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Three Times A Bride
Catherine Spencer
THIS TIME, FOREVERHe wanted her now - but what about forever? Adam Cabot was back - and determined to reclaim Georgia as his bride! But Georgia had no intention of coming meekly to heel. She told herself she was done with loving Adam, and now she planned to marry safe, rich Steven.Adam had caused Georgia more heartache than he could possibly know, yet here he was, thinking that he just had to tell her he wanted her and she'd fall back into his arms… and his bed. Of course she wouldn't! So why was she finding it so difficult to tell Adam no?
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u6088c50c-dc7a-5523-b136-4d81e2a4a0e8)
Excerpt (#u2c90dd12-b6e9-529c-975a-b80734da1f76)
About The Author (#u9c1405e5-ef49-53d4-b5b0-514a5a431c52)
Title Page (#uc7e03c16-e35b-5611-abf5-c3e5c38a8b69)
PROLOGUE (#ubc3e8369-997c-5dee-9326-feca0d479521)
CHAPTER ONE (#u25867301-02e1-5bd1-a53c-20d6bfc298f6)
CHAPTER TWO (#u72e34d75-bfb6-58dc-b91b-1a9b93e3bfcc)
CHAPTER THREE (#u68a2c213-f2a3-5f0c-b1c9-7e7d98976632)
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)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“So, do you love Stevenor don’t you?”
“Of course I love him!”
“Well, that’s one of the things I came back to find out. Now that I know, I guess you and I have nothing more to say to each other.” Adam rose and zipped up his jacket. “Have a happy life, Georgia.”
“That’s just what you did when we broke up. Just turned and walked away without even kissing me goodbye!”
CATHERINE SPENCER, once an English teacher, fell into writing through eavesdropping on a conversation about Harlequin romances. Within two months she’d changed careers and sold her first book to Harlequin’s British arm, Mills & Boon. She moved to Canada from England thirty years ago and now lives in Vancouver. She is married to a Canadian and has four grown children—two daughters and two sons—plus three dogs and a cat. In her spare time she plays the piano, collects antiques and grows tropical shrubs.
Three Times A Bride
Catherine Spencer
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
PROLOGUE (#ulink_4cca7eae-deca-5ce7-bf31-38567eb3716a)
IF SHE hadn’t been so preoccupied with entering the security code and locking the door to the studio before she stepped out into the quiet square, she might have realized sooner that he was waiting just for her. But she was too busy making a mental checklist of all the things she had to do before her wedding day to give much attention to the street.
He emerged from the shadow of the building, a dark and stealthy smudge superimposed on the deeper blackness of the night. Georgia felt his presence before she saw him and knew the raw November wind had nothing to do with the chill of awareness that inched past the fur collar of her coat and shimmied the length of her spine.
Belatedly, she noticed that the moon had disappeared behind rain-filled clouds, offering him anonymity. But she, halfway between the building and her car parked at the curb, was fully revealed in the light spilling from the wrought-iron street lamp. With her high heels and slender build, she was unmistakably a woman, unmistakably alone.
She was not afraid, however. Mildly curious, perhaps, but definitely not afraid. She refused to admit to such a possibility. To do so would negate everything she’d struggled to achieve in the last fifteen months. Like passion and rage and wild, obsessive love, fear shredded a person’s soul beyond redemption.
She knew. She was a survivor—but only just, and only because she had divorced herself, firmly and irrevocably, from all those raw emotions capable of inflicting pain with supreme indifference to a person’s capacity to bear it.
Refusing to acknowledge him by so much as a glance, she continued toward her car. Whoever he was, the man could not touch her. She was too well-defended, cocooned in the pleasant, fuzzy limbo she had built around herself. If he was a panhandler, he would be very disappointed to learn that she had only about ten dollars in her purse. If he was a mugger after her personal jewelry, he’d get her engagement ring, which was insured. But he could not touch her. Nothing could violate her inner self like that, not anymore.
Or so she believed. But five yards from her car, he closed in. She could hear the rustle of his clothing, see the condensed puff of his breath.
It was not his hand reaching out to touch her, or the feel of his fingers closing softly around the nape of her neck that taught her differently. It was the supernatural premonition, as his aura collided with hers, that sent the terror shooting through her veins.
Her breath stopped and so did her heart, albeit briefly. She opened her mouth, praying for the wherewithal to cry for help.
And a voice from the grave said softly, “Don’t scream, sweet pea. It’s just me.”
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_704a9544-7db0-59ee-84e4-04acdc5d03d4)
…THEY HAD MET three years before, at the Dog Days of August Dance at the Riverside Club. He’d looked up as she came in from the terrace, brought his smoky-blue gaze to bear on her, and suddenly those corny lyrics from South Pacific had made perfect sense. He was a stranger, lounging with narrow-hipped grace against the bar on the other side of the room, chatting with Steven Drake, the most eligible bachelor in town, but when he’d seen Georgia, he’d let the conversation lapse, straightened to his full height, and shrugged his black, open-necked shirt into place on his fabulous shoulders.
Just then, the band switched from a classic 1950’s foxtrot to the pulsing beat of Time of Your Life from Dirty Dancing, and she’d known with fatal certainty that he was going to saunter over, take her hand, and lead her out onto the floor. And that the way he’d dance with her would set staid old Piper Landing on its ear, and that she’d never be the same again.
“How could you?” her sister, Samantha, had squawked the next day.“Everybody’s talking about the exhibition you made of yourself with the grandson of that crazy old hippie, Bev Walsh.”
“Hardly a hippie, dear,” their mother had said with somewhat less vehemence, “But Bohemian, certainly, and eccentric, too. Definitely not someone we care to cultivate.”
It couldn’t have mattered less to Georgia if he’d been related to Lucrezia Borgia. They’d spent the rest of that first evening together, danced—disgracefully, no doubt— until dawn, barely been able to tear themselves away from each other, and continued to shock local society for the remainder of the time he was in town.
It had been instant romance, complete with every timeless cliche, the only flaw being that he belonged to the United States Air Force and was on leave in Piper Landing for only a week or two.
“You cannot possibly intend to pursue this relationship?” her mother had gasped when Georgia made it plain that her affair with the dashing Lieutenant Colonel Adam Cabot was no passing fancy.“Dear Heaven, Georgia, isn’t it time you settled down and remembered who you are?”
That had been yet one more round in an ongoing volley of disapproval over the fact that Georgia had turned up her nose at the chance of a university education, and opted instead to don a leather apron and learn the jewelry business from the bottom up.
“Chamberlaines do not serve apprenticeships,” her mother had decreed, upon learning that, at eighteen, her eldest daughter had signed over the next several years of her life to Giovanni Bartoli, the famous designer who worked in Vancouver.
When her father heard she was traveling to places like Colombia, Brazil, South Africa and Thailand in pursuit of her career, he’d been sure she’d end up at the mercy of rebels or bandits or worse. But Georgia had thrived on the experience. Up until the day she’d met Adam, the biggest thrill of her life had been her first solo trip to the diamond exchange in Amsterdam.
“Get married?” she’d scoffed when her parents suggested that, at the ripe old age of twenty-six and with her apprenticeship successfully concluded, she might want to give the matter some thought.“Not likely! I value my independence too much.”
“Get married?” her mother had gasped, practically falling victim to a stroke when, a mere two years later, Georgia had announced that she and Adam were engaged.“To that man? You can’t be serious, my dear!”
But Georgia had never been more serious in her life, nor had she ever been happier. Sadly, it had all been too good—too volatile—to last.
The shrill summons of the telephone brought her bolt upright from what more properly resembled exhausted collapse than sleep. Groping for the receiver, Georgia squinted blearily at it. Awash with a number of conflicting emotions, she couldn’t drum up her usual courteous greeting and managed only to croak furtively, “Yes?”
Her mother’s normally well-modulated voice cut the air with the staccato urgency of rifle fire.“Georgia? You’re not ill, are you? Ye gods, don’t tell me you’ve come down with something at this late date! Georgia, are you still there? Why don’t you say something?”
“I’m here, Mother,” Georgia managed, emotions still churning.
“You are ill,” Natalie accused with woeful certainty.“Oh, Georgia, how could you?”
Georgia would have liked to tell her mother not to get herself into a state but that would have been misleading since, when she heard the news, the mother of the bride would have every reason to be very upset indeed. So Georgia offered a half-truth in the hope that it might buy her a little time.“I’m not ill, Mother.”
“Well, you sound like the wrath of God.”
“Probably because I’m still half asleep.”
“Why? It’s almost eight and you never sleep in.”
“I did today, Mother. I had a restless night.”
“Oh, well, that explains it.” Natalie’s sigh was full of relief.“Pre-wedding nerves, dear. All brides get them.”
Not like mine, Georgia could have told her, but decided discretion was the better part of valor at this hour of the morning. She needed to fortify herself with a dose of good strong coffee before she relayed to her mother news that threatened to sabotage yet another wedding planned on her behalf.“I’ve got a client coming in at ten, Mother, and I really ought to get a move on, so unless there’s something in particular you wanted to talk about…?”
“Nothing that can’t wait until lunch, dear.”
“Lunch?” Georgia’s stomach rolled over in protest at the mere thought.
“My goodness, Georgia, you really are a nervous bride.” Her mother’s laughter trilled merrily down the line.“We made the date last week, remember? One o’clock at the Club, just you, me and Samantha, to go over a few last details. We’ll pick you up at the studio about half past twelve. Don’t keep us waiting.”
The abrupt click as the line went dead lent an immediacy to the request that propelled Georgia into action as little else could have done. In her present state, she was in no condition to see anyone, least of all her highly strung, socially correct mother and sister. She needed to pull herself together, fast.
Reeling a little, she sidled past the full-length mirror on her closet door, trying to ignore its mocking reflection of her hollow-eyed face, and headed for the bathroom. Was it possible, she wondered, that if she subjected herself to the pulsing force of the hottest water skin and bone could tolerate, what had happened last night might dissipate into steam and turn out to be nothing more than a very bad dream?
Certainly, it had all the earmarks of make-believe. After all, how many other women found themselves face to face with an ex-fiance who, believed dead for over a year, showed up very much alive two weeks before his one-time bride’s marriage to his best friend? And she had fainted dead away at the sight of the apparition, could still feel the lump on her head from when she’d keeled over, which was enough to make anyone hallucinate a little.
But could she possibly have imagined the sound of that voice with its lazy American drawl, or the feel of those arms that had scooped her up and bundled her into the passenger seat of her car? Could anyone other than the real Lieutenant Colonel Adam Cabot, retired-supposedly—U.S. Air Force, have driven her home with such efficient dispatch?
No. That had been no passing stranger playing Good Samaritan. That had been Adam, the man who, in choosing career over love, had driven her to cancel their wedding fifteen months ago and made her the pitied topic of conversation at every dinner party in Piper Landing for most of the time since. And when her mother found out that he was alive and about to wreak havoc in her life a second time, all hell would break loose.
Because havoc he would indeed wreak. He’d made that much plain during the time it had taken him to deposit her, weak-kneed, on her doorstep, last night.
“I realize, Georgia,” he’d murmured wryly, casting her a sideways glance as he followed her directions to the house she now lived in, “that the notion of creeping up on you unannounced tonight might have been illconceived on my part and that you’re understandably shocked, but I can’t say I’m especially flattered by your less-than-enthusiastic reaction at seeing me again.”
“I’m having trouble believing my eyes,” she’d quavered, with a feeble lack of originality.“You don’t seem real.”
“Oh, I’m real enough,” he’d assured her, a trace of his old sexy grin gleaming in the streetlights of Piper Landing’s tree-lined crescents, “and if it’s proof you’re looking for, this ought to do it.”
And he’d clamped a warm, very alive and very possessive hand on her knee. She’d shied away from the contact and almost squealed with fright.
He’d noticed. He’d withdrawn his hand and when he spoke again, that sexy drawl had taken on a distinctly caustic edge.“Sorry you’re not happier to see me,” he said.
“I don’t quite know what you expect me to say,” she’d replied defensively.
“How about, ‘Gee, honey, what took you so long to show up?’ Or, ‘What’s a nice ghost like you doing in a town like this?’"
“Are you a ghost?” she’d whispered, with a mixture of dread and hope.
“Not on your life, Georgia. I’m the real thing, and turning your lovely face away won’t make me disappear, no matter how much you might wish it would.”
Nor had it. He’d shifted in the driver’s seat, angling himself so that he could watch her and the road at the same time. Steering with casual, one-handed skill, he’d pushed back a lock of her blond hair and secured it behind her ear, leaving her profile exposed and vulnerable.“You’ve grown your hair long,” he remarked.
“Not long,” she’d muttered, swinging her head away.“Just longer than I used to wear it.”
“It changes you, makes you less…vibrant.”
She’d felt his gaze on her, sharply observant.“Turn left at the next intersection,” she said, “and keep your eyes on the road. I don’t want to end up in the ditch.”
But what she really meant was, Stop trying to look inside me. There’s nothing there anymore.
It was true. Losing him had left her heart so impoverished it could barely function. Oh, it pumped out its daily quota of blood all right, but the real heart was gone and left a space where the true love of her life had once lived.
“This is a far cry from your old place,” he’d said, slowing down for the approach to her house.“Practically country, from the looks of it. What made you decide to move out of the apartment?”
She didn’t bother explaining that she’d wanted to leave behind everything associated with him because remembering was too painful. Instead, she leapt from the car as fast as her still-trembling legs could carry her, anxious to put as much distance between him and her as possible.
He’d sensed her aversion and had dropped her car keys into her hand with curt formality.“I know we didn’t part on the most loving of terms,” he said, “but I had hoped you’d since found it in your jealous, insecure little heart to get over your pique. Apparently I was wrong.”
“I’m sorry,” she’d said, aware that the words were hopelessly inadequate.“I’m too dazed to know how I feel or what I should be saying.”
“So it seems.” He’d shrugged and looked around at her house and its winter-bare garden that sloped down to the river.“Do you mind phoning for a taxi? I’m not sure where we are exactly, but I’d guess it’s a bit too far for me to walk back to Bev’s place.”
“Of course. Would you…do you want to wait inside?”
His gaze had zeroed in on her again with brutal candor.“Yes. I want to see where you live, where you sleep, what you wear in bed, and if you keep my picture on your nightstand.”
“Oh…!” She’d quailed at the prospect and with the disquieting insight of an old lover, he’d detected her dismay.
In that bossy way of his that before had always invited her defiance, he’d continued, “But I’ll wait to be invited. Get inside, for Pete’s sake, and pour yourself a stiff drink. You look as if you could use one. I’ll walk back to the service station we passed a mile or so down the road, and call for a taxi from there. We can put off the glad reunion until another time.”
She’d been happy to comply.“Thank you!”
The heartfelt relief in her response had sent a grimace skittering over his features.“I said ‘put off’, sweet pea, not ‘forget’. You will be seeing me again. We have so much news to catch up on.”
Then he’d turned and marched down her driveway, the firm thud of his stride gradually diminishing into silence.
