could tell he was as dumbfounded as I was. Then a conclusion appeared to dawn in his eyes, and he whirled to face his mother.
“Someone’s been sending out wedding announcements to my old flames—which explains why these women have been confronting me all week. This was your doing, Mother, wasn’t it?”
Madame, who was still visiting with Javier Lozado and trying to cheer up Hector Pena, blinked in complete shock. “I swear to you, Matteo, I did no such thing.”
Matt turned to face his fiancée. As soon as he saw her expression, he knew the truth. “You did this. Didn’t you, Breanne?”
“Yes, it’s true,” she said, not a trace of contrition in her tone. “I had my assistant download your PDA for the addresses and phone numbers stored inside. I just wanted all of your friends and acquaintances to know that you were getting married, that’s all.”
“When?” Matt demanded. “When did you do this?”
Breanne shrugged. “Maybe a month ago.”
I shook my head. The woman’s expression appeared to be all surprised innocence, but her action had been coldly calculated. She’d effectively notified every last woman in Matt’s little black PDA book that he was no longer available.
“Son of a—” He shook his head. “You invaded my privacy, went into my PDA without telling me. You contacted people from my past, with your own agenda, without even warning me. You humiliated me, Breanne. You, you—”
Breanne reached for her groom, but he pulled away.
“Get away from me,” he rasped.
“Matt, please—”
But he wasn’t listening. Before anyone could stop him, Matt stormed out.
“Please, someone, follow him,” Madame said with worried eyes.
Flanking Matt’s mother, Javier and Hector instantly nodded and chased after Matt. Koa Waipuna took off after them.
As soon as they were gone, all heads turned to Breanne. By the time she finished a swallow of her Pisco Sour, her calmly superior mask had slipped back over her stunned expression. But I’d gotten to know the woman well enough in these last few weeks to see the little cracks around her edges. Matt’s violent reaction to her brazen stunt had rocked her. Up to now, he’d been patient and accommodating. She was probably expecting him to roll over and accept this little prank without a peep. Clearly, she’d miscalculated.
On the one hand, I was appalled that Breanne had violated Matt’s privacy. But I had to admit I was pretty impressed with the move. It was shrewd, a way to keep Matt from straying—with all the old flames, at least. Her actions also made me wonder just how well Roman knew his best friend. Sure, Breanne gave lip service to being free of middle-class morals, but this little trick made it clear that she actually did care about fidelity—or at least sharing Matt with other women.
I felt myself smiling. If anything, this was a good sign. In my opinion, Breanne was starting to act like a wife.
For a good twenty minutes, the bride-to-be put on a good face for her luncheon guests, chatting with the Rayos, an Ecuadorean couple, before finally retreating to the ladies’ room.
I felt a touch of pity for the woman. After what just happened, I assumed she must be feeling terrible. I glanced at Madame, hoping the mother of the groom would take it upon herself to comfort her future daughter-in-law. But when I saw the expression on her face, I knew she wasn’t unhappy with the conflagration. Clearly, Madame continued to hold out hope that her son would say, “I don’t.”
But somebody should really check on Breanne . . .
When it was obvious that no one else was going to step up, I sighed, set my glass down, and followed Ms. Wonderful to the women’s room.
TWENTY-SIX
“ BREANNE?” I called. “Are you okay?”
There were three stalls in Machu Picchu’s ladies’ facility, only one of them appeared to be in use. Behind its closed door, I sensed movement then heard a muffled sound.
Was that a sob?
“Breanne, please answer me.”
No response, just more movement inside the stall.
With a sigh, I glanced around. The floor space in this restroom was bigger than some of my baristas’ studio apartments. The decor wasn’t half bad, either. An array of primitive masks continued the pseudo-Inca theme of the dining room. Andean wood flutes warbled from hidden speakers, and sweet-smelling incense burned in clay pots. Three sandstone sinks lined one mirrored wall. Three stalls stood opposite, their rustic wooden doors reaching almost to the terra-cotta floor.
I approached the only stall door that was closed and heard a choking gasp. “Breanne,