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Wedding Fever
Susan Crosby
Литагент HarperCollins EUR
YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO MARRY ME.Waitress Maggie Walters might have sworn she'd be engaged before she turned thirty, but J.D. Duran's unromantic words were hardly the proposal of her dreams. Seeing this as perhaps her last chance at marriage, Maggie decided to take J.D. up on his offer, but she had a proposal of her own to make… ."AND SOMEDAY YOU'RE GOING TO LOVE ME."Never had such words affected the unflappable J.D. The secret agent told himself he was only marrying Maggie to keep her safe. But he was finding it increasingly difficult to keep their temporary marriage strictly in name only, leading this self-declared lone wolf to fear he might just have to succumb to Maggie's tempting dare.
Maggie Still Believed In One Man, One Love, One Marriage For A Lifetime. (#u08ee44f2-5afc-55fd-9b2d-348741d20eea)Letter to Reader (#u977cc7ad-9e6f-5839-9626-210ac84f9755)Title Page (#u067b12f5-7688-5ace-884b-fbdc871b46b1)About the Author (#u386a0c1b-cf49-55c5-a3db-1e24249deef6)Dedication (#ud9fae88e-f9b9-507a-bbe8-0c978ffd45b3)Chapter One (#u1c05742b-6475-5b44-8449-bc99c785436b)Chapter Two (#ua2da6e4e-79d2-54ce-9d1e-d440c19482b3)Chapter Three (#uee04bc12-c3c1-5d52-9386-c04449d2293a)Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Maggie Still Believed In One Man, One Love, One Marriage For A Lifetime.
Part of that dream involved a glorious marriage proposal in which her husband-to-be declared his undying love and devotion.
Never once had she imagined “You’re going to have to marry me.”
Well, so much for romance, she thought, relegating her dreams to a shadowed corner of her heart Fantasy had no place in the reality of the moment, the reality of her situation.
But the truth was, she wanted to marry J.D.
Dear Reader,
I know you’ve all been anxiously awaiting the next book from Mary Lynn Baxter—so wait no more. Here it is, the MAN OF THE MONTH Tight Fittin’ Jeans. Mary Lym’s books are known for their sexy heroes and sizzling sensuality...and this sure has both! Read and enjoy.
Every little girl dreams of marrying a handsome prince, but most women get to kiss a lot of toads before they find him. Read how three handsome princes find their very own princesses in Leanne Banks’s delightful new miniseries HOW TO CATCH A PRINCESS. The fun begins this month with The Five-Minute Bride.
The other books this month are all so wonderful...you won’t want to miss airy of them! If you like humor, don’t miss Maureen Child’s Have Bride, Need Groom. For blazing drama, there’s Sara Orwig’s A Baby for Mommy. Susan Crosby’s Wedding Fever provides a touch of dashing suspense. And Judith McWilliams’s Practice Husband is warmly emotional.
There is something for everyone here at Desire! I hope you enjoy each and every one of these love stories.
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Wedding Fever
Susan Crosby
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
SUSAN CROSBY is fascinated by the special and complex communication of courtship, and so she burrows in her office to dream up warm, strong heroes and good-hearted, self-reliant heroines to satisfy her own love of happy endings.
She and her husband have two grown sons and live in the Central Valley of California. She spent a mere seven and a half years getting through college and finally earned a B.A. in English a few years ago. She has worked as a synchronized swimming instructor, a personnel interviewer at a toy factory and a trucking company manager. Involved for many years behind the scenes in a local community theater, she has made only one stage appearance—as the rear end of a camell Variety, she says, makes for more interesting novels. Readers are welcome to write to her at P.O. Box 1836, Lodi, CA 95241.
To Elana, Linda, Robin and Sharon—my friends and critique partners. Without you, the fairy tale would have stopped at “Once upon a time...”
One
J.D. Duran was late. Not by a few “Oh, that’s all right” minutes, but by forty-five “How nice of you to join us” minutes. He pressed a hand to his jacket pocket, assuring himself the package was there. The package that shouldn’t have been necessary. The package that had made him late.
On the surface, the contents of the gold-foil-wrapped box served as a gift for a beautiful woman celebrating her thirtieth birthday. The true purpose, however, went deeper—it could very well save her life, a fact he couldn’t share with her.
He left the chill of the San Francisco winter evening behind as he opened a door and entered another world, one of quiet elegance, wealth and status. For a year and a half he’d worked there with few problems, all of them easily managed. Until now.
Pausing at his maître d’s podium, J.D. ran a finger down the list of reservations for the night, hoping—No. There he was. Brendan Hastings, the man who lived in a dark, secret world the birthday girl was too innocent to imagine.
J.D. unclenched his fists, touched his pocket again, then headed to the kitchen, mentally inventing excuses for his tardiness. He paused outside the door and listened to the quiet within. Either his normally rowdy co-workers had been struck silent or he was later than he’d realized.
All the excuses he came up with fled his mind the moment he pushed open the door, but he didn’t enter. He gripped the door, not letting it close as he saw that the servers’ station in the front part of the kitchen was empty—except for her. She faced a stainless-steel barrier that divided the workstation from the cooking area, where the chefs worked in preparation for the dinner crowd, their white hats barely visible above the divider. He traced her rigid spine with his gaze, noted the anger, or irritation, or whatever she was feeling, in the stiffness of her movements. Her shiny coal black hair brushed tensed shoulders as she shuffled items on the worktable. He didn’t have to see her bright blue eyes to picture them flashing with emotions, emotions not likely to be either lukewarm or well hidden.
Her voice penetrated the subdued clatter of pots and pans. She was muttering to herself, something about skewering a certain inconsiderate, thinks-he’s-God’s-gift-to-women maitre d’.
He would have smiled if the situation weren’t so serious. Instead, he closed his eyes a moment. It wasn’t fair to her. Hell, it wasn’t fair to him. She could only get in the way, probably would get in the way. And then what? He didn’t need this—either the distraction or the attraction, and she would be suspicious of the changes in him. Then, when the truth came out, she’d hate him for the deception. He wished he had a choice.
Steeling his spine, he stepped into the room.
Maggie Walters pushed her gifts into a pile as she devised a particularly inventive way to punish one of her co-workers—the one who’d been conspicuously absent from her birthday party. Her thirtieth birthday, which everyone knew was important to her. The others had come to work early to celebrate—the dishwasher, her fellow waitresses, the bartender, even the manager. But not the maître d’. Not the man she’d most wanted to be there.
“By the time I’m through with him,” she muttered, “he’ll wish he called in sick.”
“Happy birthday, Magnolia.”
Maggie’s heart danced at the slight inflection that transformed her name into a caress. She drew a steadying breath and turned to face the man she’d moments ago threatened with imaginary injury.
James Diego Duran. Tall, dark and handsome didn’t begin to describe him. Six foot one inches of smewy strength, near-black hair with ends that began to curl a few days after each haircut, intelligent dark brown eyes, a killer smile when he chose to use it, and a body that should come with warning labels: Raw Male Within. Approach At Own Risk.
Oh, Lord, he stood before her, stealing her breath, not knowing he was the one she’d wished for earlier when she’d blown out her candles...then just as fervently wished to skewer.
Maggie’s anger got swallowed by a sigh. She’d give just about anything to be able to unwrap the tempting package of J.D. Duran, the man of mystery More than he appeared, certainly; less than her vivid imagination, probably.
Oh, yes, he was one intriguing parcel—and she stood as much chance of getting him for her burthday as Lois Lane did Superman.
Which was a blessing, really, since he didn’t show any intention of fitting into her long-term plans.
“I’m sorry I missed your party,” he said, walking toward her, his eyes steady, assessing.
“No one took attendance.” She turned away, attempting to force her thoughts from him by contemplating how she’d get her gifts to the locker room.
Maggie felt his gaze on her for several seconds before he swept by her, passing out of sight. Relaxing, she blew her bangs off her forehead. She really needed to stop drooling over the man. After all, they’d worked together for a year and a half, and seven months ago he’d flatly admitted that he wanted to sleep with her—but wasn’t going to.
It could have pulverized a lesser woman’s self-confidence.
The brief flash of ego she allowed herself made her smile.
He returned with an empty cardboard carton and tossed it onto the table in front of her. “Looks like you need something to carry your presents,” he said, taking a beribboned cake knife from her hand and laying it m the box. “This was a gift?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
He frowned, then reached for the first item in the pile, a white vinyl photo album. Someone had written Our Wedding in glitter glue across the cover.
“Ah. I had forgotten their plans. A bridal shower,” he remarked, casting her a sideways glance as he stood the album on end in the box before holding up two plastic champagne flutes.
She touched one with her fingertip. “Note the beautiful engraving.”
Someone had written Maggie on one with a black felt marker and A Prince Among Men on the other. Cocktail straws twined the stems like mutant ribbons. Maggie loved the glasses, as she did all of the silly gifts, even though they represented a not-yet-fulfilled but well-voiced dream.
“Are you sorry now that you broadcasted your deadline of being married by thirty?”
“It was a goal, not a deadline.” She lifted her chin. “Besides, I’ve been a little busy with work and college.”
He set a few more items into the box, then stopped and looked at her. “The traditional ‘something blue,’ I assume,” he said.
She looked away from his intense gaze and saw him pick up a small carton of blue condoms, then shift the item back and forth between his hands. Large hands. With long, tapered fingers... and undisguised strength. Her breasts would fit perfectly in his palms. The feel of his rougher skin against her soft flesh would be—
“Subtle bunch we work with.”
Startled, she nodded, hearing something different in his voice—a warm huskiness that called to her most basic needs.
He squeezed the carton a moment before arcing it into the box. “I have a gift for you, as well.”
“You do?” She frowned at the pleasure he must have heard in her voice. He’d made it clear he didn’t want her to flirt with him, or tease him, or do more than have a working relationship only. Which was why she frequently did tease or flirt with him. She recognized the defensive tactic as self-preservation, even if she didn’t like herself for doing it.
She dared to look at him and caught his mouth tilting one-sidedly as his eyes softened to liquid chocolate. Why was he looking at her hike that? He couldn’t turn sociable overnight, could he? Not that he hadn’t been friendly before, but this was , friendly. Man-to-woman friendly.
“I’d like to give you the gift after work,” he said. “In private. Maybe at your apartment?”
Okay, do I become pathetically grateful or keep him in suspense? She lifted the cardboard box, giving herself something to do. Pride trickled in, mixed with a little caution. She glanced over her shoulder to where the kitchen crew were busy. “Why not now? We’re reasonably alone.”
“Humor me, Magnolia..”
She held her breath as he reached out and brushed her hair back from her face. His fingertips grazed her cheek. He smiled slowly, devastatingly.
She came out of her stupor, stepping back so fast she knocked over a glass of sparkling cider with her elbow. The cool liquid splattered her calf and dripped into her shoe. “All right, honey, what’s goin’ on?” she asked, purposefully drawing on her Louisiana accent and the endearment he hated in order to put more than physical distance between them, a tactic she used whenever she felt backed into a corner.
“Nothing.”
Letting her raised eyebrows show her disbelief, she dropped the box on the counter and kicked off her shoe. He pulled a white handkerchief from his back pocket, crouching as she did.
“I’m capable of cleaning my own foot, thank you.” She snatched the cloth from his hand, afraid to let him touch her again, annoyed that he was so prepared. She didn’t know any men who camed handkerchiefs anymore. “You’re playin’ some kinda game with me. I don’t like it.”
“You didn’t care for the gift I gave you last year. I am trying to improve this year,” he said as they stood in unison.
“Right.”
“I have always been truthful with you, Magnolia.”
That made her hesitate. He had, in fact, been so honest it had hurt sometimes, and in her more generous moments, she admired him for never ducking the truth. She stared at her foot. Lord, she was tired of hiding her feelings for him behind flirtatious antagonism. Just once she’d like for them both to be completely honest.
She dropped the handkerchief into her carton of gifts before hugging the box to her, still wondering why he was acting different.
She looked at him. “All right. After work at my place.”
“You could say that as if you looked forward to it just a little, ” he said, plucking his damp handkerchief from the box and balling it mto his fist.
Maggie pursed her lips, The possibilities for a pleasant evening seemed slim to none at this point Maybe the risk was too great, after all. “Look, Diego, we’ll only fight if we get together later. You know we will.”
“We don’t fight We just don’t agree on much.”
“On anything.”
“I think if we try, we can find some common ground, Magnolia.”
“Somehow I doubt it could include conversation.”
He smiled then, that smile that pierced her lungs and let all the air out.
“This should be fascinating,” she commented as she leaned into the door and left.
J.D. watched the door swing shut, his smile fading. In his mind he heard her call him by his middle name again, drawing it out, emphasizing her exclusive use of it—just as he was the only one to call her Magnolia.
Magnolia. Her mother hadn’t named her well. She was no pale, fragile blossom who wilted easily....
He roused himself to clean the workstation, and greet the chefs, then he left the kitchen to assume his post as maître d’ of the Carola, an exclusive club housed in a converted Victorian mansion in the heart of San Francisco. The forty-year-old private club offered peace and privacy to the famous and the infamous as they socialized in an environment free of paparazzi and curious onlookers.
He glanced into the elegantly furnished dining room. Maggie moved from table to table lighting candles, her crisp white shirt reflecting light and shadows from the flames, her fitted black skirt hinting at graceful feminine curves—a narrow waist and an appealing flare of hips. Her usual thin black tie had been replaced by one that was red and dotted with tiny gold angels. She hummed somewhat on-key with Bing as he dreamed of a white Christmas. Personally, J.D. was grateful there were just a couple of days left to endure the Christmas music filtering through well-placed speakers. All that good cheer. If the members knew what really went on here...
Taking the stairs two at a time, he checked each of the card rooms and billiard rooms on the second floor, as was his routine. A quick detour into the gender-segregated lounges as-sured hum all was in order.
He hurried downstairs to take his position at the podium fifteen feet from the front door. His eyes focused on the name that stood out as though written in blood-red. Brendan Has-tings. How could such a simple name impact so many lives?
After eight years of doing the same job Tuesday through Saturday nights, Maggie functioned by rote—which was a good thing, since her mind wasn’t anywhere near work tonight. Instead she spun imaginative scenarios of possibilities for her meeting with Diego, from the argument that would most likely occur to an improbable moment of passion.
At least indifference wouldn’t be a likelihood. Their relationship tended to cling to the ends of the scale, at either barely controlled irritation or barely controlled desire, never balanced at its midpoint. She’d gotten used to the extremes and even kind of liked it that way.
Except she had a feeling that in just about an hour everything was going to change.
She put on a smile as she focused on her customer, an attractive man m his late forties. “Here you are, Mr. Hastings. Your favorite. Chocolate cheesecake and espresso.”
His companion ate nothing, his job apparently only to take notes, not to do anything as mundane as indulge in dessert. She wondered about the demanding man who kept his employees working this late, something he’d done from the first night he’d come to the Carola the week before.
“Ahh, thank you, Maggie. Did I get the last slice?”
“I saved it just for you. I know it’s the only dessert on the menu that tempts you.”
“Excellent. It’s important to give in to what tempts us, don’t you think?”
