'Til Dragons Do Us Part (Never Deal with Dragons) (9 page)

I looked at Cameron, still sporting the tuxedo, a crimson handkerchief in the lapel pocket. “So you’re in the wedding, huh?”

“Yep. Trian roped me into it. We’re friends from a ways back. Through high school...well, let’s just say we were both a little different, and we managed to get into more trouble than your average kids.”

I studied his face. While he had to know I was looking, he kept his eyes on the rest of the wedding party. He’d said both he and Trian were a little different. Trian’s version of “different” wasn’t too hard to guess, but Cameron seemed completely normal.

Okay, if I were honest, I’d been curious about his background for some time now. There was something about him that intrigued me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. It wasn’t just that he was drop-dead gorgeous. He was reserved, yes, but I’d known private people—heck I was one of those private people—and never felt the urge to peel away a couple of layers to find out what was under the calm, cool exterior they presented to the world. As odd as it felt, I’d just about decided I was simply attracted to him.

Not only his looks, but the whole package.

And I didn’t really know what to do about it. I imagine most people would strike up a flirtation. But it wasn’t often that I flirted. Even if I ignored the fact that I was rarely in one city under my own name long enough to meet a guy, the idea of dating seemed a little pointless.

Simon was basically the only person—other than Emma, who had grown up with a dragon ferrying her from country to country every time daddy got a new job—that handled my dragon morph secret without completely freaking out. Even Jeanie got a little jumpy when I combined the scales with a good temper tantrum. But not Simon. I guess it’s hard to be afraid of someone—even if they turn into a dragon—when you’ve seen them smash their face into the ground while trying to learn to ride a bike.

In all honesty, I was completely freaked out the first time I’d started to shift. Not because I thought I was going to develop a craving for deep-fried femur, but because I thought I was dying of an unknown disease.

I’d been fourteen, and Simon and I were building tents near the pond behind our school. I’d lain down to take a nap in the sun, and was drifting to sleep when a jackrabbit leapt out from behind a tuft of dried grass less than a foot from my head. I’d screamed, and pulled my arms up to protect myself from the as-yet-unidentified threat, only to notice that my hand had morphed into the clawed paw of a monster. The additional adrenaline in my system helped complete the process, and soon I was roaring instead of screaming.

Simon, God bless him, had arrived before I’d fully morphed, and was able to connect the dots a lot faster than me. He’d calmed me down and waited until I’d figured out how to morph back to my human form before offering his shirt and taking me home.

For the remainder of my teenage years, I struggled to come to terms with being a dragon morph. It had never entered my head that I could expect someone else—Simon excepted—to handle the truth of what I was.

But then I hit my early twenties, and I met a guy. He was sweet, he was funny, and I thought I loved him. So one day, I drummed up the courage to sit down and tell him what I was really doing when I disappeared to “flight school.”

He’d had the typical “oh, my God, it’s a giant lizard” response shared by most humans when in the presence of dragons. He acted as if the instant I’d morphed, I’d ceased being myself, and he was in dire danger of being swallowed whole. Needless to say, the response hadn’t done our relationship any favors. We parted ways less than a month later. Thinking I’d have better luck dating a dragon, I tried it, but realized all my years of being simply human had made it impossible for me to relate to a person who’d been a dragon since birth, and had none of my shared experiences.

Since then, my dating life had been non-existent. So I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that my palms were sweating, and my mind—which could usually work fast enough to pull a con on just about anyone—was blank.

“Would you like to get a drink? I mean with me, sometime?”

Cameron’s eyes zeroed in on mine. I took another sip of champagne to hide my nerves, realizing that I had to focus to keep my hands from trembling. Ironic that I had no trouble when picking locks or navigating pressure sensors, but waiting on his answer had me shaking in my shoes.

“I’d like that.” He smiled, and breath left my lungs in relief. I was twenty-four years old, and I’d just asked out my first boy.

Chapter Nine

We didn’t get much time to talk after that, because Amanda decided I should be earning my paycheck and assigned me to translate for Isiwyth and Doeho during their fittings. The dragons were good sports, and did their best to look un-intimidating for the sake of the rest of Bridal Visions’ staff. It wasn’t long until Glenda and April had Isiwyth draped in her “hood,” a cape of sorts fashioned to lie between her wings and across her shoulders, the ends of the fabric skimming the ground. Held together at the base of her neck with a pearl clasp, the cloak was surprisingly attractive, and I made a mental note to look into something similar for when I was in dragon form and feeling fancy.

Doeho had also been outfitted in crimson fabric, but his had been twisted into a cravat and hung jauntily around his neck with the ends left to lie against his wide chest. I had to admit, the color looked quite dashing against his silver scales.

As most of the wedding party continued to visit, Cameron stayed at my side, sharing details about Myrna’s friends. While I’d like to think it was my sparkling personality that kept me close, the way Cameron kept his eyes on Glenda’s camera, I had a feeling my casual clothing was being used as a shield.

But I changed my mind when I felt the warm heat of his hand as he draped it loosely at my side, his long fingers moving restlessly against the skin peeping out from under my shirt at the waist.

Myrna moved effortlessly between dragons and humans, making this assembly feel completely natural. It was the first time I admitted to myself that maybe she was right. Maybe this wedding
would
be the first step in bringing humans and dragons closer together.

Eventually, the fittings were complete. The dragons regretfully took their leave and then, with a massive gust of air, lifted themselves into the sky. I watched them make a couple of lazy circles to test the wind speed before straightening to head west, just ahead of the sun. I yearned to join them, and made myself a promise to find some alone time soon for a little aerial exercise.

Sara, Myrna and Carol made their way to the fitting rooms, and Glenda followed them, leaving Amanda and April with me and Cameron.

I looked to Amanda. “Well, I think it’s time for me to head home.”

Cameron looked up. “Do you want me to help you unload the china?”

“Nope. I’ll take care of that later. Did you need to go get changed?” I put my hand on his arm to guide him toward the dressing room before Amanda could—

“Unload what china?”

I mentally berated myself for coming up with such a stupid plan. Those dishes were quickly becoming the bane of my existence. “It’s nothing. I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

I ignored questioning looks from both Amanda and Cameron and headed down the hall, sighing when I heard the tap tap of Amanda’s shoes as she followed. But she didn’t ask about the dishes. Instead, she walked to her desk, picked up a thick manila folder, and handed it to me.

“Myrna’s file. Tomorrow, I need you to contact our vendors, both the supplies and service providers, and confirm the venue change. The bride’s menu choices are in here, and I need you to explain the specific serving schedule we require to accommodate both the dragon and human guests. Rehearsal dinner reminders should be mailed tomorrow, and I want you to put together a sample of what the reception tables and dragon perches will look like in the florist room. We have enough stems to create one of the floral centerpieces, as well as sample linens for the tablecloth and chair coverings. Photos of the individual designs are in here. A photographer from CreaTV is stopping by at three o’clock tomorrow, to shoot for a magazine spread. And speaking of china, I’ll call ahead to Relobu’s mansion and tell them you’ll be picking up ten presidential place settings for the photos.”

“No need.” The last thing I needed was for Amanda to request plates that I’d already picked up. “I’ll call them first thing tomorrow.”

Amanda didn’t thank me. In fact, she didn’t acknowledge me at all. She simply sniffed at my clothing, grabbed her purse, and waltzed toward the front door to see Myrna and her friends out.

I stood, staring after her, hoping that the list of things for me to do by three tomorrow would be included in the folder I was holding. I opened it. Nope. No list.

Cameron found me scribbling Amanda’s instructions into yet another notebook—the first had long since been filled—to have our to-do list ready for what was shaping up to be a very long day tomorrow.

Especially since it sounded like I was expected to do some actual arts and crafts in preparation for the photo spread.

“Do you mind waiting ten minutes or so before we leave? I’m sending Henry to make sure Glenda gets home safe. My other guard just left with Amanda, so I need to stick around until someone on staff can get here to take April.”

“No problem. I need to make a quick phone call.”

He nodded and headed down to the bakery showroom to speak with April. I waited until he was out of earshot before picking up the phone to call Simon.

In fact, I was a little surprised Simon hadn’t already tried to reach me. He should have retrieved my note by now, and was more than likely a quivering mass of frustration. With Cameron waiting for me, I hadn’t written much beyond “no painting, sham in place” before shoving it in the truck’s glove compartment, and Simon was kind of a detail freak. He’d likely be halfway to a heart attack thinking about Jeanie’s canvas hanging on the wall and not having any idea where the original was stashed.

I frowned when the call rang out at his home. Because I was only half joking about Simon giving himself a heart attack with worry, I paused only a second before calling the family “carpet store”—a sham business line Jeanie had set up to allow Simon or me to call if we were ever in a position in which we needed help but didn’t have the luxury to speak freely. But, like their home phone, the call wasn’t answered.

Simon, like me, carried an emergency sat-phone that he only powered on in dire emergencies in order to save on the number of times we had to replace the circuit board. I debated calling from it to see if it would ring, but I could hear Cameron and April just down the hall, and I didn’t want to risk them walking in while I was taking notes on what Simon needed me to do to help him out. The last time he used the sat phone, it involved me flying a welding machine onto the top of a forty-story building in Frankfurt. I wasn’t sure I could explain a list like that, even with Amanda’s track record of strange requests.

I decided to wait until I’d gone home to try and reach him.

That decision proved to be a good one, because it was barely thirty seconds before Cameron returned with news that April’s ride had arrived, and he was ready to walk me out to the car. Reluctantly shelving my business with Simon, I gave him a smile and grabbed my purse.

* * *

The next morning found me sitting cross-legged on the floor, covered in crumpled napkins, with tears threatening to spill from my eyes. I, Savannah Cavenaugh, master of all things security, queen of the blackmarket skies, and owner of Emma’s only gifted “Greatest Auntie” T-shirt, had officially admitted defeat.

In only a few hours, Amanda would be back to the office, magazine photographer in tow, ready to wow all future Bridal Visions customers with the elaborate but tasteful table settings created for the Banks/Chobardan wedding. Even the British Royal family hadn’t received this much press. But at the rate I was going, Myrna’s wedding looked more like a crime scene than the most anticipated event since...well, ever.

The dragon seating area had been a cinch, probably because there wasn’t much to it. Slender but sturdy wooden posts stained a gorgeous dark chestnut had been mounted about six inches above the floor on the fanciest foundation blocks I had ever seen. Each block had Trian and Myrna’s initials carved into the square chunks of wood in both dragonscript and English. The letters had then been painted the dark crimson and purple colors of the wedding and outlined in gold. Though Relobu’s livestock barns would be the dragons’ primary dining location, Myrna had insisted her dragon guests be provided snacks during the reception to forgo any unnecessary crankiness on the part of the reptiles during the traditional cake cutting and toasts.

For this purpose, a deceptively heavy pub table had been placed in front of each perch, designed to hold a bowl for drinking and a plate for the snack. Because dragons almost never ate at a table, much less adhered to any collection of table manners I’d ever seen, I agreed with Myrna on the decision to leave the table silverware-free.

I’d started with the dragon seating, because it had been no problem to toss a tablecloth over the surface of the tables and set the dishes according to the diagrams in Amanda’s files. I’d turned to the human tables with a smile, confident that this design thing wasn’t nearly as difficult as Amanda’s instructions had made me believe. The table setting had been a little confusing at first, but after much squinting and comparison with the chart provided, I was able to make sure all the forks, spoons and wine glasses were in their appropriate positions, with Relobu’s eagle-branded chinaware collection proudly displayed.

The flower arrangements were a bit trickier. I’d wrestled with the stems as I tried to fit them into the small vase opening while at the same time creating the bushy explosions of color shown in Amanda’s photo. Half of them were bent or broken and no matter what I did, there was always at least one bud that sat at an odd angle.

Finally, frustrated beyond belief, I snipped the offending flower from its stem, and pushed it into one of the empty spaces. I stepped back, surprised that it actually looked okay. From that point on, I decapitated flowers at random and stuffed them into the bouquets as needed. And if the sad little rosebuds wilted faster than their stemmed neighbors, who really cared? As long as they made it through the photo session, it would be fine.

I hoped.

But all my good cheer and excellent problem-solving skills didn’t help a lick when it came to the chairs. Amanda had decided on an intricate flower and ribbon concoction that wrapped around the back of each seat. In the file photo, the final design looked a bit like a woman’s corset ties.

The ribbon, a bright, bold red, was to be wrapped around the chair with the ends left to flutter near the floor, and purple wisteria sprigs were supposed to be tucked into the areas where the ribbon crossed in the back. On the surface, it seemed quite simple...until I tried to copy it. On my first try, my wraps were evenly spaced vertically, but not horizontally. On my second, the reverse was true. Finally, I’d managed to get the ribbon properly centered and the wisteria hanging in the correct place, only to realize that the ribbon I’d used had a large black stain on one end. At that point I’d used my entire quarterly allowance of curse words and kicked the chair, knocking it into the table and jolting several of my jury rigged flowers out of their bouquet.

I winced as one of the wine glasses hit the floor with a loud crash.

April, who was working in the bakery showroom down the hall, stuck her head through the door nervously.

“Everything okay in here?” I watched as she tried to mask her horror at the mess I’d made.

“Yeah. I think so. I’m having a bit of trouble with this chair.” I picked it up from the floor, frowning at the bit of wisteria hanging drunkenly from the slats.

April came to my side and peered down at Amanda’s photo. “Oh, this is beautiful!” Scanning the floor, she grabbed a bare chair, picked up one of my discarded lengths of ribbon, and deftly looped it multiple times around the wooden backing. “You just need to use the rails as anchor, and thread them both at the same time. Like this.” A couple more pulls, too fast for me to follow, and April had the ribbon twisted in exactly the right spots. She snagged the wisteria from my creation and slid it into the crease of her fold.

I looked at the chair, then at my picture. They were a perfect match.

“I think I hate you right now.”

She laughed. “No worries. You’ll get the hang of it. I’d offer to help, but the photographer is stopping by to shoot the cake, and the model only just got here from the bakery. Amanda threatened me with my life if that cake isn’t perfect when she gets here. You can’t buy the type of publicity a spread in a CreaTV magazine can get for you.”

Her eyes strayed to the table setting and widened. “Um, Savannah? I’m not sure Amanda is really the person you want to play practical jokes on. She’s going to totally wig out if she sees this.”

I frowned in confusion, until my eyes fell on the centerpieces. The blooms I’d snipped from their stems were already wilting, and somehow, several of the other flowers were now listing dejectedly at awkward angles.

But still. I didn’t think they looked
that
bad, and said so.

April bit her lip. “Let me go finish the cake, and I’ll be right back.” As she scurried from the room, I took another look at my chair and stretched my fingers to relieve the ache. One down, seven more to go.

After I cleaned up the broken wine glass.

When the bell on the front door sounded several hours later, I was beginning to panic. I’d just “finished” the last chair and had been attempting to arrange them in order of worst to best around the table, with April’s chair facing front and center for the planned photo angle...mostly because mine were hideous.

But it wasn’t Amanda’s voice that I heard from the front room, followed by Myrna’s. The bride was quickly swept away by April to view the cake—and most likely to be badgered one last time about increasing the serving sizes—while Cameron wandered into the floral room.

His gaze swept the room, taking in my brown-petaled flowers, the wads of wrinkled silk ribbon, and the crumpled packing paper from the presidential china that I hadn’t bothered to pick up yet. His lips quirked, then he opened his mouth to speak.

I held up my hand. “Don’t say a word. Not a single word. I am one Amanda away from being fired, and I don’t have time to deal with any snide remarks.”

I must have looked as exasperated as I felt, because he managed to contain his mirth as he moved to my side. He slipped the paper detailing the look Amanda wanted from my hands and studied the photos, his eyes moving from the paper to my supplies and back again.