-aunt, Dutchess Lydia Somersbee Pearce to loan her the
priceless necklace and matching earrings. Listening to her former friend brag about her
‘wedding-of-the-century’, Zenith became determined that dear old Tiffany would not out-do
her, since their weddings would both fall on the same day.
She refused to remember the days before boarding school when she and Tiffany were best
friends. They’d conspired together against all the others, exulting in the childish pranks they’d
excelled at. When Zenith went off to boarding school the inevitable drift occurred, and upon
her return Tiffany couldn’t accept the new Zenith, all polished and elegant. Her former friend
turned on her, and Zenith still boiled at the betrayal.
She’d upstaged her by catching the most eligible prize on the bachelor market, her sweet
Chadwick, while Tiffany settled for the bespectacled Jeffrey, who admittedly was worth more
monetarily than Chadwick but was as dull as a dishrag.
Zenith pushed away the niggling thought that actually neither of them ended up with the
most desirable bachelor. That would be the very elusive Bradley Pearce, her cousin-by-
marriage who was also Grandpapa’s successor to running Somersbee’s. Incredibly handsome
and extremely wealthy, he could never be accused of boring any woman. But in Zenith’s mind
he was also infuriating, opinionated, inflexible and a reverse snob. He scoffed at upper
society and particularly at her. She tried not to think of Brad at all. As long as she
succeeded, her existence remained happily problem-free.
Except at the moment, due to old Tiff trying to upstage her wedding. Although her face was
plastered with a polite smile, Zenith seethed at the thought of Tiffany pulling off the event of
the year at her expense.
Tiffany’s long strawberry-blond hair was finally coiled in a multitude of fat rollers and a dryer
was plumped over her head. Zenith sighed in relief as Jacques ruffled his fingers through her
pale silken tresses, eyeing them critically.
“I see a riot of curls pinned up and spilling over, with a few tendrils left loose to frame your
lovely face,” Jacques told her. “All the other brides,” and he angled his head at Tiffany,
blithely reading a magazine while the dryer roared in her ears, “they stay with all the hair
pulled back and hidden under a dull veil, but not for you. Yours is too lovely to hide. No,” he
emphasized, his hands pulling and twisting her hair as he spoke. “We will show off your
beauty. We can add little crystals here and there, and a few strings of pearls hanging from
invisible threads, with a small tiara, no? It would be a shame to hide all this splendor under a
shabby veil.”
Zenith, suddenly seeing it all through his eyes, easily scrapped her idea of the matching veil
and nodded. She could envision it now, the crystals catching the light with cascading pearls
like lace encircling her hair. Just the thought of it intrigued her.
Jacques frowned as he let her hair down. Grasping an errant lock, he studied the tips
critically. “Your hair has become dry,” he told her. “The ends are brittle. If I do more than trim
the tips you will not have enough left to create the confection I see for you. I cannot have this
dull hair ruin it. No!” He threw his hands in the air. “This will not do! I will create for you a
rinse that will bring this dullness back to life.” He rushed off, scattering his employees in his
midst as he hurried towards the little room off the entrance where he hid all his secret potions.
Her eyes followed him then skittered to a stop when she saw her grandfather.
Her smile faded as he glared at her. She knew what he thought. Since his return two
weeks ago he’d gone out of his way to tell her that her upcoming nuptials were a sham, a
horrible mistake she’d live to regret. He wouldn’t stop; all her requests for him to do so fell on
deaf ears. She pretended to ignore him, but in reality his words stung. Of all her relatives,
she’d been the closest to her grandfather. But like Tiffany and Luna, her incorrigible sister,
he didn’t take well to the new Zenith when she’d returned from Europe three years ago.
She remembered her years in Europe. She’d been driven by her childish crush on an older
‘man’. Seeing him with a beautiful, elegant socialite, she’d been devastated, but had risen
from that pain determined to win him. If that meant becoming the perfect woman of society, so
be it. It was easy to give in to her parents’ pressures about boarding school, if it meant being
with Brad Pearce.
Her brain still ached over that fiasco. She’d been woefully unprepared for the clickish,
snobbish society at her new school. But finally, with much painstaking effort, she’d fit in. She
became just what Brad wanted: a cool classic dressed in designer clothes with never a hair
out of place. Yet on her return, he’d taken one look at her and made a mocking comment
about her now fitting the role of Princess rather well. He’d then turned away, into the arms of
another girl. Her dreams were crushed and in their place raged a bitter coolness that fed her
disdain for Brad Pearce.
She mentally shrugged her grandfather’s attitude off. She and Chadwick made a great
team. He adored her, pampered her and treated her like a goddess, and she loved it. She
found him extremely attractive and very comfortable to be with. There were no surprises or
confrontations with Chadwick. She liked that about their relationship.
She glanced back at her grandfather, but he’d disappeared. She breathed a sigh of relief; his
disapproval made her feel very uncomfortable.
Chauncy watched Jacques as he prepared an herbal rinse for Zenith’s hair. “Are you
excited about the wedding, Lord Somersbee?” Jacques asked him in his usual flamboyant
manner. He flinched at the sound of his title. Although few people called him ‘Lord’, Jacques
always used formal titles wherever possible. It was very pompous, and Chauncy didn’t like
pomposity. He didn’t answer the man; he let him prattle on.
Most days Chauncy didn’t even consider the fact that his empire was so vast. In addition to
the department stores, hotels and resorts, they’d launched a cosmetics company, restaurants
and a popular linen line. His much-younger sister, Lydia, ran an exclusive boutique adjacent
to their exclusive Nob Hill hotel. Their headquarters remained the same: an unassuming
building right next to their crown jewel, Somersbee’s Department Store, where Zenith now sat,
waiting patiently for her miracle hair rinse.
Jacques wandered off to check on Tiffany, and Chauncy eyed the hairdresser’s concoction
with a gleam in his eyes. His bushy eyebrows framed a frown as he stared at the mixture and
fingered the little bottle in his pocket. He’d been assured it was harmless. Now that the
moment had arrived, should he do it?
He’d tried talking to her, he reminded himself, but she wouldn’t listen. She’d left him no
choice but to resort to subterfuge. He eyed Jacque’s mixture again. His goal of delaying the
wedding until Zenith came to her senses was within his reach. What were his other options?
The sudden image of tiny Chadwicks running around calling him ‘Grandfather’ instead of
the ‘Grandpa’ he preferred sent a shudder through him. He pulled the bottle out and
unstopped the lid. Glancing around to assure nobody watched him, Chauncy poured the
contents into Zenith’s hair rinse and stirred it in.
The warm water felt exquisite against Zenith’s skin as she leaned back in the salon chair.
One of Jacques’ assistants rinsed the gray-green herbal gook from her hair. Her scalp tingled
and the fingers massaging her head soothed her....
The fingers suddenly stopped, then rubbed harder, then stopped again. The hands left her
head; she felt a strand of her hair being grabbed, then Jacques being called in a frantic voice.
Her eyes flew open and she saw with surprise that Jacques gawked at her with an
expression that could only be described as sheer, complete shock. He gripped the assistant’s
arms and in a strangled voice told her, Call Mr. Pearce. Now.”
“Mr. Pearce?” The assistant began to shake; the thought of making an emergency phone
call to the CEO of Somersbee’s must have petrified her.
Jacques glared at her. “Yes, Mr. Pearce. Now.” The assistant scurried off as Jacques
studied Zenith a moment longer. She stared back, uncomprehending. She sat up, her
dripping hair falling in her face, and with sudden, horrifying clarity she understood all the
calamity.
Her hair was blue. A brilliant cobalt blue. She gasped in disbelief, grabbing more and more
of her previously platinum locks as panic set in and a wail escaped her lips.
“Mr. Pearce, you’re needed in the salon.”
Brad Pearce glared at the intercom, irritated by the interruption. He was preparing for the
board meeting that would occur tomorrow without fail, whether he was ready or not. Stacks of
files sat on his massive mahogany desk as he pulled figures from them, organizing them
carefully for his report. Usually he could relegate something like this to one of his assistants,
but the material contained sensitive information, and Uncle Chauncy had asked him to handle
it himself.
He pressed the button. “Send Riley, will you?” Riley ,his personal assistant, could handle
any catastrophe.
“Mr. Pearce, Jacques requested that you and you alone handle this. It has to do with Zenith
Somersbee.”
Zenith. The name conjured up the image of a beautiful blond girl, laughing up at him as
they ran across the beach at one of the family get-togethers. Her cherry lips curved into a
happy grin as she’d grasped his hand and braved the huge waves with him. He’d been twenty
at the time, and she a mere fifteen, but for some reason that happy moment out of time stayed
with him.
He forced himself to remember Zenith as she was now: a snobby blueblood who looked
down her elegant nose at poor common-place Bradley Pearce, who’d only joined her family as
a teenager when his father married her great-aunt Lydia. Her childhood laughter was now
replaced with a polite half-smile before she would turn away from him in obvious
dismissal.
No, he definitely didn’t make Zenith’s need-to-know list. He was glad about that, too. Very
glad. He didn’t want any ritzy beauties fouling up his life. No, he was quite content with his
single lifestyle; he dated casually when time allowed and when no strings were attached.
“Ms. Reynolds, just send Riley. He’ll do fine.” He turned back to his computer, dismissing
the incident out of his mind.
A minute passed before his intercom sounded again. “Riley isn’t in the building, sir.”
Damn. Brad sighed and leaned away from his desk in resignation. Despite his dislike for
the elegant Miss Somersbee, Uncle Chauncy loved her. Why, he couldn’t understand. But his
uncle meant the world to Brad, so he pushed away from his desk and strode purposely
towards the door. He would go next door to the store’s salon, handle this latest crisis, then get
back to the strange report his uncle demanded.
The hair was only getting worse. Jacques first tried shampoo, but it merely deepened the
color, making it glow with evil intent. He tried another rinse; it too failed miserably. Now he
was talking about coloring it or stripping it, but since he didn’t know what caused that hideous
blue to show up in the first place, he couldn’t guarantee that his suggestions would solve the
problem. And worse still, Tiffany witnessed all of this, and if her cackles of glee were anything
to judge by, she thoroughly enjoyed Zenith’s predicament.
Her grandfather was there as well, and he commiserated somberly with her as he listened to
Jacques’ ideas. But she could swear she saw his lips twitch once or twice....
She thought despairingly of her wedding, only a few weeks away. Her panic grew as she
tried to conceive of covering up this cobalt hair. She couldn’t have the wedding ruined, not by
this!
Each time she conjured up an image of her strolling down the aisle sporting a brilliant blue
coiffure, she became more hysterical, snapping at Jacques. The wretched man became
frantic. He gently dried her hair with a thick white towel and wrapped her head with it, hiding
the offending mass from view.
“No, don’t cover it up,” a voice protested. “I think it matches her blue blood very well.”
She recognized that tone, and a shiver of awareness traveled up her spine. Brad Pearce.
Terrific. Just what she needed. She gritted her teeth, then unclenched her jaw. She wouldn’t
let him see that he got to her. She twisted her grandmother’s ring on the third finger of her
right hand. It was a calming reflex, one she resorted to frequently whenever she crossed
paths with Brad.
She steeled herself as always against her first glimpse of him. She’d perfected her persona
for when Brad Pearce was around. Nobody would know that each time she saw him her heart
stopped, her pulse exploded and her knees turned to mush. Nobody could tell that her mouth
felt like sawdust and her palms were slick with sweat. No, all anyone saw was the cool
collected facade she held in place. It would never do for him to know that he affected her.
She found it unthinkable that he’d ever know he’d broken her heart.
She turned toward him, pretending to not see the raw humor on his face. “Brad, what
brings you here?” she asked coolly. She remembered clearly Jacques requesting his
presence, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that each time his name was
mentioned her ears pricked up.
She could never pinpoint what made her feel so unsettled around him. He was wildly
handsome, she’d give him that. His Croatian mother gave him the dazzling dark eyes, the
sleek black hair and the slanting eyebrows, all emphasized by his deeply tanned complexion.
The six foot two physique, the straight nose and strong jaw were definitely his father’s. The
slender upper lip, with the slightly fuller bottom lip that invited someone to taste it, that was all
Brad. Tall and lean, with muscles that couldn’t be hidden by his corporate uniform of suit and
tie, he could make any woman’s heart skip a beat.
If Jacques or anyone else felt surprised at Zenith’s transition from angry shrew to cool
socialite, they kept their shock to themselves. Brad, however, watched the change with great
satisfaction, having been a silent witness to the scene for the last couple of minutes. It
cheered him that he still could affect her.
He’d known her for half his life, since his widowed father had married her grandfather’s
much younger sister. Although most of the Somersbees shunned the darkly different
teenager, Zenith and her grandfather were very open and welcoming. It was those memories
that made him regret Zenith’s transformation over the years into an uptight woman of culture.
Right now Brad liked the fact the old Zenith wasn’t here. He loved trying to crack her cool
mask; the rare occasions when he succeeded left a smile on his lips all day long. This
situation promised a grin that would last a week.
Zenith was appealing in her own way, but not the kind of woman for him. She was too
stuffy, rarely smiling, never doing anything impulsive or spur of the moment. He couldn’t
remember the last time he’d heard her laugh. Besides, he wasn’t interested in a woman with
permanence in her eyes. Brad believed in commitment, but not one involving a wedding ring.
He remembered his father’s second marriage, a brief disaster that had taught him the
pitfalls of ‘wedded bliss’. The fact that his dad enjoyed an incredible third marriage with Lydia
didn’t lessen his belief that marriage was a fragile institute at best, and that it should be
carefully approached. He firmly believed in the benefits of trial marriages.
Zenith twisted in her seat, talking to Jacques in soft tones. The simple move thrust her
round breasts against the light cotton sundress she wore, enhancing their delectable curves.
Brad cursed himself silently, irritated that she could arouse his male senses so easily.
He smiled in amusement at the stray wisps of blue hair that peeked out from under the towel
as he responded to her question. “I’m here because Jacques had someone call me
concerning an emergency down here. I rushed over and what do I find? No crisis, but a pretty
princess trying to make a new fashion statement!” His grin was mocking; he could tell from the
color that rose in her cheeks that his taunting didn’t amuse her. “I don’t think that Chadwick
will approve, though. It’ll shake up his rather boring existence.”
Zenith ignored his dig at her fiancé’s expense. “Your establishment here has ruined my
hair!” she informed him, her voice barbed with anger. “Jacques doesn’t know what caused it,
so he doesn’t know how to fix it. I’m stuck with blue hair!”
Her tones grew sharper as she continued. “I have a gown fitting this afternoon! My
wedding is less than a month away, and it’s going to be ruined!”
The thought of walking down the aisle with tresses the color of a tasteless bridesmaid dress
caused her to nearly screech the last few words. To emphasize her point, she pulled a chunk
of hair out from under the towel and yanked it down in front of her face.
It might be her imagination but... She stared at it intently. It didn’t seem to be as bright, and
– her eyes widened at the sight – the tips were now blond!
“Jacques!” she shrieked, forgetting about her determination to hide her emotions. “Look! It’
s fading!”
The hairdresser frowned in concentration at the hair she clutched in her hand. “You’re
right! It’s lighter now!” He whipped the towel off her head, grasping a strand here and there,
dropping one to snatch at another.
Brad leaned forward. The strong cobalt blue appeared much softer now. The dry tips were
actually their natural color. Inspiration hit him, and pulling a blow dryer from its nearby perch,
he picked up a lock of the offending hair and blew some warm air over it.
The result was miraculous. As the hair dried the color disappeared. Jacques and Chauncy
watched, transfixed. When the color returned to a shimmering soft blond, Jacques let out an
uncharacteristic whoop, while Chauncy looked puzzled.
Grinning, Brad handed the blow dryer to the exuberant hairdresser. “Problem solved.” His
smile jubilant, he leaned down towards Zenith. “Thanks for the entertainment, Princess.” At
her burning scowl of dislike, he laughed, then sauntered out of the salon.
Zenith watched him walk away, ignoring the pull at her senses caused by his slim hips and
perfectly shaped buttocks. Bradley Pearce was the most infuriating man! Yet her anger
faded to longing as she watched his perfect backside retreat. Remembering herself, she
schooled her face into the perfect vision of a lady of high society.
Chauncy observed his granddaughter’s internal battle with deep interest. A sudden
thought occurred to him. With growing fascination his gaze flitted from Zenith to Brad’s
retreating form. Could it be? As Zenith’s eyes glanced once more in Brad’s direction,
Chauncy chortled in delight. His grandchild stared at him, startled by his outburst.
He smiled reassuringly at her. His grin tweaked his neatly trimmed beard; he bounced on
his heels as he thought of all the possibilities. Winking at Zenith, he walked jauntily out of the
salon, leaving a very confused bride-to-be in his wake.
Taylor Pearce, very intense for his thirteen years, didn’t look up when the tiny bottle
appeared next to his microscope. “Did it work?”
“It worked,” his great-uncle told him, “but it didn’t last. You didn’t tell me it only lasts a few
minutes.”
Taylor pulled out the slide and replaced it with another one. Chauncy couldn't understand
why studying pond water could be so fascinating. “It only works when the conditions are right.
The chemicals check for pH balance, Uncle Chauncy.”
The old man growled in frustration. “And what are the right conditions?” He glared at the
teenager, but Taylor was oblivious to it.
‘Oh,” Taylor replied absently, pushing his wire-framed glasses back up his nose. “Brackish
water, like this pond water; dirty water, shampoo. It’ll take a couple of weeks to fully dissipate.
Hair is fairly porous, you know.”
The first-born grandchild of Chauncy’s sister, Lydia, by her oldest stepson, Dean, Taylor
could easily be labeled a genius. He was extremely coddled by his overindulgent
grandmother, as evidenced by the elaborate lab she’d set up for him in her basement. Messy
and rather welcoming, it felt quite different from the opulent roots that Chauncy and Lydia had
grown up in.
His father before him had loved pretension, but Chauncy endeavored to take after his
grandfather, in his work ethics at least. The old rogue was the one who brought the
Somersbee stores to America. He’d been bounced out of London society after a scandalous
affair with the wife of a prominent Member of Parliament. Taking up residence in San
Francisco, he’d started a branch of the prestigious family business. He’d worked hard over
the years, building his empire, surviving the Great Earthquake and becoming one of the
prominent figures in American business. He’d even managed to purchase his small empire
from his family, formally severing ties from Great Britain.
Chauncy’s father didn’t take well to hard work, so Chauncy had taken over the empire at his
grandfather’s death. He’d thrived on it, expanding the upscale department store empire into
what it was now. An empire that his family, and in particular his granddaughter, took little
interest in.
Chauncy frowned at the back of his nephew’s head. “Now how is that supposed to stop her
wedding?”
Taylor’s gaze whipped up to him. “Is that what you want to do?” His eyes grew large
behind the glasses perched on his nose. “You didn’t say that!”
Chauncy rifled through the various vials that littered the young boy’s lab. He wanted to stop
her marriage at all costs. He knew deep in his bones it wasn’t right. He’d do whatever it took,
even if it meant making his granddaughter afraid to look in the mirror for a while. The hair
should have worked. What bride would want to walk down the aisle with blue hair?
“What else in here would do the trick?”
Reaching over, Taylor took a bottle from his uncle. “Please don’t do that.” His words were
ignored as Chauncy held a container of tiny crystals up to the light.
“What does this do?”
Taylor grasped the container and replaced it on the desk. “That is sodium chloride. I don’t
think you can stop the wedding by overdosing her with salt.” He sighed in annoyance when
another vial was grabbed and studied. “Uncle Chauncy, I’ll find you something, if you quit
touching my stuff!”
Looking through a nearby cabinet Taylor removed a small bottle of clear liquid. He tossed it
to his great-uncle. “Here you go. You need to put it in an acidic drink, like lemonade, so it
won’t show. It will soak into any skin it touches, like her lips and tongue. When she eats
anything starchy, it will change color.” He raised his eyebrows.
“Will that work better?”
The old man looked at it dubiously. “Will it hurt her?”
Taylor scoffed. “Of course not. It just detects starch. It’ll disappear after a few minutes, but
every time she eats-” He grinned up at his uncle. “It should get her to postpone the wedding,
at least.”
Chauncy chuckled as he pocketed the vial. “That’s the goal, my boy.” His smile widened as
he thought of a new objective after the wedding was called off. He’d find his granddaughter
someone who would bring out the real Zenith. And after this afternoon, he felt fairly certain he
knew who that should be.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Zenith loved the exclusive neighborhood of Cow Hollow, an elite residential area in San
Francisco. Close to the Bay, Golden Gate Park and the family’s hotel and department store, it
was ideal for her. Zenith had purchased her condo when she’d returned to San Francisco
after earning her fine arts degree.
As the doorman opened the door for her with a cheery greeting, she gave her usual half-
smile and breezed inside.
The rich ceramic and marble tiles of the grand lobby spoke of long-treasured elegance.
She rode the elevator up to the top floor in soothing solitude. Her pale blond hair was styled
into an elegant twist and held with a beautiful ebony clip. Jacques had given her the clip and
the hew hairstyle. He’d felt so guilty, as he rightly should be. Her idyllic day of wedding
preparations had come crashing to a jarring halt.
The gown fitting was scheduled for two hours from now. She’d planned on working with
Jacques on her hairstyle and make-up, but rescheduled it for later that week. After the
horrifying sight of her head covered in masses of bright blue locks that reminded her of those
cheap troll dolls, Zenith craved an hour or two alone to regain her composure. She needed to
get over being such a wreck in front of Brad Pearce.
Fitting her key in the lock of her top-floor condo, Zenith tossed her purse negligently on the
beautiful Italian marble entry table, then kicked her shoes off under it. A smile of expectation
lit her delicate features as she called out, “Buffy! Sweetie, where are you?”
A click of minute nails on the cool marble floor greeted her as she knelt down. The tiny ball
of snow-white fur launched at her in a flurry of tongue and small yips of excitement. Laughing,
Zenith tried to capture the little dog but Buffy played keep-away like a master, jumping just out
of her reach, then zooming in to plant another kiss on her outstretched fingers.
Finally managing to capture her elusive pet, Zenith stood up with the dog in her arms. Her
dark eyes glowing, Buffy’s canine face grinned in ecstasy. She was a picture-perfect addition
to any socialite’s home. Just under four pounds, she consisted of tiny little feet and huge
mounds of pristine white fur, framing her fox-like Pomeranian features.
Because Zenith didn’t tolerate obnoxious pets, she’d trained Buffy not to jump up on
people, bark or beg for food. She did, however, love to be carried and insisted on riding on a
pillow in Zenith’s car. She traveled extensively with her owner, and when she couldn’t do it
herself, Zenith employed a dog walking service to stop by and tend to Buffy. In either
instance, Buffy was well behaved and obedient, the ideal pet.
For some unfathomable reason, Buffy had only one real fault. She adored Brad. Most men
she patently ignored but with Brad she would execute the perfect puppy dance. She never
played keep-away, instead showering him with kisses. The normally collected man accepted
these with great dignity. Although he teased Zenith about a great many things in her life, he
never made fun of Buffy.
Hugging the little canine, Zenith plopped down on her overstuffed butter yellow leather sofa
and curled into the huge cream velvet appliqued pillow. Just coming home calmed her. She
considered this place her haven.
She’d decorated the entire condo in soft soothing colors. The living room was painted a
pale green that complimented the original oak trim perfectly. The marble tile of the entryway
gave way to an ornate oak floor that was decorated with a beautiful inlaid rose design. Zenith
would sometimes sit on the floor and trace the swirling vines as her thoughts wandered.
The rest of the apartment was just as soft and soothing. The master bathroom boasted the
wonderful scrolled original Italian tiles of soft cream and white. She’d installed a huge Jacuzzi
tub that perched at the top of three marble steps. It was large enough for three, and Zenith
loved to soak in its vast dimensions, while the jets massaged her and mounds of scented
bubbles tickled her nose.
Sometimes it bothered her that she enjoyed this all alone, but she and Chadwick both
wanted to wait until after the wedding before making love. He rarely touched her; his signs of
affection were limited to hello and goodbye kisses. Even after the wedding, she couldn’t see
him enjoying bubbles and glowing candles. He didn’t strike her as the bubble bath type.
Her bedroom was where Zenith’s taste excelled. A large throw rug tossed over the wooden
floor felt luxurious beneath her bare feet on those cool rainy mornings. She’d painted the walls
herself, using as inspiration the lovely comforter that graced her bed. The flowered vines
wandered across the walls, embellished with her own touches of creativity hidden in the
design.
The large four poster bed took center stage, with yards and yards of translucent white
gauze cascading down to pillow on the floor. The bed was covered in fat pillows; in childish
moments, Zenith would run across the room and land in them, giggling as Buffy joined her in
her play. Zenith loved being feminine in this room. It differed vastly from how others viewed
her.
Most people saw only what she wanted them to see: a cool, calm, organized socialite who
happily walked hand in hand with the rich, famous and elite. She spent her days serving on
local charities, attending plays, operas and fancy parties. She was a favored member of the
jet set, a preferred tennis partner and on the A list for any event. Anyone gazing into her life
would view her with envy.
Except she had no purpose. Her world felt empty, void of any real depth. Where was the
reason to wake up every morning? When she came home at night, after the parties or charity
balls or celebrity tennis tournaments, who waited for her?
She needed to fill that vacuum. She craved to be desired for something other than her
family connections. She was ready to take a radical step to fill those needs, to bring purpose
and fulfillment into her life.
This was why she’d said yes to Chadwick. Both families were friends for decades; she and
Chadwick were practically raised together. There’d be no surprises, no harsh realities
creeping in, no ‘getting-to-know-you’ period that could jar them apart. No, she understood him
and could be content with him. She knew they didn’t share any great passion, but passions
could fade over time and become blase. They based their relationship on something more:
compatibility and mutual respect.
Together they’d drive away the loneliness they both abhorred. They’d build a good life
together, one that would give them both a good solid foundation and fulfill their dreams.
She sighed into Buffy’s fur. She didn’t feel very fulfilled today; she felt humiliated and all
alone. She didn’t think she could ever show her face again in the salon. She just knew that
everyone had been tittering at her behind her back. And Brad’s mocking behavior was the
worst. What a louse.
At least Chadwick didn’t behave like him, she mused. He was complimentary and doting
and never demanding. She didn’t have to worry about going through bouts of anger with him.
There were no teasing moments, surges of adrenaline or saucy looks that threatened to break
through her cool composure. Yes, Chadwick was safe, secure and comfortable.
And boring.
Shocked, Zenith wondered where those words came from. She then remembered Brad
mocking Chadwick at the salon. No, she denied to herself, Chadwick didn’t bore her. He just
liked to be where he felt comfortable. If that meant going to the opera instead of a music
festival, or enjoying a night at a play instead of browsing through an antique store, well, she
couldn’t blame him. In fact, she admired him for knowing what he liked. She mentally chewed
Brad out for putting such traitorous thoughts into her mind.
The doorbell rang, pulling Zenith from her thoughts. Standing up with Buffy in her arms,
she padded to the door and peeked through the eyehole. A deliveryman stood there, his
arms full of a large bouquet covered in layers of green tissue paper. Green stems were
visible through a frosted white glass vase. Chadwick must have sent her flowers.
Laughing in delight, she pulled the door open. She truly needed this kind of pick-me-up
right now. The tissue obscured the blooms, but a delicate scent wafted to her. “Oh, they
smell wonderful,” she bubbled as she signed the clipboard. She took the bouquet from him
and gave him a smile of thanks along with a ten-dollar tip.
The youth took the money with a slight sneer. His eyes traveled up and down her form as if
he could see through her modest attire. “Funny, but you don’t look the type.” With a shrug
he sauntered away.
Zenith stared after him, unable to understand his strange behavior. Finally deciding that it
didn’t matter, she fumbled with the door while controlling the bouquet and Buffy, now reduced
to clinging to the crook of her arm.
She sat the bouquet on her glass and metal coffee table, placing Buffy on the floor beside
her. A card was pinned onto the tissue. She ignored it for now; she knew who they were from.
With a surge of anticipation, she grasped the delicate tissue with both hands and tore it away.
Her look of delight faded into shock as she stared at the atrocity before her.
Instead of a bouquet of her favorite flowers, she looked at a garish arrangement of small
packets. In a variety of brightly colored foil, the packets were arranged in the shape of roses
and hooked onto green wire stems. The stems’ leaves were different colored containers of
liquid. She reached out and plucked one of the ‘flower petals’ with trepidation.
She stared in horror at the packet. It was a...condom! A condom that bragged about
sensitivity ridges. She dropped it in disgust. Each condom was a bit different, she
discovered. Some were lubricated, some were powdered, and some glowed in the dark. She
shuddered in distaste. The leaves turned out to be lubricants of various flavors including
chocolate, raspberry and even pina colada. Why would anyone care what flavor it was? As
one reason invaded her thoughts, she moaned in dismay.
Chadwick couldn’t have sent this, she reasoned in her panic. Someone must be playing a
horrid joke! Kneeling down on the floor, she dug through the tissue until she found the card.
She sat back on her bottom as she fumbled with the envelope.
Pulling the card out, she stared at it in stunned horror.
The typewritten note read, Darling, I think it’s time we took this to a new level. I know you’re
shy, but I want you to see how fun sex can be. Just surprise me with one of the ‘blooms’ when
you’re ready.
It was signed, Love, Chadwick.
Zenith stared at the card for several minutes, unable to reconcile this offering with the man
she planned to marry. But there was no mistake. She recognized his flowery signature.
Chadwick, her safe, comfortable fiancé, whom she’d counted on to create a future together,
was a sexual deviant!
