Laurel whipped the clip out of her hair, shoved it in her suit jacket pocket. “I thought we had
detente there.”
“Apparently that’s over. Del, good you’re here. We might need you.”
As they approached, the sound of shouting pumped out of the Great Hall. And something
crashed. Then someone screamed.
“You might need the cops,” Del commented.
They burst in to see Emma, her hair tumbling from its pins, trying desperately to separate
the two snarling, elegantly dressed women. The bride’s stepmother’s hair and face dripped
with the champagne tossed from the flute still in the mother of the bride’s hand.
“You bitch! You’re going down!”
Shoving, flailing arms sent Emma skidding on her heels then onto her ass as the women
flew at each other.
Game, and with a hot beam in her eye, Emma scrambled up as Parker and Laurel sprang
forward. Grabbing the closest body, Laurel hauled while curses spewed like grapeshot.
“Cut it out! Stop it now!” Laurel dodged a fist, then blocked an elbow with her forearm. The
force of the contact sang straight up to her shoulder. “I said stop! For God’s sake, it’s your
daughter’s wedding.”
“It’s my daughter’s wedding,” the woman Parker and Emma struggled to control shouted.
“My daughter. Mine! Not this home-wrecking bimbo bitch’s.”