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Falling for You
HEATHER MACALLISTER
Police spokeswoman Megan Esterbrook has a problem– she's a sucker for sexy reporter Barry Sutton. Whatever he wants, she gives him, regardless of the cost.But that's about to stop–now! And to keep strong, she's come up with a surefire "Barry aversion therapy"–index cards to remind her why she should stay away. Now all she has to do is remember to use them….
“You feel so good,” Barry murmured in Megan’s ear
He pulled her back farther into their hiding place behind the bushes, burying his face in the side of her neck.
“Oh, Barry,” she moaned.
Hello? A moan? Already? He’d barely touched her. Still, he did have that effect on women…. “Did you miss me?”
“I feel so alive! I’m breaking rules…and I like it!” Megan shivered against him. “The adrenaline—my heart is pounding and all my nerves are hyper aware. This is what you feel, too, isn’t it?”
“I get a zing, yeah.”
She turned in his arms, which caused a zing of a different kind. “This is so much more than a zing! I feel hot. So, so hot.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and planted a quick, hard kiss on his open mouth as she ran her hands over his chest. “Why didn’t you tell me it was like this?”
Barry was dealing with his own heat issues. “Who knew breaking the law would be such a turn-on?” he quipped.
And who could have guessed, Barry thought as he bent to kiss her, that the biggest turn-on would be breaking the law…with a cop!
Dear Reader,
I’ve always felt that a fail-proof way to test whether you want to spend the rest of your life with someone is to go on a long car trip together. Even better if you can borrow two children under the age of five to take with you. Inevitably, something will go wrong and that will be when you truly get to know the other person.
Under pressure, relationships can develop quickly in a short time—say 24 HOURS—which is the idea behind this new miniseries from Harlequin Temptation. And what’s more stressful than a wedding? How about a wedding with a missing groom? Find out where he is, and join three couples who find love in a day beginning with Falling for You in March, followed by Kiss & Run by Barbara Daly in April, and Jane Sullivan’s One Night in Texas in May.
Also watch for my next Harlequin Temptation novel, Never Say Never, in June 2005, and visit my Web site, www.HeatherMacAllister.com, for news about other upcoming books.
Best wishes,
Heather MacAllister
Books by Heather MacAllister
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
785—MOONLIGHTING
817—PERSONAL RELATIONS
864—TEMPTED IN TEXAS
892—SKIRTING THE ISSUE
928—MALE CALL
959—HOW TO BE THE PERFECT GIRLFRIEND
981—CAN’T BUY ME LOVE
Falling for You
Heather MacAllister
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To the Providence Bunco group with thanks for getting me out of the house
Contents
Chapter 1 (#u8921a8bc-ff88-511c-99c5-c452fd63c83e)
Chapter 2 (#ucc8ff529-ddfa-57ab-968f-0f2651a462b7)
Chapter 3 (#u7ab06d0d-fa88-526a-bb95-459a9f485bbe)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
1
FOR A GUY WHOSE PARENTS named him after the male lead in the seventies’ sobfest Love Story, Barrett Sutton was not at all romantic. He could be if the situation called for it, but he had a talent for avoiding those kinds of situations.
Unfortunately, weddings were exactly those kinds of situations and Barry currently couldn’t avoid them, not after being busted from crime reporter to the society section or “Lifestyle” section as the staff there liked to call it. Whatever they called it, it was now his job to report every little freaking detail about society weddings. And in Dallas, Texas, the society types had big, detail-filled weddings.
He hated it. Even worse, he was good at picking just which details to write about. Really good at it. And why not? He was a professional. A professional who’d grown up with sisters. However, if he didn’t start misspelling some names or messing with the bridal-gown descriptions, he would never get back to reporting crime for the Dallas Press.
But this wedding wasn’t the place to start misspelling anything. This wedding was the Shipley-Hargrove wedding. Yeah, the bride was party girl Sarah, better known as Sally, Shipley—and try saying that three times fast. The society reporters had gone into mourning. Their favorite photo-op princess was settling down. Even worse, over the course of the year-long engagement, her posse of party-girl friends was settling down, too. Skirts were longer, tops were opaque, men were sober and parent-approved. Apparently this was round two for Miss Shipley, who'd actually been jilted before. Nobody was taking chances this time.
Barry hadn’t been reporting society doings during the Sally heydays so there was considerable resentment when he’d drawn her wedding and the rehearsal assignment.
Yes, his life had sunk to this: professional jealousy over writing about lace, flowers and cake.
Hang the self-respect, he had to get his old job back before he lost all his contacts. It had taken him years to slide into a world where informants would trust him enough to talk. Now, instead of spending his nights buying rounds of the hard stuff in bars, he drank warm leftover champagne and tried to think up fresh ways to describe wedding cake and white dresses.
As he drove through Dallas, he gripped the steering wheel and allowed himself a moment of regret for the days of not so long ago, when a Saturday morning would find him finishing a story of murder and mayhem from the night before, and then heading home to sleep. Sure, some Friday wedding parties ran late, but stories about bacon-wrapped shrimp and “extravagantly massed nosegays of buff roses” didn’t have the same urgency, even if he did file them while wearing a tux.
Tonight’s Friday mayhem was nothing more than a bachelor party. But he would get back to reporting crime for the Press after this time-out in the penalty box. Usually reporters were honored for breaking a story. Barry’s only problem was breaking it before the police did. He’d made a lucky guess involving a congressman, but the Press was making an example of him—an example that had gone on way too long, in Barry’s opinion—but it was either suck it up, or quit.
The amount people spent on weddings was a crime in itself and in this case, the bride’s family was loaded. The groom’s, unknown. Barry could have some fun with that. He’d ask a few pointed questions and watch the spin over the groom’s background.
Yeah, whatever. He pulled up in front of good old St. Andrew’s. What was this, the twelfth wedding he’d been to here? And all in the daytime. From March until early June, the sun shone directly through the huge stained-glass windows. Apparently the architect had built it that way on purpose so that there could be some truly glorious Easter mornings. A number of brides chose daytime weddings to take advantage of the same effect.
Barry pulled into a parking place near the kitchen entrance. It made for a quick getaway if he needed one. Call it a holdover habit from his crime reporting days. Just because he’d been assigned to the society section—Lifestyle section—didn’t mean he couldn’t keep his skills sharp.
He turned off the ignition and swiped a stray pollen smear—pesky blooming trees—from the dash of his fully restored 1969 Ford Mustang Mach 1 351W. He needed wheels that blended in with the rich and famous. And since he couldn’t afford rich, he went for famous, or in this case a classic car. It was a good excuse to buy something he wanted to buy anyway. Auto therapy. After last fall’s public spanking, he’d needed a pick-me-up.
As Barry got out of his car, taking a moment to admire the blue finish gleaming in the midday light, a white Cadillac Escalade with custom peach, cream, and gold leather interior squealed into the parking spot next to his.
Paula Perry, wedding coordinator to the rich, exited the car.
He leaned over the top of his Mustang and made a show of checking his watch. “Rehearsal is scheduled for noon. Running late, are we?”
Her back to him, Paula dangled a pair of white satin pumps in the air. “Bride forgot her shoes. Can’t practice walking down the aisle without these.”
“Wouldn’t retrieving them be the maid of honor’s job?” he called, but Paula had already disappeared inside the church.
Barry slipped into the kitchen entrance just as a florist’s van pulled in. It was silver with a calla lily tastefully framing a discreetly worded Whitfield Floral.
Ooh, boy. This could be good. Whitfield meant understated and just this side of stodgy. Barry grinned to himself. The bride was trying to leave her inelegant past behind.
Maybe, just maybe, he thought as he made his way through the kitchen, the bride and her bridesmaids were going to wear Vera Wang. He oughta send fan mail to Vera Wang. Nobody highlighted boobs as tastefully as she did. Sexy-elegant. His favorite look.
Still grinning, he headed for the sanctuary. If Paula verified Vera Wang, then he was bribing the custodian to turn up the air-conditioning. Cold women and silk charmeuse. Another favorite look.
Barry stepped in the side entrance and checked out the bridesmaids. They stood in a clutch, watching as the bride put on her shoes. They all wore the uniform of the sexy, young, urban single with the exception of one who had a kind of country-cousin look going.
Ah, the pity bridesmaid. The one asked as a favor to someone. She had potential, though. He wouldn’t mind seeing her in a sexy bridesmaid’s dress.
As he walked toward the back, Barry looked up to the balcony for the photographer and saw a man in black slacks, turtleneck and silver hair tied in a ponytail. Adolph Gunnerson in his I’m-really-a-serious-artiste getup. Barry let out a low whistle. The man, himself, was setting up tripods. He must think he had a good chance for pictures in W or Town and Country.
He waved. “Hey, Adolph.” It never sounded right. Adolph wasn’t a casual “hey” sort of name.
“Barrett.”
Barry didn’t even know how the man had found out his given name. He rarely used it.
Leaning forward, Adolph gripped the railing. “I am the exclusive photographer and videographer for the Shipley wedding and associated events.”
“Congratulations. I’ve heard they tip well.”
Adolph glared down at him. “You will not need a press photographer. You will not need that.” He pointed to the digital camera in Barry’s pocket. “I will provide you with approved images for your paper.”
“You know, Adolph, in this country we have a little thing called freedom of the press.”
“Tell me again why you now report weddings?”
Adolph didn’t like him. Barry tried not to take it personally because Adolph didn’t like anybody. “Two o'clock deadline for the Sunday paper or we run with what I’ve shot.”
Talk about surly. The guy probably needed carbs. In Barry’s opinion, the world was a nicer place when people ate carbs. Carbs pillowed the hard edges.
He continued to the back where he could see activity in the narthex. The Whitfield florist and her assistants were assembling all sorts of white wrought-iron frames, ribbons, greenery and bows. The usual wedding glop. He pushed open the door. Might as well get the descriptions now.
“Barry Sutton, Dallas Press.” He flashed an oversize press card he’d made himself. People always responded better after having ID shoved at them.
“What flowers will you be using for the Shipley wedding?” As he spoke, he smoothly pocketed his ID and removed a small tape recorder. Sometimes he took notes, sometimes he didn’t. More often than not, he both recorded and took notes. There was a time when flowers wouldn’t have merited either.
“Ms. Shipley has selected a white-on-white floral theme. She will carry bridal roses, gardenia, tulips, stephanotis, and our signature miniature calla lilies in a clutch bouquet.”
“Very elegant.” He was beginning to recognize the favorite combos florists used. This couldn’t be good.
“We are always very elegant,” the florist murmured in her smooth voice, as though they both didn’t know that with enough money, the definition of elegant could be stretched tighter than spandex on a cheap hooker.
“Bridesmaids?”
“They’ll carry three calla lilies.”
“Class all the way.” Barry clicked off the recorder and winked at her.
He saw a theme here. The bride was, indeed, distancing herself from her wilder days. Was this the groom’s doing? Or had Mama and Papa—very nice folks; he’d met them—laid down the law? And if so, why now?
Which brought Barry back to the groom—who exactly was this guy? Ersatz royalty?
It was a mystery and Barry did love a mystery. He wanted to get his hands on a guest list. He knew there was one floating around. There always was at a wedding like this.
Usually, the security detail had a list to prevent crashers. Barry looked outside the church, saw the limos, but no large, serious-looking men with short necks and well-cut suits.
However, he did see Paula, the wedding coordinator, consulting with a slope-shouldered woman who looked both harried and important. A social secretary if he ever saw one.
Pasting on a third-degree smile—teeth showing with a hint of dimple—he approached her. “Hi there. You look like you’re in charge. I’m Barry Sutton with the Dallas Press.” He handed her a card. With some people, you got out the ID. With others, you gave them a business card.
“I know who you are.” She took his card anyway. “I’ll send you copy for your write-up.”
As she turned back to Paula, Barry touched her on the arm. If a third-degree smile didn’t work, physical contact usually did. “I write my own copy. I’m looking for a guest list.”
“That’s confidential.”
“Hmm.” Barry looked at her consideringly. “How can I put this…”
“Give him the guest list,” Paula interrupted. “The more important the guests, the more column inches his editor will reserve. Unless you aren’t interested in a premium write-up with mentions in the About Town and Fashion Sightings columns.”
The secretary fingered the papers in one of her folders. “I…”
“What?” Barry spoke and heard Paula echo him.
“I’m not certain that is our mission.”
