Seduced by Sunday

Gabi fell in love with the first designer they visited. His name was Marco and he catered to money. Since Val promised her the wedding of her dreams . . . she wasn’t thinking of the price tag on Marco’s designs. What Gabi didn’t know was that with every gown she put on, Meg was snapping a picture and chatting with Val via text.

Sooooo, how much did you want to spend on your sister’s wedding gown?

It’s a dress. How much could it possibly cost? Val, the poor guy had no idea.

Marco wore something Bond would be fond of, with the exception of the purple fuzzy tie. “Marco, hon . . . where is the ballpark of that gown?” Gabi was wearing a strapless that had a princess waist and the most spectacular set of pearls along the bodice that even Meg, who didn’t know a pearl from a glass bead, was impressed with.

“We’re talking price, Margaret?”

The man liked full names. Telling him to call her Meg was like him calling the pope Dad. “Yeah.”

“Economical . . . very economical.”

Yeah, right. “Economical for Kate Middleton or Honey Boo Boo?”

Marco was in the process of pulling Gabi’s breasts into submission, with his full hands, and tossed his head back with laughter. “Oh, dear. What is wrong with a country that let’s that . . . thing . . . on the television?” Marco placed his hands on Gabi’s waist and turned her toward the three-way mirror. “Lovely.” He slid his hand down Gabi’s waist as if he had the right and fluffed out the train. “I do think we should look at sleeker gowns. Less fussy, but you see how well this style fits the tone of your skin.”

“All the dresses are white.”

Marco tolerated Meg, but did so with a thin grin. “Bite your tongue. I have nothing white. Every shade is unique.”

“I think it’s beautiful.” Gabi turned in the mirror to admire the beading up the back.

“Marco . . . what are we talking . . . six figures? Five, four?”

“Four? Goodness, I’m not Kmart.”

Just what Meg thought. “So, six?”

“No. I did say it was economical.”

“Even after taxes?”

Marco held no shame as he moved around Gabi, pulling and tugging. “This would need to be taken in here.”

“Marco?”

He waved her off.

Meg sat in a plush white leather couch and watched as Gabi allowed Marco to remove every snap. All zillion of them.

Meg sent the picture of the dress, Gabi in it, to Val. Stab a guess at the cost of this number.

Is that Gabi?

She’s stunning. Guess the price, moneybags.

There was a delay with dot dot dot as her response. It doesn’t matter. My sister deserves whatever she wants.

So I should tell her that a hundred grand for a dress she will wear once . . . for only part of one day, is good?

Meg found a certain satisfaction in seeing dot dot dot blink on her screen for several seconds. Yes, Val was a giving, considerate person. But she didn’t think he was that far gone.

The dot dot dot went on for a while, so Meg sweetened the pot. A veil, shoes, and jewelry are next, moneybags. Choose your words wisely.

Dot dot dot . . .

Divert.

Nice word. “Gabi . . . hon, maybe we should see something with less beading. I can’t imagine that will wear well in the heat of the Keys.”

Marco removed two gowns from his collection while Gabi slid behind the drape to remove the dress.

“Marco?” Meg waved him over. “I work with a lot of brides, but let’s keep this one perfect with less cash, shall we?”

Marco lifted a manicured, and if Meg had to testify the fact, painted, brow in the air. “Shannon said as much.”

“Most of my brides can afford that little number with all the trimmings.” She pointed to the nearly six-figure dress. “Gabi will be walked down the aisle on her brother’s arm, not her father’s.” Not to mention that she’d be meeting a groom Meg had little faith in her keeping. But she kept that part unsaid.

Marco removed one of the two gowns he had in his hands and found another. “Gabriella . . . we must try this. I think it will be perfect.”

Meg tapped into her phone as Gabi walked out for the second sample. You owe me.

Dot dot dot . . .

Meg laughed and tossed her phone aside. “I like that one.”

Samantha Harrison was what Meg referred to as a vertically challenged, feisty redhead that oozed poise and money as if she were born to it. In truth she was, but her role as wife, mother, and duchess polished what she’d been born with and made her a tour de force.

Alliance was her baby. She didn’t need the money the business earned her any longer, but she kept the machine running for many different reasons. The least of which was she found her own husband through the service and needed two hands to count the successful marriages she or her employees had arranged in the time she’d been in business. If Meg had to guess, Sam enjoyed empowering women, both through the temporary marriages and the wealth it offered said women, and in working for them to push ahead in life. Meg knew her life had done a 180 when she’d gone to work for the lady.

Combating her height with four-inch heels, Sam still had to reach over her head, on her tiptoes, to touch the coffee beans tucked on a top shelf in Meg’s kitchen . . . which was where Meg found her boss when she and Gabi returned from Marco’s.

“Oh, good Lord, woman. Let me get that for you.”

“I don’t know why you keep the coffee on the top shelf.”

Meg pulled the bag of some of Colombia’s best off the top shelf and poured it into her grinder. “If it’s on the bottom shelf, I’ll make, pour, make more . . . and not sleep all night. Reaching reminds me to stop drinking the stuff.”