Kitabı oxu: «Gorgeous Grooms: Her Stand-In Groom / Her Wish-List Bridegroom / Ordinary Girl, Society Groom»

Gorgeous Grooms
Jackie Braun
Liz Fielding
Natasha Oakley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Her Stand-In Groom

By

Jackie Braun

Jackie Braun is a three-time RITA® finalist, three-time National Readers Choice Award finalist and past winner of the Rising Star Award. She worked as a copy-editor and editorial writer for a daily newspaper before quitting her day job in 2004 to write fiction full time. She lives in Michigan with her family. She loves to hear from readers and can be reached through her website at www. jackiebraun.com

Is he the man of her dreams?

Gorgeous Grooms

Three dreamy and feel-good romances from

three beloved Mills & Boon authors!

To Mom and Dad:

Thanks for passing on your love of reading.

Chapter One

THWACK!

Catherine Canton had made a career of opposing domestic violence, but that didn’t keep her from using a bouquet of white roses to smack her prospective groom upside his philandering blond head.

Cursing amid a snowstorm of fragrant petals, Derek Danbury stopped his intimate exploration of the wedding planner’s lacy black bra.

“What the—” he began, before turning around completely. Once he had, his expression shifted from irritated to uh-oh.

In an instant he was slicking on the charm, as well as the boyish smile Catherine had once found so irresistible. How could she have been so naïve?

All but shoving the other woman aside, he said, “Sweetheart, I can explain this.”

If she hadn’t wanted to cry Catherine might have laughed at that absurd proposition. And if the situation hadn’t been so wretchedly pathetic she might even have let him try, for the sheer entertainment value such an exercise would provide. Derek was a master at coming up with perfectly innocent reasons for doing the outrageous. She’d often found his justifications amusing, if exasperating. But this wasn’t the same as showing up late for dinner with her parents or failing to meet her at some charity function.

No, he’d been helping another woman out of her clothes in the choir loft of a church. The same church where, in less than fifteen minutes, he was supposed to swear before God and their guests to forsake all others.

Catherine had never been blind to his flirtatious nature, but she had foolishly believed that flirtation was all he’d ever engaged in. Oh, there had been tabloid speculation to the contrary, but, as her mother had preached on more than one occasion, those rancid scandal sheets’ attempts to sell more papers were hardly a valid enough reason for Catherine to question her engagement to one of the country’s most eligible bachelors. This was especially the case, her mother had insisted, since she and Catherine’s father had already plunked down so much of their dwindling fortune to give their daughter a memorable society wedding.

And so Catherine, ever the dutiful daughter, had brushed aside her nagging concerns as silly pre-wedding jitters. She didn’t doubt for a minute her mother would be ruing the day she’d insisted on hiring a professional wedding planner.

“I don’t need an explanation,” Catherine said, as the wedding planner buttoned her blouse and wisely slinked away.

“It’s really not what it looked like,” Derek replied.

She might have been naïve to believe a notorious playboy like Derek, heir to the venerable Danbury Department Store chain, was ready to settle down, but with the evidence of his infidelity now made so obvious she would not be thought stupid as well.

Holding up a hand, she said, “Please, don’t insult my intelligence.”

“Come on, Cath. You have to listen to me.”

“Listen to you? What can you say to make this somehow less sordid than it actually is? I won’t tolerate lies.”

“I love you. That’s not a lie.” He reached out, caressed her arms through the white silk of her gown. Mere minutes ago she would have believed him. But how could he love her—truly love her—and do this?

She pulled away, her breath hitching. “Don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I made a mistake.”

“Would you still think so if you hadn’t gotten caught?” Her voice hiked up an octave, pushed there by pain and disbelief. “My God, Derek, you’re in a church. It’s our wedding day. And you were…” She shook her head, the image still revoltingly fresh.

“Let’s keep our voices down, sweetheart,” he urged, casting a nervous glance toward the railing, no doubt thinking about the multitude of guests already assembled below. “In fact, let’s discuss this later.”

“Later? When later? After we’re married?” She crossed her arms and tapped the battered bouquet against one hip, her emotions swinging wildly from hurt to anger again. “I don’t think so.”

Alarm widened his eyes. “You’re overreacting, Cath. Don’t blow this out of proportion.”

“Oh, that’s rich. You almost had sex in the church with our wedding planner minutes before the ceremony. I don’t see how I could blow this out of proportion. As offenses go, Derek, what you did is gargantuan already.”

“You know, technically I didn’t do anything.”

Catherine closed her eyes and counted to ten, trying to summon up some of the control for which she was legendary. Ice Princess, some called her, but she was fuming now, a volcano ready to blow. She preferred that. Hurt and embarrassment could come later, and settle over her like suffocating ash. She dropped her hands to her sides. Her fingers fisted around the bouquet handle as if were a Louisville Slugger, and she was seriously thinking about taking another swing at him when someone said, “Excuse me, please.”

Derek’s cousin Stephen stood not five feet behind them in the choir loft. Despite similar heights and builds, and the fact their birthdays fell just one day apart, she couldn’t imagine two men more different in either appearance or disposition. Derek was fair and always joking. Stephen was dark and brooding.

He stepped forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “Derek, your mother asked me to come and mention that the guests can hear this conversation. She suggests you move to a more discreet location.”

Whatever he thought of the situation, none of it was reflected in the deep brown of his eyes.

Privacy. Catherine longed for it at this moment—that and something far more comfortable than the beaded pumps that were crushing the toes on each foot into a single digit. But both would have to wait until she’d dealt with the situation at hand. Picking up the heavy train of the designer gown her mother had insisted Catherine had to have, she walked to the railing of the balcony.

“Can I have everyone’s attention, please?”

“What are you doing?” Derek whispered, rushing up from behind her. He grabbed her arm none too gently, hauling her around. The act so surprised Catherine that she dropped her bouquet over the rail’s edge. Its sterling silver handle struck the tiled aisle below, echoing in the church like a shotgun blast. Guests shifted in their seats to see what was going on, some of them pointing, all of them murmuring.

Catherine gasped. “You’re hurting me.”

In an instant Stephen was beside them.

“Don’t be an idiot, Derek. Let go of her arm.” He never raised his voice, in fact he lowered it, and he seemed all the more menacing because of it.

“This isn’t your concern, cousin. It’s a simple misunderstanding between Catherine and me. We don’t require your interference.”

“I’ll be the one to decide that.”

Stephen stepped between them, forcing Derek to break his hold on her arm.

Catherine expelled a breath, still too stunned to believe what had just occurred. Over Stephen’s shoulder she stared at Derek, feeling as if she were truly seeing him for the first time. There was no denying he was a beautiful man, with sun-kissed hair and eyes a clear crystal-blue. Had all that physical perfection and his considerable charm somehow blinded her to the ugliness she now saw in his sneering visage?

He glared first at Stephen and then at her, and she could not help but recall the story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, for he seemed so different from the man who had swept her off her feet with words of love and eyes full of adoration.

At last something—manners? breeding?—resurrected itself. His tone hushed, he said, “Have it your way, cousin. I don’t really need her anyway.”

Need? What an odd way to put it. Before Catherine could puzzle through what he meant by that strange and hurtful statement, he was calling out, “The wedding is off. Catherine and I regret the inconvenience to you all and thank you for your understanding. Please accept our apologies.”

The church erupted in full-fledged conversations now. The talk was no longer library-quiet but ball-game-loud, as guests traded speculation about the doomed couple.

Stephen lingered beside Catherine after Derek had stalked away, although he looked uncomfortable to be there.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded stiffly, even as her heart seemed to shatter into a million jagged pieces.

“I got a note telling me to meet Derek here for a surprise. I thought maybe he’d bought me a gift, something he wanted me to wear down the aisle. Instead, I found him…”

She sucked in a breath, still not quite able to believe what she had witnessed. All that passion, and for a virtual stranger. Had she ever inspired that kind of excitement in her prospective groom? Had she ever felt it in return? Those questions as much as Derek’s infidelity forced a sob from her lips. She covered her mouth, muffling another.

“Can I get someone for you? Your mother, perhaps?”

“Dear God!” It came out half-sob, half-hysterical laugh. “Why don’t you just dump me over the rail along with my bouquet?”

Her mother was probably hyperventilating at this point. And her poor father had probably fainted dead away after realizing they’d just blown hundreds of thousands of dollars, much of it non-refundable, on a wedding that would never take place. At least he would have all that twelve-year-old Scotch to commiserate with. For a daughter who had spent a lifetime trying to please her difficult parents, she’d certainly made a mess of things.

“I’ll take that as a no.” A ghost of a smile hovered on his lips.

They were nice lips, a little fuller than most men’s, softening the otherwise hard lines of his face. Catherine could only recall having half a dozen conversations with Stephen, all of them about polite, neutral topics. The cousins didn’t share the same interests or circle of friends, but whenever she did spend time in his company, or whenever she ran into him while visiting Derek at the Danbury building, she found herself undeniably drawn to Stephen.

She sensed a sadness about him, a loneliness that she always assumed resulted from losing his mother and father as a boy and being raised by his stodgy grandparents. It was in Catherine’s nature to soothe, to nurture, to comfort. That was the source of the odd attraction, she’d told herself when she’d first begun to feel it. Now, with her emotions reeling, she wasn’t so sure. In fact, she wasn’t sure of anything.

He cleared his throat, and she realized she had been staring at him.

Summoning up her manners, Catherine said, “Thank you for what you did just now. I don’t know what came over Derek, grabbing my arm that way.”

“Did he hurt you?”

Her arm ached, but she resisted the urge to rub it. “No, not really,” she lied. “I hope there won’t be a strain between the two of you because of this?”

Again that enigmatic smile lurked, although this time she thought he seemed a little resigned. “I’m sure this won’t change a thing.”

“Well, thank you anyway.”

Stephen watched her leave, spilling out the train of white silk as she walked down the stairs. He knew from his aunt’s endless chatter that the gown was an original, designed especially for this bride. The small pearl buttons that ran the length of Catherine’s slender spine were the real thing, as were the tiny pearls that edged the neckline. He wondered if it disappointed Catherine that no one would see its beauty this day as she glided down the aisle on her father’s arm. He knew it would most women of her sort.

Debutante. The word alone left a sour taste in his mouth. Admittedly, his opinion of Catherine was colored by his opinion of his cousin. Any woman who would consent to marry Derek surely had to be as shallow and self-centered as he. Still, Stephen was glad she’d discovered what kind of man her prospective groom really was before making a lifetime commitment. Stephen’s regard for her had jumped several notches, watching her dump Derek just before the “I dos” were exchanged. She had literally lost a fortune by doing so, regardless of the prenuptial agreement she had signed.

Downstairs, people were already streaming from the pews, many of them heading straight for her, with pity pinching their mouths into thin smiles. Stephen felt a twinge of it for her as well. No one should be forced to listen graciously to trite and in some cases insincere condolences right after what Catherine had been through. But as he watched her summon up what he thought of as her serene society expression he knew she would handle this with her usual cool grace. That was what debs did, and Catherine Canton did it better than most.

Turning, he saw his aunt heading in his direction, high heels clicking on the tile floor. If not for the Botox injections Marguerite Bledsoe Danbury had had to reduce the wrinkles on her forehead and around her eyes, he knew she would be scowling. But the injections had frozen her face into an eerie mask of youthful blankness. Add to that the signature red hair, which she wore longer than most women her age, and a figure that had been liposuctioned and tucked to trimness, and she appeared a good fifteen years younger than her fifty-nine years.

“A word with you, please,” she said when she reached him. Snagging Stephen’s sleeve, she led him to a corner, which provided a modicum of privacy.

“Where is Derek?” Despite that bland expression, her eyes burned with fury.

“I haven’t seen him since he left the choir loft,” Stephen replied. He’d bet his inheritance his cousin was long gone, leaving it to others to clean up his latest mess. His aunt must have reached that conclusion, too.

“There are a dozen reporters and photographers, most of them tabloid, hanging around outside, waiting for a shot of the new Mrs. Danbury. I want Catherine out of here. Now.”

Her first concern, as always, was herself. The young woman who would have become her daughter-in-law was now merely a liability to be dealt with.

“I’m sure her parents will take her home.”

“See that they do.”

It was not a request but a command. Marguerite never asked Stephen for anything. She made demands and expected her demands to be met without question or complaint. Stephen acceded to her wishes, even though he thought Catherine might have had enough of the Danburys for one day. Still, he’d rather she had to face him than his aunt.

He heard Catherine’s voice as he approached the bride’s room. The emotion he’d detected earlier, when he’d overheard her conversation with Derek, had been carefully edited out. “I’m fine, Mother, really.”

“It’s too bad about the wedding,” her younger sister Felicity said. “You look stunning in that dress.”

Stephen rapped his knuckles on the semi-open door. “Excuse me,” he said. “May I come in?”

Catherine glanced over at him and he witnessed for a brief instant the strain she otherwise hid so well. She smiled, revealing an odd little dimple just to the left of her chin, a small bit of imperfection that somehow only enhanced the beauty of her classical Grace Kelly features.

“Of course.”

He stepped into the room, closing the door.

“Stephen, dear, I was just telling Catherine not to let this little indiscretion ruin things,” her mother said. “She and Derek can put this behind them.”

In their social sphere, he knew, infidelity was often brushed under the rug. Wives weren’t supposed to make waves, at least not publicly, and husbands were supposed to be discreet in their dalliances. Times might have changed, but obviously that was the pabulum still being force-fed to each new batch of old-money debs.

“I hope she doesn’t share your opinion,” he said, his gaze never leaving Catherine’s.

“Well, I do,” Felicity said. “I’d marry him, and keep this incident as leverage.”

Catherine’s sister was eighteen years old, and though he’d only met her on a couple of occasions just before the wedding, she appeared to be as spoiled as she was outspoken.

Catherine sent Stephen a bemused smile, but said nothing as her sister and mother continued to chatter on about the mistake she was making.

“My aunt sent me to tell you there is a limousine outside when you are ready to leave. The tabloid photographers are lining up, and surely more are on the way.”

“Oh, dear,” her mother said, fanning her face. “This is such an embarrassment.”

Catherine looked embarrassed, all right, but Stephen didn’t think it had anything to do with Derek at that moment. She reached up, as if to take off her veil.

“I wouldn’t take the time to change,” Stephen advised, knowing full well that a woman in shorts and a tank top could require half an hour. Who knew how long a woman in full wedding regalia would need to undress?

“He’s right, Catherine. Gather up your things. You can change at the house. Felicity, go find your father.”

“The house?” A pair of finely arched brows shot up in question. “I’d like to go back to my apartment, Mother. I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to be alone.”

“Nonsense. You’ll come to the house.”

It was if she hadn’t spoken at all, Stephen thought. Worse, it was as if she were a child, rather than a grown woman of twenty-eight. He watched as she turned and began to gather up her belongings, but then she dumped them back onto the vanity and marched to the door.

“Where are you going?” Deirdra Canton called.

Catherine’s gaze never strayed from Stephen’s. “I’m leaving. Now. I’ll call you in the morning.”

Stephen didn’t say a word. He simply opened the door, took Catherine by the arm and led her away.

“Thank you,” she said a moment later. “That’s twice you’ve come to my rescue today.”

He shrugged off her appreciation. “Don’t thank me yet. We still have to outwit the paparazzi.”

He hustled her out the rectory door, but the photographers, as if scenting blood, were already there. Stephen blocked as much of their view of her as possible, holding her close and hovering around her like a bodyguard.

“Get in the limo,” he said, all but pushing her inside the door he’d already opened. Behind them flashes popped and people shouted out their names.

Inside, even with the tinted windows, she huddled low on the seat opposite his, looking shell-shocked and shaken.

“I never dreamed this would be how I left the church on my wedding day. I feel like some hideous car crash, gawked at and then gossiped over.”

“Hideous” was hardly the word that came to his mind as he looked at her lovely oval face, with its finely arched eyebrows and dark-fringed eyes the color of sapphires. A man could drown in those eyes. He glanced away. Perhaps Derek had, and that was why he’d considered trading in bachelorhood for permanent couple status when monogamy had never been his strong suit.

“Don’t worry. It won’t last forever. Next week some major star will go into rehab and that pack of vultures will be waiting outside the Betty Ford.”

She let out a startled laugh. “Is that supposed to be the bright side?”

“Only if you’re a desperate optimist. Where do you want to go? I don’t suggest returning to your apartment for a while.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m open to ideas.”

To the chauffeur he said, “Drive around for a while, but start heading toward the Belmont Yacht Club.”

“The yacht club?”

“Trust me.”

“Why not? What else have I got to do this evening?” she said, her tone dry, her eyes suddenly starting to mist.

He fished a white handkerchief from one of his pockets and handed it to her. “Here.”

“I’m not crying,” she said, sounding slightly offended. But she didn’t look at him, and even in profile he could see a tear slip down her pale cheek.

An hour later they arrived at the Belmont Yacht Club, a small and exclusive marina just north of the city. Catherine had been to the club a number of times with Derek, who docked his fifty-four-foot cabin cruiser there, and her own family retained a membership, even though their yacht had been sold when the stock market plummeted, taking a good portion of their heavily invested fortune with it. But she hadn’t realized Stephen also boated. He corrected her immediately when she made the observation aloud.

“I sail.”

That surprised her even more. Of course, sailing would suit someone as quiet and self-contained as Stephen, but his parents, as well as Derek’s father, had died in a sailing accident on this very lake when the boys were barely out of diapers.

He helped her from the limo, and then spoke to the driver as she tried to smooth out the crumpled silk of her dress.

“Meet us back here around one.” Handing the man a sizable tip, he added, “And if anyone asks, you never saw us.”

He grabbed the champagne that had been chilling in an ice bucket in the back of the limo and started for the waterfront, leaving her with little choice but to follow him. Along the way they passed a couple of bikini-clad young women, coming in from a lazy day spent out on the lake.

“Congratulations!” one called. To her companion she murmured, “I wonder which boat they’re going to be rocking?”

And Catherine realized how it must look: Stephen in a tuxedo; she wearing her wedding finery. It was as if they were a couple, setting out for a romantic sunset cruise on Lake Michigan to toast their nuptials and kick off their honeymoon in style.

He must have realized it, too. His gaze swerved to hers, held for a lingering moment, but he said nothing.

Several slips down from Derek’s luxurious cruiser, he swung aboard a graceful sailboat. It was much smaller than Derek’s yacht, which took a five-man crew to operate. But at thirty-eight feet, it could hardly be considered little.

Standing on the dock, Catherine said, “What do you call her?”

“La Libertad.”

The foreign name rolled from his tongue, sounding like poetry, and he stared at her afterward. His gaze seemed defiant, although she couldn’t have said why.

“That’s Spanish for freedom, right?”

“Freedom.” He nodded.

“She’s a beauty. Do you take her out often?”

“As often as I can, which isn’t as often as I like. And the season seems to get shorter every year.”

“Are we going for a sail?”

“That’s my plan.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know a mast from a jib.”

“I’ve got it covered. Don’t worry.” He motioned for her to step closer. “Here, let me help you board. We wouldn’t want you to wind up bobbing around in Lake Michigan in that gown.”

He surprised her with a smile as he said it, reaching out for her waist to help her aboard. She rested her hands on his shoulders, transfixed by the rare smile and offering one of her own in return. Neither of them saw the photographer until they heard the unmistakable whirring of a camera’s motor.

“Oh, no! Stop!” Catherine cried, bringing up her hands to shield her face.

Stephen’s exclamation was far more graphic. And from his murderous expression she thought he might hop back onto the deck and dump the guy in Lake Michigan, camera and all.

“Get below,” he called, pushing her in the direction of the cabin.

The man snapped off several more frames before Stephen managed to shove off from the dock. But Catherine had a feeling the first shot, the one of Stephen smiling as his hands spanned her waist, would be the one that graced the cover of whatever publication the guy worked for. She could only imagine what the accompanying copy would say, especially if the camera angle had also caught her smiling back.

Stephen might prefer sailing, but he used the boat’s motor to take them out to open waters. Lake Michigan’s vastness was the perfect place to hide in plain sight from the paparazzi. They could hear and see any approaching watercraft long before anyone aboard could click their picture.

She came above deck when she was sure they were safely out of range of even a telephoto lens, and settled onto one of the white padded benches near the wheel where Stephen stood. Just for a moment he reminded her of a pirate. He had shed his suit coat and black tie, and opened the collar of his white shirt, exposing more golden-brown skin. His cuffs were rolled to the forearm. The look on his face was one of relaxed satisfaction. Where he had looked debonair in a tuxedo, now he simply looked dangerous.

Arranging the folds of her gown around her on the bench, she thought it a pity that her own clothing was not so easily converted to casual. She had taken off the veil and tried to bustle her gown without much success. But at least she had finally shed those crippling shoes.

They were still using the boat’s low-horsepower motor, which made their progress relatively slow. The motor was only intended for days when the wind failed to co-operate. That wasn’t a problem on this evening. She had little doubt that if they had hoisted the sails they would have been halfway to Michigan by now. The wind was strong, breaking small white-caps in the water around them. It ruffled Stephen’s dark hair, and it was probably wreaking havoc with the intricate style she’d spent the better part of the morning with a hairdresser to achieve.

“Ever sail before?” he asked.

“Once, as a child, in a small boat my uncle owned. I remember watching the sail tilt almost parallel to the water.”

“Exciting, isn’t it?”

She recalled only terror and an upset stomach. “I thought I was going to die.”

“Well, it’s not for everyone.”

“But it suits you,” she said. And it did. He didn’t look quite so remote with the wind making his hair dance and excitement lighting up his dark eyes.

“I opened the champagne.” He motioned to the small table in front of her. She couldn’t imagine what they had to toast, and she said as much, but he merely shrugged. “There are glasses in the galley, first cupboard on the right, if you wouldn’t mind getting them.”

When she stood to fetch them she stumbled on her dress. Even as her fingers curled around the rail she felt his hands grip her waist, spanning it as he had when he’d helped her board. He turned her slowly and she caught the subtle scent of his aftershave.

“Steady now.”

“If only Vera Wang would make a gown suitable for sailing,” she quipped, suddenly ill at ease.

“If you want to take it off, I have something a little more comfortable you can wear.”

Had the line come from Derek’s mouth it would have been accompanied by a wolfish grin. Stephen merely waited patiently for her reply, no ulterior motive seeming to lurk in his steady gaze. Yet none of her discomfort left.

“That’s probably a good idea.”

He cut the motor and lowered the anchor before following her below deck, where he gave her the grand tour in under a minute. The cabin had two sleeping quarters, a tiny stall of a bathroom, and a main area that functioned as both kitchen and living room.

“It’s small, but efficient,” he said as if reading her mind. “And, unlike Derek, I don’t need an entire crew to take her out.”

That distinction would be important to him, she decided.

He opened the door to the bathroom and pulled a white terry-cloth robe from a hook on the wall. Handing it to her, he said, “I don’t think my clothes will fit you. But this should do, even though it’s bound to be too big, too.”

When he started to leave, she cleared her throat. “Stephen. I…need your help.”

He turned slowly, and her breath caught. Limned in the light that streamed from above deck, he seemed otherworldly. And she was about to ask him to help her out of her clothes.

“The buttons.” She motioned over her shoulder. “I can’t undo them by myself.” With a rueful laugh that she hoped would lighten the mood, she admitted, “It took the assistance of two of my bridesmaids to get into this thing.”

He said nothing, merely nodded. She turned as he approached, glad to present him with her back, since she felt suddenly awkward and shy. Perhaps that was because her groom should have been the one to help her out of the dress. Indeed, the exercise could have been considered foreplay.

Stephen obviously didn’t consider it to be any such thing. He worked in silence, and swiftly, considering his hands were large and the pearls small and slippery.

At the base of her spine, however, he paused, lingered. And she thought she understood why.

“It’s a birthmark.” The words were barely above a whisper. With a self-conscious laugh, she admitted, “And the reason I’ve never worn a bikini in my life.”

She could have sworn she felt a fingertip gently trace the large heart-shaped freckle that marred her lower back. But then he was handing her the robe.

“Come up when you’re ready.”

He stopped to retrieve two wineglasses from one of the cupboards in the small galley and then he was gone. Alone, Catherine expelled a breath and tried to find a rational explanation for her shaking hands and pounding heart.

He was sipping champagne when she came above deck, wearing his robe. As he had predicted, it was much too large for her. At five-seven, she hardly considered herself petite, but it dwarfed her frame, hanging nearly to her ankles. Beneath its hem, her bare feet peeked out.

“I poured you a glass.” He motioned to a seat across from his. On the small table between them sat the champagne bottle and an amber-filled flute. He raised his own and sipped again. She sat as well, pulling the robe tightly around her knees, and did the same.

“This can’t be how you intended to spend your evening.”

He shrugged. “The same could be said for you.”

“No.” She smiled sadly. “I thought I’d be Mrs. Derek Danbury by this time, listening to the musicians my mother hired slaughter ‘We’ve Only Just Begun.’ I can only imagine how upset she and my father are right now.”

“I’ll apologize for my cousin’s poor behavior.”

She sipped her champagne, enjoying the warmth it spread through her system. “Why should you? It’s not your fault.”

“No,” he agreed. “But he’s a fool. You made a beautiful bride, Catherine.”

The compliment came as a surprise, as he didn’t seem the sort to issue one easily. And so it warmed her, or perhaps that was just the champagne.

“Thank you. It was the dress. Who wouldn’t look good wearing Vera Wang?”

“It was more than the dress,” she thought he said, but the wind stole his words. Or maybe that was just what her bruised ego needed to hear.

The waves lapped against the boat’s hull, rocking them gently. The rhythm and the wine made her sleepy, but she kept up her end of the conversation, even when he steered it to politics, business practices and current events. They were safe topics, and far more interesting than the usual polite small talk she’d encountered from men, who apparently thought because she wore a bra it meant she couldn’t read a newspaper.

It was growing dark, and nearly half of the champagne was gone, but she held out her glass when he presented her with the bottle. After he’d filled it halfway, she said, “If we were at the reception you’d offer a toast.”

He shook his head. “I wasn’t the best man.”

For some reason she wanted to dispute his words. In the end she said, “But as a Danbury surely you would have been expected to speak? What would you have said? I’d like to know.”

“I would have wished you every happiness,” he replied solemnly, dutifully. And she believed him.

“And now? What is there to toast now?”

She’d asked the question before, but this time Stephen had an answer. Holding up his glass, he said, “La Libertad.”

The word rolled slowly from his tongue, the R a seductive purr that raised gooseflesh on her arms and left her to wonder whether he meant the sailboat that had spirited her away from reality or her near-brush with matrimony.

“La Libertad,” she repeated, her accent not nearly as perfected. She swallowed the last of her champagne and settled her head back against the cushions. Closing her eyes, she said, “I like the sound of that.”

Chapter Two

FROM the window of his office, high in the Danbury Building, Stephen watched a sailboat slice through the choppy waves on Lake Michigan. He envied those on board, wishing he could be out there as well, harnessing the wind, outrunning old demons. Soon, too soon, August would give way to September, and then summer to autumn. Not long after that the world would become dormant, La Libertad would be put into storage, and ice would make Stephen’s favorite place inaccessible for the next several months.

Unbidden came the memory of Catherine Canton, and the way she had looked wearing his bathrobe on that sultry July evening when they had hidden from the paparazzi aboard La Libertad.

They’d talked for a few hours, before he’d sailed the boat to port and taken her home. In that time they’d finished the bottle of champagne, and he’d glimpsed the woman beneath all the polish and panache. In addition to her dry sense of humor she possessed a quick wit. She was far smarter, far deeper, far more interesting than he had given her credit for being.

Debutante. The label no longer fit quite so neatly. Or perhaps his admittedly biased definition had changed. Before that night he’d written her off as beautiful, but shallow. But a shallow woman did not keep up on current events, or follow politics. Nor was she merely a fashionable woman, more interested in weekly manicures and facials than substantive issues. She knew designers and followed the latest clothing trends, he was sure, but she also understood branding, and in a brief conversation aboard a sailboat, relaxed by sparkling wine, she’d shown more insight into why Danbury’s was losing customers to its competitors than many of the people in his own marketing department did.

He’d found himself on the verge of calling her more than once during the past several weeks, to pick that finely tuned brain. In the end he hadn’t needed to. She’d called him.

Stephen glanced at his watch. Eleven-fifteen. He would be meeting her in less than an hour for lunch. The invitation had surprised him and left him intrigued. Business, she’d said. What exactly did she want? He shrugged into his suit coat. He would find out soon enough.

Catherine discreetly flipped open her compact and checked her appearance again as she waited in the restaurant for Stephen to arrive. Why she should be nervous about seeing him, she didn’t know. This was business, after all. And yet she’d chosen a flowered silk dress rather than a conservatively cut suit. Okay, so maybe she had a little crush on her fiancé’s—ex-fiancé’s—cousin. It would never amount to anything, of course. They were too different. And yet, after spending that time with him aboard La Libertad, she couldn’t help but wonder if, beneath it all, they might be very alike.

She dismissed that thought immediately as she watched him enter the restaurant. Stephen Danbury didn’t walk so much as stalk, like a big black panther taking stock of his surroundings as he followed the hostess through the crowded dining room. Confident, powerful, in full command. He was a force to be reckoned with. His dark gaze panned the room before settling on her, and Catherine sucked in a breath which she held until he reached their table.

“Your waiter will be with you in a moment,” the hostess said. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Coffee, black.”

When they were alone, he said, “Hello, Catherine.”

She held out a hand that was swallowed up in his and offered a smile.

“It’s good to see you again, Stephen. And thank you for meeting with me. I know your schedule is very busy.”

“I always have time for an intriguing offer.”

He seemed to hold her hand a moment longer than was necessary, before finally releasing it and settling into the chair opposite hers.

“What is this business you’d like to discuss?”

No idle chit-chat for him. She’d counted on small talk and pleasantries to carry them through at least the appetizer. By then she’d hoped to have sufficiently screwed up her courage. She pleated the linen napkin in her lap, a show of nerves she was grateful he could not see.

“Well, as you know, I am the executive director of the Safe Haven Women’s Shelter. Our facility houses abused women and their children, helping them get back on their feet emotionally and financially once they’ve left an abusive relationship.”

“A noble effort,” he replied, but she couldn’t tell from his expression if he meant the words or if he was just being polite.

“We can accommodate up to fifty women and their children. That might seem like a lot, but in a city the size of Chicago it’s just a drop in the bucket. In fact, we’re full at the moment and we have a waiting list.”

“I’m familiar with the shelter and its work,” he said.

“Oh.” Catherine took a sip of water before continuing. “Then perhaps you are aware that the building we call home is old and in need of substantial repair. I’ve implemented a fund-raising plan that has helped tremendously. We encourage companies to ‘adopt’ different apartments in the facility and then refurbish them. Sometimes it’s as simple as a fresh coat of paint, carpeting and new bedding. Other rooms need furniture, window treatments, plumbing repairs, light fixtures, rewiring, et cetera. It’s a write-off for the companies that participate, and I try to make sure their efforts get adequate coverage in the local media.”

“That’s a clever plan.”

“I can’t take credit for it. Other communities are doing it with great success. I heard about it at a conference I attended.”

“It’s still a good idea. And you were smart enough to recognize that.”

She smiled, ridiculously pleased with the compliment. “Thank you.”

The waiter arrived with Stephen’s coffee and took their lunch orders, giving Catherine time to mentally prepare the rest of her pitch.

“Recently we received a grant that will cover most of the repair costs for the boiler, so now the roof is our number one priority. It began leaking in the spring, and we had some patching done, but the contractor told us the entire thing should be replaced.”

“Roofs can be very expensive.”

Catherine cleared her throat and took a sip of her ice water. “Yes, very. Especially on an old building whose structural integrity could be compromised if repairs aren’t made soon.”

“Which brings us to the point of our lunch meeting, I presume?” He smiled, but his eyes remained unreadable.

“We’re hoping Danbury’s can help us with a monetary donation that will cover part or all of the roof repairs. I’ll personally make sure press releases are sent to the Tribune and Sun-Times, as well as local televisions stations. I’ve received three estimates from reputable contractors.” She pulled papers from her slim leather case and handed them to him.

“You’ve done your homework.”

“I try to be prepared.”

He glanced up, his gaze steady. “I enjoy a woman who’s prepared.”

Nothing in his inscrutable expression revealed whether the double entendre was intentional, but Catherine felt her face grow warm.

“May I keep these?”

When she nodded, he folded the papers and tucked them into his breast pocket without another word.

“You don’t need to make a decision right now,” she said.

“I didn’t plan to.” He shifted forward in his seat, leaning over the small table. “Can I ask you something personal, Catherine?”

Her pulse hitched. “Yes.”

She realized that she had leaned forward as well when she felt his warm breath on her face as he said, “Why didn’t you ever ask Derek about this? He was your fiancé, after all. Talk about a trump card.”

She leaned back. “I did. Twice.”

Stephen’s dark eyebrows shot up. “He never mentioned it to me.”

“He kept saying he’d get back to me.” She gazed at the linen napkin that lay in twisted heap in her lap. “I don’t think he took my work seriously.”

“Tonto,” he muttered.

“If I’m remembering correctly from my high school Spanish class, you just called Derek a fool.”

His use of the word surprised Catherine. Not many people resorted to a foreign language to issue an insult. Nonetheless, she enjoyed her first relaxed smile in more than an hour. Stephen, however, didn’t smile. There was nothing teasing or relaxed about his dark gaze when it connected with hers.

“You’re a woman to be taken seriously.”

They were simple words, issued as a simple statement, and they left her simply staggered.

Late on Friday afternoon, Stephen studied the estimates Catherine had given him as he waited for his cousin to arrive. It was ten to five, and he planned to spend the weekend on his sailboat, so he hoped Derek wouldn’t be late.

It surprised him that Derek had formally requested a meeting, and at this time of day besides. His cousin’s weekend generally started on Thursday and lasted till Tuesday. And if he wanted to see Stephen he usually just barged into his office unannounced, flattering his way around his secretary if Stephen had asked not to be disturbed. But this time he’d sent word a day in advance, neatly typed on company stationary, no less, that he would like to meet in Stephen’s office at five o’clock Friday. He had ensured Stephen’s attendance by dangling this intriguing little carrot: he wanted to discuss the future of the company.

Stephen hadn’t thought his cousin cared about the department store chain their grandfather’s father had founded as much as he cared about the trust fund that kept him in designer suits and Swiss Alps ski vacations. When their grandfather had died two years earlier, he’d left Stephen at the helm of the faltering chain, with Derek second in command. Derek’s title was officially vice president, but he generally left the day-to-day operations and all of the crucial decisionmaking to Stephen and the rest of the management team. He was no intellectual lightweight, but he’d made it clear he wanted the Danbury lifestyle far more than the burden of the legacy.

Stephen closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to ward off the headache that was already threatening. The truth was that the struggling department store chain might not be able to ensure Derek’s lavish spending much longer without a major turnaround. Marguerite had been making noise about selling in recent months. So far Stephen had been able to block the move. Admittedly, it went beyond pure business for him. He was not about to give up the birthright he was still striving to prove to his dead grandfather he was entitled to.

He figured this meeting would probably be an attempt by Derek to wheedle him around to a sale, so he wasn’t surprised when his cousin walked through the door followed by Marguerite. What did surprise him, though, was that they had brought with them the Danburys’ longtime family attorney, Lyle Moore.

Stephen sent his aunt a polite smile and motioned toward the small conference table tucked into the corner of his office. Turning to Lyle, he said, “This is unexpected. I didn’t know you were coming by today.”

The man who had handled everything from Derek’s prenuptial agreement to the cousins’ trust funds barely spared him a glance. He seemed uncomfortable, nervous, even, and when he finally offered a hand its palm was damp and clammy.

“Can I get anyone a drink?” Stephen asked.

The attorney shook his balding head, and Marguerite declined as well, but Derek flashed a cocky grin. “I’ll take one. To celebrate.”

Warning bells were going off in Stephen’s head, though he couldn’t figure out why. But the malicious amusement in Derek’s light eyes made him wary.

“You know where it is.”

Derek poured himself a brandy at the bar discreetly tucked behind a door in the paneled wall. When he was lounging in his seat, swirling amber liquid in a snifter, Lyle unsnapped the flaps of the overstuffed leather case balanced on his knees and pulled out a document.

He cleared his throat and began, “You’ve seen this before, of course.”

“Grandfather’s will.” Stephen’s stomach knotted.

“Then you know what Sunday is.”

“Sunday?”

“It’s your birthday,” Derek supplied, his grin reminiscent of a shark’s. “I never forget it because it comes just one day before mine.”

The attorney cleared his throat a second time, and flipped through the papers he’d laid on the table before him.

“Um, as you know, since you are the oldest, your grandfather left you the controlling interest in Danbury’s when he died two years ago, with Derek and his mother’s portion totaling forty-nine percent of the assets.”

“I believe we covered this at the time, Lyle.”

“Yes, but the terms of the…um…codicil have not been met.”

“Codicil? There was no codicil.”

The lawyer ignored him and went on. “Your grandfather felt since you boys were born only one day apart—and you had come a few weeks premature, Stephen—he should make things a little more fair for Derek.”

Stephen almost laughed aloud. Fair? His grandfather had always shown a preference for Derek, who looked so much like a Danbury should look, with his golden hair and sky-colored eyes. Stephen favored his mother, a sticking point with the old man, which was why Stephen had been surprised—shocked, even—when the will had been read two years earlier. Despite his obvious bias toward Derek, Maxwell had followed family tradition by giving the oldest Danbury heir control of the family empire. Stephen hadn’t been the only one caught off guard. As he recalled his aunt had all but swooned at the time. Derek, however, had seemed to take it all in his stride.

“Your grandfather saw Danbury’s as a family business, and he was troubled that neither of his grandsons was married and starting the next generation.”

Stephen nearly smiled, remembering the arguments that had often occurred after Sunday dinner, at which some dreamy-eyed debutante or another would have turned up at the table.

“Yes, he believed it should remain a family enterprise, passed from one generation of Danburys to the next,” Stephen agreed. Shooting Derek a look, he added, “He didn’t want to see the company sold.”

The lawyer pulled a pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket and settled them on his nose.

“Yes, well, your grandfather wanted to ensure its future through your and Derek’s children. Unfortunately, neither of you has married and produced legitimate heirs at this point.”

“So?”

Lyle glanced up nervously, but didn’t maintain eye contact. “Well, you know how Maxwell could be. He thought perhaps a little incentive would move things along.”

“Just cut to the chase, Lyle,” Stephen said impatiently.

Derek’s grin broadened. “Yes, Lyle, get to the good part.”

“Well, as per the terms of the codicil, if by your thirty-fifth birthdays one of you was legally married, and hopefully but not necessarily on the way to fatherhood, he would inherit not just the controlling interest in Danbury’s but all of it, with the exception of the five percent already willed to Marguerite.”

“What are you talking about?”

The lawyer ignored Stephen’s outburst and continued.

“If both of you were married the terms of the original will would stand. But if neither of you were married, which is the case, you were to share the remaining ninety-five percent interest in Danbury’s equally.”

“That’s a lie!” Stephen’s fist pounded the tabletop, followed by an oath.

The lawyer jumped, but he continued in a shaky voice, “You turn thirty-five on Sunday, Derek on Monday. The codicil states—”

“Let me clarify it for him, Lyle,” Derek interrupted. He held up his glass of brandy, as if to offer a toast. “As of Sunday, Mother and I own the controlling interest in Danbury’s.”

“Shut up, Derek,” Stephen said between gritted teeth.

Lyle blotted perspiration from his forehead with a neatly folded handkerchief. “I’m sure Max didn’t add this stipulation to create discord. He was just thinking about the company, and both of you, of course. He wanted to see you married and happy.”

“What Grandfather thought or didn’t think is irrelevant. There’s no codicil, Lyle, and you damn well know it.” Standing, he faced the men sitting across from him. One was grinning smugly. The other was swallowing almost convulsively. Next to them his aunt smiled serenely, thanks to the Botox that had paralyzed a good portion of her facial muscles, but nothing could mask the triumph flashing in her eyes.

“It’s there in black and white, dear, and signed by Maxwell. I can’t believe you could have forgotten about it,” she said with false sympathy.

“I didn’t forget. I have a copy of the will in my safe at home, and there’s no codicil. If that codicil is real I was never informed of its existence.”

“Three people in this room remember things differently,” Derek said.

“I don’t know what kind of game the two of you are playing.” Turning to the attorney, he added, “And I don’t know how they managed to rope you into this. But I’ll take this to court if need be.”

“Take it to court.” Marguerite shrugged. “Everyone who knows Max will find this to be just the type of thing that controlling old man would do. He was never above using a little high-handed pressure to get his way. Truthfully, I’m surprised you didn’t bend to his will. You could easily have ensured a larger inheritance by getting married. You could have married the maid, even. Oh, but that’s been done, hasn’t it?”

“Leave my mother out of this,” Stephen warned.

“So defensive.” Marguerite tsked. “I didn’t mean to dredge up the past. It’s just that you were always so pathetically eager to do Maxwell’s bidding when he was alive, as if by jumping through all the hoops he set out you could somehow win his approval.” She pursed a pair of pouty, collagen-filled lips. “But all he had to do was look at you to know why you weren’t an acceptable Danbury heir.”

Stephen pushed aside the old fury and struggled to concentrate on the matter at hand.

“Grandfather would have wanted the company to stay in the family, Lyle. Even assuming this codicil is real, surely you understand what these two barracudas are up to? And you know I was never informed.”

The attorney glanced up, and then away. But before he did, Stephen thought he saw regret and apology in his gaze.

“As Maxwell’s attorney, it’s not my place to question his motives or what results from them. I’m sorry things did not work out as you would have liked them to, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Nothing,” he repeated on a shaky sigh.

“Fine, this meeting is over, then.” Stephen stalked to the door, yanked it open and glared back at his cousin and his aunt. “Danbury’s is still mine to run until a court of law says otherwise. And it’s not for sale.”

“Don’t be so sure. Fieldman’s has made another offer,” Derek replied, naming one of Danbury’s most formidable competitors. For a man who rarely stumbled into the office for more than a few hours at a time he was suddenly very well versed in Danbury’s financial status, the specifics of the federal bankruptcy code, and just how close Danbury’s was coming to having to file for Chapter Eleven.

“Fieldman’s wants a bigger slice of the market and it’s in a position to pay handsomely to get it. We drag our feet much longer and there will just be bones for the scavengers to fight over. I don’t intend to wait that long.”

“Danbury’s isn’t dead yet. The name is solid. It resonates with consumers.”

“It resonates with consumers sixty and older, so it might as well be dead. Among eighteen to thirty-five-year-olds we’re not even on the radar. That goes double for the under-eighteen market and all their wonderful disposable income.”

“We can turn it around. How can you even consider selling out?”

“Money,” Derek said succinctly. “I’ve taken the liberty of setting up a meeting with Fieldman’s people on Tuesday. I’m taking Monday off, since it’s my birthday and I plan to be celebrating. They’re coming to us, ten a.m. sharp. Get used to the idea, cousin. We’re going to sell.”

“We’ll see about that,” Stephen replied.

Chapter Three

CATHERINE wasn’t sure why she’d come. She could have called Stephen with the additional estimate she’d received on the shelter’s roof. As for his robe, which she’d worn home from their evening on La Libertad, it could have been sent by messenger. But here she stood, in front of his home in one of Chicago’s toniest suburbs, a good forty-minute commute from the city, so she couldn’t possibly claim to have been “just in the neighborhood.”

She’d been to Stephen’s Tudor-style home only a few times, for company management parties he’d hosted while she and Derek were dating. Still, it surprised her to find that he lived on a quiet elm-lined drive where the estates were huge and ivy-covered but still managed to look homey and inviting. Derek lived in the city, in a penthouse apartment high above the throbbing nightlife and bustling streets. She called the city home as well, but she’d always hoped to again live someplace with a rolling green lawn and lush flower gardens to tend.

Catherine grinned when a yellow Labrador retriever streaked down the redbrick drive to greet her as she stepped from her car. She’d always believed she was a dog person at heart, even though her only pet as a child had been a finicky Persian cat her mother had named Cashmere.

“Hey, girl,” she said, bending down to stroke the dog’s wide head. The Lab instantly dropped to the ground and rolled over, eager for a belly rub. “Ah, boy,” she amended. “Your master busy?”

Stephen’s car was in the circular drive just ahead of hers. She straightened and started for the rounded steps of the front porch, noticing for the first time that that the door was wide open.

“Stephen?”

She got no answer, so she stepped inside. His suit coat lay crumpled on an oriental rug and it appeared his briefcase had been tossed onto the long-legged table in the foyer, knocking off a vase. Shards of glass littered the marble floor, and she stepped carefully around them.

Something was wrong, seriously wrong, but almost immediately she dismissed concern over a burglary or violent struggle. Surely the dog wouldn’t have been running around outside if his master were in a fight for his life? From somewhere in the house she could hear Stephen’s raised voice. He was shouting curses, some in English, some in what sounded like Spanish—all were vicious.

Catherine called out his name a second time. She got no answer, but followed his voice down a hallway and found him in a room she assumed was his home office. He was quiet now, too quiet, as he sat in a high-backed leather chair behind an ornately carved wooden desk, elbows propped on the edge of it, face buried in his hands.

“Stephen?”

He started at the sound of her voice and straightened in his seat. The naked pain in his eyes when he glanced up so surprised her that before she could ponder if he would appreciate her interference or not she was crossing the threshold and walking to him.

“My God, Stephen, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“They did it.”

“Did what? Who?”

He looked at her, seemed to look through her.

“I don’t know how they did it, but they did it.” His words clarified nothing. Nor did it help when he motioned to the papers scattered over his desktop and added, “Even my copy of the will, the codicil’s there. They must have made the switch last month, when Derek volunteered to pick up some documents for me. I gave him the damn combination to my safe.” He swore again. “I all but handed him my birthright.”

She didn’t know what he was talking about, but that didn’t seem as important at that moment as offering comfort. She walked around the desk, laid a hand on his shoulder.

“How can I help? What can I do?”

“There’s nothing you can do.” He laughed harshly.

“There must be something.”

He shook his head, as if realizing for the first time who she was. “Why are you here, Catherine?”

She decided against mentioning the shelter’s roof. He obviously had more pressing concerns right now. So she pointed to the shopping bag she’d left just inside the door. “Your robe. I’m returning it.”

“Leave it, then.”

It was a dismissal, but she decided to ignore it.

“What can I do?” she asked again.

He didn’t answer. Instead he stood, and with a violent sweep of his arm cleared the desk. A lamp crashed to the ground, followed by a telephone, and papers fluttered like snowflakes before finally settling on the hardwood floor.

Catherine jumped back a step, shocked by Stephen’s uncharacteristic show of temper. In an instant he seemed to have gone from distraught to enraged. And in those dark eyes of his she saw fury, burning hot and lethal. And his gaze was now focused on her.

“It seems we have something in common, Catherine.”

He rolled the R in her name, making it sound almost exotic. She backed up another step as he advanced, not sure what he meant to do. When he stood directly in front of her he raised a hand, and she held her breath. But his touch was gentle when he pushed the hair back from her face and tucked it behind her ear, his fingers sliding slowly down to the end of the strand before releasing it.

“What do we have in common?” she asked softly.

“Betrayal. Derek has betrayed us both.”

He cursed again, before turning away from her and stalking to the window.

“I don’t understand.”

“Derek and his mother managed to either doctor our grandfather’s will or conceal a key provision of it from me until today.” He turned and pointed to the papers scattered over the floor. “There’s a codicil that essentially gives them the controlling interest in Danbury’s if certain conditions aren’t met by my thirty-fifth birthday, which is Sunday.”

“Any chance you can meet the conditions?”

He expelled a breath, ran one hand through his hair. Fury ebbed. He seemed resigned when he replied. “It’s not likely.”

“Okay, but surely you could go to court and challenge the will?”

“Perhaps. I’d need a new lawyer, since they seem to have bought off the one who’s been doing our family’s business for decades. It would get ugly,” he said, as if thinking aloud. “And there’s no guarantee I’d win, since I have no proof that they concealed the codicil. It’s their word against mine. In the months or even years before the matter is finally settled the press would have a field day with the story, as would our competitors. I wonder what such a bitter battle would do to Danbury’s already battered bottom line in the end?”

“I’d say your best option, then, is to try to meet the will’s conditions.”

He snorted. “Easier said than done.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what are the conditions?”

“I have to be married,” he announced. Glancing at his watch, he added, “And I have less than twenty-eight hours to do so.”

“That’s archaic—barbaric.”

“That’s my grandfather. Which is why I tend to think the codicil is authentic. Derek must have discovered it before Grandfather died and decided to make sure I didn’t know about it until it was too late. I still can’t figure out how he and his mother bought off Lyle. He’s always seemed so by the book.”

Something occurred to her then, a thought too hideous to even consider, and yet she had to know. “This condition, did it apply to Derek?”

He seemed to understand what she was asking. “I’m sorry, Catherine.”

She acknowledged his apology with a brisk nod, as hurt and fury battled for dominance. Derek’s words at the church came back to her. I don’t really need her anyway. Had everything been a lie?

She recalled her first encounter with Derek, nearly two years earlier—just a month after his grandfather’s death, she now realized. He’d bid an outrageous sum for a mediocre painting at a silent auction she’d organized to raise money for the shelter. She’d thanked him personally afterward, accepting his invitation to dinner the next day. She’d thought at last she’d found someone who shared her interests, respected her intellect and understood the importance of her work at the shelter and with other local charities that helped serve the city’s neediest residents. Had his romantic pursuit really just been a means to an end?

“What would have happened if Derek had married me?” she asked in a quiet voice.

“That’s not important.”

“Don’t try to spare my feelings, Stephen. I think I have a right to know. What would have happened?”

“He would have had it all.”

“All of Danbury’s?”

“Everything.” His gaze skimmed her features in a way that made her breath catch. “And then some.”

She thought about the prenuptial agreement she’d signed, ensuring a reasonable cash settlement but stipulating she would have no part of the family business. He would have had everything, all right.

“But without a wife he still wins, since you are unmarried as well?”

“Not as neatly. We’ll technically have an equal interest in Danbury’s. His mother’s five percent, however, will mean they get to call the shots. And they intend to sell.”

“So he would have married me just to get his hands on Danbury’s.” She shifted her gaze to Stephen. “Would you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Would you marry someone to keep the company?”

He snorted out a laugh. “I’m not even seeing anyone.”

“That didn’t stop Derek.”

“No, but he had time on his side. I’ve got just over a day. I’m not a believer in love at first sight.”

“You don’t have to love her,” she said, the cold truth settling in once and for all. “Derek didn’t love me.”

“He should have.”

His tone was so matter-of-fact that she didn’t doubt he believed it.

An idea began to take form, too outrageous to entertain, let alone voice, and yet she heard herself ask, “What kind of wife does the codicil state you need to have?”

He stared at her blankly for a moment, before shrugging. “The usual kind: female.”

“Are there any restrictions? Do you have to…stay married?”

“No, I guess not.” His brows pulled together. “But marriage should be permanent.”

His tone sounded almost wistful, and the words surprised her. Stephen Danbury seemed too much of a realist to be a romantic. But then her judgment of men was hardly reliable. After all, she’d believed the lies Derek had packaged up and delivered. But he’d never loved her. He’d never intended to honor or cherish her. He hadn’t even been capable of fidelity on their wedding day. And for his deceit he would have reaped huge rewards. Even having been caught he was still about to come out on top.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

“You could marry me.” Catherine laid a hand over her jack-hammering heart after she said it.

Stephen gaped at her, clearly as surprised as she by the suggestion. “Marry you?”

Self-conscious laughter bubbled to the surface. “You needn’t look so horrified. It’s just an idea.”

Stephen came forward until he stood just in front of her. “I’m not horrified, just surprised. I know what I’d get out of a marriage between us,” he said carefully, “but what about you? What would you get out of it?”

“I’m not expecting anything financially. I do earn a salary at the shelter, and I have some money from a small inheritance my grandmother left me.”

“I didn’t think you were after money, otherwise you would have married Derek even after finding him with the wedding planner. But why would you want to marry me?”

Helping people. That was what she did. She often put herself on the line for the underdog, albeit never quite so personally. And then there was the way her pulse hitched whenever he looked at her in that intense way of his. But attraction alone was no reason to marry. Why was she willing to do this? She had no answer for herself, certainly none for him. So she settled on, “It’s for a good cause.”

“The shelter?” he asked. “Is this your way to ensure you get that new roof?”

“Will it?”

Something flickered in his gaze, an emotion she couldn’t quite read. “Consider it done.”

“Thank you. But this isn’t just about the shelter.” She fussed with the mother-of-pearl buttons on her sweater set and admitted, “I’m afraid I’m not as altruistic as that.”

His lips thinned into a smile. “Let me guess: this would be your way of paying Derek back? A little bit of revenge from the woman scorned?.”

She nodded. “I suppose that’s true. As much as I want the good guy in all of this to win, I’d also like to see the bad guy lose.”

“Are you sure I’m the good guy, Catherine?”

His gaze locked with hers in seeming challenge.

“I want you to be,” she whispered.

“Why?”

She gave a nervous laugh. “Yin and Yang, I suppose. One to balance out the other.”

“So you’d marry me to keep the cosmic forces in order?”

She didn’t reply. In a way it had to do with cosmic forces, all right, but not necessarily the ones he assumed. For the first time in her life Catherine was handing herself over to fate. This was the right thing to do. She could feel it, even if she couldn’t articulate why.

“If we do this, we’ll need to do it quickly and quietly,” Stephen said.

“You’ll marry me, then?”

Stephen studied Catherine’s face. There was no denying her beauty. It had long beguiled him, even when he hadn’t thought there was much else to her than physical perfection. Under other circumstances he might have been flattered by the proposal. Under other circumstances, however, he knew it would not have come. Women from Catherine’s elite social sphere might condescend to take a dip in Stephen’s gene pool, but they didn’t want to swim there forever. Years of dating had told him so, despite his fortune.

“I’m desperate, Catherine,” he said flatly.

He watched her wince and wondered was he so desperate he would take a wife, even if only on paper? He didn’t have the luxury of time to clearly think things out. The one thing he knew without hesitation or question was that he did not want to see Danbury’s sold. Marrying Catherine might be his only way to stop that from happening.

“Is that a yes?”

He nodded. “We’ll need to move fast. Danbury’s no longer has a company jet. The bottom line has been too thin in recent years to justify it. We’ll have to catch a flight out of O’Hare.”

“A flight?”

“Vegas.” He shrugged. “It’s quick and legal.”

“Vegas,” she repeated, looking as if she were sucking on a sour ball.

“You don’t have to do this.”

She moved forward, offering her hand as she came. “I do.”

And it was with just those two words that she sealed the bargain.

It was nearly midnight when they arrived in Las Vegas. The city, however, seemed to have an abundance of energy and enthusiasm despite the late hour. Catherine had neither, especially since she was still working on Illinois time. She had never been to Vegas. She wasn’t one for games of chance, which of course seemed ironic given the risk she would be taking with Stephen. For a woman who didn’t believe in gambling, she’d certainly found herself in a high-stakes game.

What did she know about this man who would soon become her husband? Not much. Not nearly enough for the commitment she had agreed to make. He was private, but it was more than that. He hid something—not something evil, like Derek, of that she was sure. But those eyes that watched everything and rarely reflected anything told her that he found it easier—safer?—to tuck his feelings deep inside. She could appreciate that, she thought. She’d done it most of her life when it came to her parents.

“Tired?”

The softly spoken question startled her. She turned from the cab’s window to find him staring at her. “No. Not really. I’ve never been to Las Vegas.”

He studied her for a moment longer before replying, “It’s not really your style.”

“How can you be so sure?” She found herself a little bothered that, while he seemed such an enigma to her, he should consider her such an open book.

“It’s gaudy, flashy, at times crass and always greedy. You are conservative, traditional, sedate…generous.”

“That’s just how every woman wants to be described by her prospective groom. You might as well be talking about a station wagon,” she said on a nervous laugh, but she wasn’t really insulted.

He only raised one ebony eyebrow, and she found herself lost in those dark eyes. How does he see me?

“Try again,” she said, turning in her seat so that she fully faced him.

“You have style,” he said slowly.

“Hmm. Now I’m a Mercedes.”

But she didn’t laugh this time. She could scarcely breathe when he looked at her like that, his gaze so thorough, as if no detail could escape his notice.

“You’re beautiful, but you know that.”

“It’s often an empty compliment,” she replied.

“Which brings me to smart, but I suspect you know that, too.”

She shrugged. “Well, it’s not something I hear often from men.”

Despite her outward nonchalance, genuine pleasure had her pulse spiking. Men so rarely complimented her on her intelligence. Oh, she was no genius, but neither was she a vapid member of the social elite. She had graduated cum laude from Stanford University, with a dual degree in business and social work. She put both disciplines to work in her job at the shelter. She enjoyed the work immensely, which was why she also volunteered her services at half a dozen other charities. She was a natural at fund-raising and organizing, and it made her feel useful rather than like some pretty ornament.

It also helped ease her guilt. Once upon a time she had been useless. Her best friend had paid the price. She pushed back that painful memory as the driver pulled the car to a stop in front of their hotel.

They had each only brought one small case to spare them from checking luggage, but Stephen insisted on carrying hers. Inside, it seemed ridiculous to request separate rooms when they were in town to be married, but Catherine wondered how she could sleep in the same proximity as Stephen, share a bathroom, when they had never so much as gone on a date. The dilemma was solved to a certain extent when he requested a suite. Their quarters were opulently decorated in navy and gold, and spacious enough with two bedrooms, each with its own bath.

“Which room do you want?” he asked politely as they stood in the living area and eyed one another with growing discomfort.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m so tired I could sleep standing up.” She laughed, hoping to lighten the mood. He didn’t so much as blink.

“You can take that one.” He pointed to the doorway nearest her. He hesitated at the threshold of the other bedroom, carry-on bag in hand. “Thank you, Catherine.”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

“Try to get some sleep. We have a big day ahead of us.”

As Catherine settled between the cool sheets of the king-sized bed, she knew “big” was an understatement.

Early the next morning they picked a chapel within walking distance from their hotel, opting for what passed for understated in Las Vegas. Plastic blood-red roses dripped from a white trellis just outside the door, and inside the lobby guests could put a buck in a vending machine to buy a packet of birdseed to toss at the bride and groom.

Of course there were no guests: only Catherine, wearing a simple white A-line dress that flowed nearly to her ankles, and Stephen, dressed in a charcoal suit. She supposed it was silly to wear white for this farce of a wedding, but she believed in tradition.

A Vegas wedding, she soon realized, had traditions of its own, quirkiness being at the top of the list. They managed to bypass the Elvis impersonator, but to Catherine’s horrified amusement, the I Do Chapel’s minister bore a striking resemblance to Liberace.

“The standard wedding package includes your choice of song, a bouquet of white carnations for the bride and a snapshot to remember the happy occasion,” Liberace droned. “For just a little more you can upgrade to the deluxe package and get the pretty little lady a bouquet of roses, three snapshots and these matching T-shirts.”

He pointed to the wall where the shirts were displayed. Emblazoned on the front of each were the words “We did it in Vegas at the I Do Chapel.”

“Oh, my God,” Catherine gasped, swallowing a bubble of hysterical laughter.

To her surprise, Stephen said dryly, “The deluxe package, by all means. We wouldn’t want to miss out on those shirts.”

The entire affair seemed so out of character for both of them, she supposed they would need the T-shirts to convince themselves they’d actually gone through with it. Of course, the marriage certificate would be real enough. That thought was sobering.

After filling out the necessary paperwork, they followed Liberace into the main room of the chapel.

“Are you expecting any guests?”

“No,” Stephen said.

“Then I guess we’ll get down to it.”

Before Catherine could catch a breath, a woman shoved a bouquet of plastic white roses into her hands and snapped a hasty shot of her and Stephen as they stood before a makeshift altar. Liberace nodded to another woman, who cued up the music. “Green-sleeves” filled the room.

“Dearly beloved,” Liberace began, speaking to a room occupied by only five people, including the bride and groom. “We are gathered here today to unite this woman and this man in matrimony. Do you…?” He glanced at the paper before him and then back at Stephen. “I’m sorry. Could you pronounce your name for me, please?”

Stephen nodded, but his gaze never left Catherine’s face as he replied, “Stefano Anastasio Danbury.”

The name rolled from his tongue, a perfect complement to the dark hair and eyes—eyes that now stared in challenge, as if daring her to comment, and so she did.

“I wondered what the A stood for.”

Something like surprise flickered briefly in his expression. Clearly this was not the comment he was expecting.

“My grandparents—paternal grandparents—preferred it that way.”

Catherine had never met the elder Danburys, but she thought she understood what he was saying. Stefano would have been easy enough to Anglicize, but a name like Anastasio would have no English equivalent. She wasn’t one to pay attention to the gossip, but she now recalled that she’d heard her mother talking to a friend once about a scandal of some sort, involving Stephen’s father and the woman he’d married.

“Your mother was from Puerto Rico,” she said, pleased with herself for finally remembering. It made sense to her now that he would have learned her native tongue.

“My mother was a maid,” he said flatly. “No other comment?”

“Your initials spell SAD.”

His brows tugged together.

“May I continue?” the minister asked.

“That’s up to the lady,” Stephen replied.

Did he expect her to call it off just because his name confirmed the heritage his looks hinted at?

“Is there suddenly a reason I shouldn’t want to?” She lobbed the ball neatly back into his court. If he thought her a bigot, let him spell it out.

“You have every reason in the world not to want to.”

“Those reasons were the same back in Chicago. Exactly the same,” she enunciated. “I haven’t changed my mind. Have you?”

“I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve lost my mind, but, no, I haven’t changed it.” He nodded to Liberace. “Proceed.”

The ceremony was over in short order. A couple of “I dos,” the exchange of two hastily purchased gold bands from chapel’s display case—guaranteed not to tarnish for at least five years—and they were pronounced Mr. and Mrs. Stefano Danbury.

“You may kiss your bride.”

Catherine hadn’t allowed herself to think ahead to this part of the ceremony, or, for that matter, to the physical side of marriage. Of course their marriage would be in name only, a marriage of convenience. Wasn’t that, to all intents and purposes, what her parents had? A useful and mutually beneficial union. They seemed content enough after twenty-nine years. Yoked together. Like a pair of oxen.

Of course she and Stephen were hardly in this for the long haul. They’d settled on a year, which seemed a reasonable enough length of time to silence the gossips and satisfy any lawyers Derek hired to fight the codicil or question their nuptials. Something told Catherine that her marriage to Derek would have ended much sooner and far less amicably than she predicted this one would.

Her gaze connected with Stephen’s. For better or worse, literally, he was her husband now. She offered a smile, leaned forward for the kiss, expecting something brief and perfunctory. Then she caught the clean scent of aftershave on his warm skin, noted the sexy line of his mouth. Reaching up, she laid a palm against the hard plain of one of his cheeks, and, for no reason she could fathom, she sighed.

Stephen saw her eyelids flutter shut as his mouth touched hers, but he kept his own eyes open, watching this woman he barely knew, watching his wife. He deepened the kiss out of curiosity, sliding his tongue inside the pliant seam of her lips. She’d always seemed so cool, so in control. Once, a few months back, he’d walked into Derek’s office and caught the pair of them kissing. Even with his cousin’s hand on her nicely curved bottom and her arms twined around his neck she’d managed to look untouched. She didn’t look untouched this time, though he’d so far managed to keep his hands to himself. And neither, he admitted, was he. Kissing Catherine was like sailing La Libertad in rough waters. He needed to hold on. He brought his hands up to frame her face, his fingers stretching into the soft gold of her hair.

“That’s more like it,” Liberace cracked. “Now, if you kids could just take this back to your hotel room, I’ve got another wedding to perform. Don’t forget to pick up your T-shirts on the way out.”

They sprung apart as if they had just been doused with a bucketful of freezing water. Her eyes, as big and blue as the deepest waters of Lake Michigan, reflected his own surprise and confusion. An electrical current of need had coursed through that kiss. It had carried with it a blast of heat that he hadn’t felt in…ever. And it had come from the Ice Princess, Catherine Canton. The discovery, however, was not welcome. Business. That was what this was, Stephen reminded himself. Hormones didn’t, couldn’t factor into it. Even as he told himself this was so, he couldn’t quite squelch the male satisfaction he felt when he noted the way her hand shook when she ran it through her hair. She’d worn her hair loose and long this day, a cascade of sunshine that haloed her face and flowed over her shoulders. He liked it this way the best, especially since the slightly mussed tendrils around her temples had been his doing.

The photographer handed Stephen the three Polaroids, which he stuffed into his pocket without bothering to look at them. They were nearly to the door, his equilibrium almost restored, when Liberace ruined it all by calling out, “Enjoy your wedding night.”