Happy Ever After - Nora Roberts

[Dalyia]

Product Description
This is the Book 4 of Nora Roberts Bride Quartet. I would recommend this book to anyone who loves a good love story. Nora Roberts is at her best in this 4 book story line. It is about four good girlfriends who have grown up together and now have a business of planning weddings. I could not wait to get from one book to the next. Buy all four books and enjoy!!
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محتوى مخفي

يجب عليك الرد لرؤية النص المخفي

[Dalyia]

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Epigraph

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE

Teaser chapter

[Dalyia]

PROLOGUE

GRIEF CAME IN WAVES, HARD AND CHOPPY, BUFFETING AND BREAKING the heart. Other days the waves were slow and swamping, threatening to drown the soul.

People—good, caring people—claimed time would heal. Parker hoped they were right, but as she stood on her bedroom terrace in the late-summer sun, months after the sudden, shocking deaths of her parents, those capricious waves continued to roll.

She had so much, she reminded herself. Her brother—and she didn’t know if she’d have survived this grieving time without Del—had been a rock to cling to in that wide, wide ocean of shock and sorrow. Her friends Mac, Emma, Laurel, a part of her life, a part of her, since childhood. They’d been the glue mending and holding all the shattered pieces of her world. She had the constant, unshakable support of their longtime housekeeper, Mrs. Grady, her island of comfort.

She had her home. The beauty and elegance of the Brown Estate seemed deeper, sharper to her somehow, knowing she wouldn’t see her parents strolling through the gardens. She’d never again run downstairs and find her mother laughing in the kitchen with Mrs. G, or hear her father wheeling a deal in his home office.

Instead of learning to ride those waves, she’d felt herself being swept deeper and deeper down into the dark.

Time, she’d determined, needed to be used and pushed and moved.

She thought—hoped—she’d found a way, not only to use that time, but to celebrate what her parents had given her, to unite those gifts with family and friendships.

To be productive, she mused as the first spicy scents of coming autumn stirred the air.The Browns worked.They built and they produced and they never, never sat back to laze on accomplishments.

Her parents would have expected her to do no less than those who’d come before her.

Her friends might think she’d lost her mind, but she’d researched, calculated, and outlined a solid business plan, a sturdy model. And with Del’s help, a fair and reasonable legal contract.

Time to swim, she told herself.

She simply wouldn’t sink.

She walked back into the bedroom, picked up the four thick packets she’d set on her dresser. One for each of them for the meeting—though she hadn’t told her friends they were coming to a meeting.

She paused, took a moment to tie back her glossy brown hair in a tail, then simply stared into her own eyes, willing a spark to light in the deep blue.

She could make this work. No, no, they could make this work.

She just had to convince them first.

Downstairs, she found Mrs. Grady putting the finishing touches on the meal.

The sturdy woman turned from the stove, gave her a wink. “Ready?”

“Prepared anyway. I’m nervous. Is it silly to be nervous? They’re my closest friends in the world.”

“It’s a big step you’re looking to take, a big one you’ll ask them to take.You’d be foolish if you weren’t a bit nervous.” She stepped over, took Parker’s face in her hands. “My money’s on you. Go on out. I’ve gone a little fancy, so you’ll have hors d’oeuvres and wine on the terrace. My girls are all grown up.”

She wanted to be, but God, there was a child inside her who wanted her mom and dad, the comfort, the love, the security.

Outside, she set the packets on a table, then crossed over to take the wine out of its cooler, pour herself a glass.

Then simply stood, holding the glass, looking out in the softening light over the gardens to the pretty little pond and the reflection of the willows mirrored on its surface.

“God! Do I want some of that.”

Laurel bolted out, her sunny blond hair brutally short—a new look her friend already regretted. She hadn’t changed out of her uniform from her position as dessert chef at an upscale local restaurant.

Her eyes, bright and blue, rolled as she poured her wine.“Who knew when I changed my schedule to make our Girl Night we’d get a last-minute lunch reservation for twenty? The kitchen was a mad-house all afternoon. Mrs. G’s kitchen now . . .” She let out a huge groan as she dropped down to sit after hours on her feet.“It’s an oasis of calm that smells like heaven.What’s for dinner?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Laurel waved it away.“But if Emma and Mac are late, I’m starting without them.” She spotted the stack of packets. “What’s all that?”

“Something that can’t start without them. Laurel, do you want to go back to New York?”

Laurel eyed her over the rim of her glass. “Are you kicking me out?”

“I guess I want to know what you want. If you’re satisfied with how things are.You moved back for me, after the accident, and—”

“I’m taking it a day at a time, and figure I’ll figure it out. Right now, not having a plan’s working for me. Okay?”

“Well . . .”

She broke off as Mac and Emma came out together, laughing.

Emma, she thought, so beautiful with her mass of hair curling madly, her dark, exotic eyes bright with fun. Mac, her bold red hair choppy in tufts, green eyes wickedly amused, lean and long in her jeans and black shirt.

“What’s the joke?” Laurel demanded.

“Men.” Mac set down the plates of brie en croute and spinach tartlets Mrs. Grady had shoved into her hands on the way through the kitchen. “The two of them who thought they could arm wrestle for Emma.”

“It was kind of sweet,” Emma insisted. “They were brothers and came into the shop for flowers for their mother’s birthday. One thing led to the other.”

“Guys come into the studio all the time.” Mac popped a sugared red grape into her mouth from the bowl already on the table.“None of them ever arm wrestle each other for a date with me.”

“Some things never change,” Laurel said, raising her glass to Emma.

“Some things do,” Parker spoke out. She had to start, had to move. “That’s why I asked you all to come tonight.”

Emma paused as she reached for the brie. “Is something wrong?”

“No. But I wanted to talk to you all, at once.” Determined, Parker poured wine for Mac and Emma. “Let’s sit down.”

“Uh-oh,” Mac warned.

“No uh-ohs,” Parker insisted.“I want to say first, I love you all so much, and have forever.And will forever.We’ve shared so much, good and bad. And when things were at their worst, I knew you’d be there.”

“We’re all there for each other.” Emma leaned over and laid a hand on Parker’s. “That’s what friends do.”

“Yes, it is. I want you to know how much you mean to me, and want you to know that if any of you don’t want to try what I’m about to propose, for any reason at all, it changes nothing between us.”

She held up a hand before anyone could speak. “Let me start this way. Emma, you want your own florist business one day, right?”

“It’s always been the dream. I mean I’m happy working in the shop, and the boss gives me a lot of leeway, but I hope, down the road, to have my own. But—”

“No buts yet. Mac, you’ve got too much talent, too much creativity to spend every day taking passport photos and posed kid shots.”

“My talent knows no bounds,” Mac said lightly,“but a girl’s got to eat.”

“You’d rather have your own photography studio.”

“I’d rather have Justin Timberlake arm wrestling Ashton Kutcher for me, too—and it’s just as likely.”

“Laurel, you studied in New York and Paris with the aim of becoming a pastry chef.”

“An international sensation of a pastry chef.”

“And you’ve settled for working at the Willows.”

She swallowed a bite of her spinach tart. “Well, hey—”

“Part of that settling was to be here for me after we lost Mom and Dad. I studied,” Parker continued,“with the goal of starting my own business. I always had an idea of what it would be, but it seemed like a pipe dream. One I never shared with any of you. But over these last months, it’s begun to feel more reachable, more right.”

“For Christ’s sake, Parker, what is it?” Laurel demanded.

“I want us to go into business together. The four of us, with each of us running our own end of it—according to our field of interest and expertise, while merging them together under one umbrella, so to speak.”

“Go into business?” Emma echoed.

“You remember how we used to play Wedding Day? How we’d all take turns playing parts, and wearing costumes, planning the themes.”

“I liked marrying Harold best.” Mac smiled over the memory of the long-departed Brown family dog. “He was so handsome and loyal.”

“We could do it for real, make a business out of Wedding Day.”

“Providing costumes and cupcakes, and very patient dogs for little girls?” Laurel suggested.

“No, by providing a unique and amazing venue—this house, these grounds; spectacular cakes and pastries; heartbreaking bouquets and flowers; beautiful, creative photographs. And for my part—someone who’ll oversee every detail to make a wedding, or other important event, the most perfect day of the clients’ lives.”

She barely took a breath. “I already have countless contacts through my parents. Caterers, wine merchants, limo services, salons—everything.And what I don’t have, I’ll get.A full-service wedding and event business, the four of us as equal partners.”

“A wedding business.” Emma’s eyes went dreamy. “It sounds wonderful, but how could we—”

“I have a business model. I have figures and charts and answers to legal questions if you’ve got them. Del helped me work it out.”

“He’s okay with it?” Laurel asked. “Delaney’s okay with you turning the estate, your home, into a business?”

“He’s completely behind me on this.And his friend Jack’s willing to help by redesigning the pool house into a photographer’s studio, with living quarters above it, and the guest house into a flower shop with an apartment.We can turn the auxiliary kitchen here into your work space, Laurel.”

“We’d live here, on the estate?”

“You’d have that option,” Parker told Mac. “It’s going to be a lot of work, and it would be more efficient for all of us to be on-site. I’ll show you the figures, the model, the projection charts, the works. But there’s no point if any of you just don’t like the basic concept. And if you don’t, well, I’ll try to talk you into it,” Parker added with a laugh. “Then if you hate it, I’ll let it go.”

“The hell you will.” Laurel scooped a hand through her short cap of hair. “How long have you been working this out?”

“Seriously? Actively? About three months. I had to talk to Del, and Mrs. G, because without their support, it would never fly. But I wanted to put it all together before springing it on you. It’s business,” Parker said. “It would be our business, so it needs to be formed that way from the ground up.”

“Our business,” Emma repeated. “Weddings. What’s happier than a wedding?”

“Or crazier,” Laurel put in.

“The four of us can handle crazy. Parks?” Mac’s dimples winked as she held out a hand. “I’m so in.”

“You can’t commit until you’ve seen the model, the figures.”

“Yes, I can,” Mac corrected. “I want this.”

“Me, too.” Emma laid her hand on theirs.

Laurel took a breath, held it. Released. “I guess that makes it unanimous.” And she put her hand on theirs. “We’ll kick wedding ass.”

[Dalyia]

CHAPTER ONE

CRAZY BRIDE CALLED AT FIVE TWENTY-EIGHT A.M.

“I had a dream,” she announced while Parker lay in the dark with her BlackBerry.

“A dream?”

“An amazing dream. So real, so urgent, so full of color and life! I’m sure it means something. I’m going to call my psychic but I wanted to talk it over with you, first.”

“Okay.” With the grace of experience, Parker reached over, turned her bedside lamp on low. “What was the dream about, Sabina?” she asked as she picked up the pad and pen beside the lamp.

“Alice in Wonderland.”

“You dreamed about Alice in Wonderland?”

“Specifically the Mad Hatter’s tea party.”

“Disney or Tim Burton?”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Parker shook back her hair, noted key words. “Go on.”

“Well, there was music and a banquet of food. I was Alice, but I wore my wedding dress, and Chase looked absolutely amazing in a morning coat.The flowers, oh, they were spectacular. And all of them singing and dancing. Everyone was so happy, toasting us, clapping. Angelica was dressed as the Red Queen and playing a flute.”

Parker noted down MOH for Angelica, the maid of honor, then continued to record other members of the wedding party. The best man as the White Rabbit, the mother of the groom as the Cheshire Cat, father of the bride, the March Hare.

She wondered what Sabina had eaten, drunk, or smoked before going to bed.

“Isn’t it fascinating, Parker?”

“Absolutely.” As had been the pattern of tea leaves that had determined Sabina’s bridal colors, the tarot reading that had forecast her honeymoon destination, the numerology that had pointed to the only possible date for her wedding.

“I think maybe my subconscious and the fates are telling me I need to do an Alice theme for the wedding.With costumes.”

Parker closed her eyes. While she’d have said—and would say now—that the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party suited Sabina to the ground, the event was less than two weeks away.The decor, the flowers, the cake and desserts, the menu—the works—already chosen.

“Hmm,” Parker said to give herself a moment to think.“That’s an interesting idea.”

“The dream—”

“Says to me,” Parker interjected, “the celebrational, magical, fairy-tale atmosphere you’ve already chosen. It tells me you were absolutely right.”

“Really?”

“Completely. It tells me you’re excited and happy, and can’t wait for your day. Remember, the Mad Hatter held his tea party every day. It’s telling you that your life with Chase will be a daily celebration.”

“Oh! Of course!”

“And, Sabina, when you stand in front of the looking glass in the Bride’s Suite on your wedding day, you’ll be looking at yourself with Alice’s young, adventurous, happy heart.”

Damn, I’m good, Parker thought as the crazy bride sighed.

“You’re right, you’re right.You’re absolutely right. I’m so glad I called you. I knew you’d know.”

“That’s what we’re here for. It’s going to be a beautiful wedding, Sabina.Your perfect day.”

After she hung up, Parker lay back a moment, but when she closed her eyes, the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party—Disney version—ran manically in her head.

Resigned, she rose, crossed over to the French doors to the terrace of the room that had once been her parents’. She opened them to the morning air, took a deep breath of dawn as the sun took its first peek over the horizon.

The last stars winked out in a world perfectly, wonderfully still—like a breath held.

The upside of crazy brides and those of that ilk was wakefulness just before dawn when it seemed nothing and no one but she stirred, nothing and no one but she had this moment when night passed its torch to day, and the silvery light sheened to pearl that would shimmer—when that breath released—to pale, lustrous gold.

She left the doors open when she walked back into the bedroom. Taking a band from the hammered silver box on her dresser, she pulled her hair back into a tail. She shed her nightshirt for cropped yoga pants and a support tank, chose a pair of running shoes off the shelf in the casual section of her ruthlessly organized closet.

She hooked her BlackBerry to her waistband, plugged in her headphones, then headed out of her room toward her home gym.

She hit the lights, flipped on the news on the flat screen, listening with half an ear as she took a few moments to stretch.

She set the elliptical for her usual three-mile program.

Halfway through the first mile, she smiled.

God, she loved her work. Loved the crazy brides, the sentimental brides, the persnickety brides, even the monster brides.

She loved the details and demands, the hopes and dreams, the constant affirmation of love and commitment she helped to personalize for every couple.

Nobody, she determined, did it better than Vows.

What she, Mac, Emma, and Laurel had taken head-on one late summer evening was now everything and more than they’d imagined.

And now, she thought as her smile widened, they were planning weddings for Mac in December, Emma in April, Laurel in June.

Her friends were the brides now, and she couldn’t wait to dig deeper into those fine details.

Mac and Carter—traditional with artistic twists. Emma and Jack—romance, romance, romance. Laurel and Del (God, her brother was marrying her best friend!)—elegant yet streamlined.

Oh, she had ideas.

She’d hit mile two when Laurel came in.

“Fairy lights. Acres and miles and rivers of tiny white fairy lights, all through the gardens, in the willows, on the arbors, the pergola.”

Laurel blinked, yawned. “Huh?”

“Your wedding. Romantic, elegant, abundance without fuss.”

“Huh.” Laurel, her swing of blond hair clipped up, stepped on the machine next to Parker’s. “I’m just getting used to being engaged.”

“I know what you like. I’ve worked up a basic overview.”

“Of course you have.” But Laurel smiled. “Where are you?” She craned her head, scanned the readout on Parker’s machine. “Shit! Who called and when?”

“Crazy Bride. Just shy of five thirty. She had a dream.”

“If you tell me she dreamed a new design for the cake, I’m going to—”

“Not to worry. I fixed it.”

“How could I have doubted you?” She eased through her warm-up, then kicked in. “Del’s going to put his house on the market.”

“What? When?”

“Well, after he talks to you about it, but I’m here, you’re here, so I’m talking to you first. We talked about it last night. He’ll be back from Chicago tonight, by the way. So . . . he’d move back in here, if that’s okay with you.”

“First, it’s his house as much as mine. Second, you’re staying.” Her eyes stung, shined. “You’re staying,” Parker repeated. “I didn’t want to push, and I know Del’s got a great house, but—Oh God, Laurel, I didn’t want you to move out. Now you won’t.”

“I love him so much I may be the next Crazy Bride, but I didn’t want to move out either. My wing’s more than big enough, it practically is a house. And he loves this place as much as you, as much as all of us.”

“Del’s coming home,” Parker murmured.

Her family, she thought, everyone she loved and cherished, would soon be together. And that, she knew, was what made a home.

By eight fifty-nine, Parker was dressed in a sharply tailored suit the color of ripe eggplants with a hint of frill on her crisp white shirt. She spent precisely fifty-five minutes answering e-mails, texts, and phone calls, refreshing notes in various client files, checking and confirming deliveries with subcontractors on upcoming events.

At the stroke of ten she walked down from her third-floor office for her first on-site appointment of the day.

She’d already researched the potential client. Bride, Deeanne Hagar, local artist whose dreamy fantasy work had been reproduced in posters and greeting cards. Groom, Wyatt Culpepper, landscape designer. Both came from old money—banking and real estate, respectively—and both were the youngest child of twice-divorced parents.

Minimal digging had netted her the data that the newly engaged couple had met at a greenfest, shared a fondness for bluegrass music, and loved to travel.

She had mined other nuggets from websites, Facebook, magazine and newspaper interviews, and friends of friends of friends, and had already decided on the overall approach of the initial tour, which would include the mothers of both.

She scanned areas as she did a quick pass-through on the main level, pleased with Emma’s romantic flower displays.

She popped into the family kitchen where, as expected, Mrs. Grady was putting the finishing touches on the coffee tray, the iced sun tea Parker had requested, and a platter of fresh fruit highlighted with Laurel’s tissue-thin butter cookies.

“Looks perfect, Mrs. G.”

“It’s ready when you are.”

“Let’s go ahead and set it up in the main parlor. If they want the tour straight off, maybe we’ll move it outside. It’s beautiful out.”

Parker moved in to help, but Mrs. Grady waved her off. “I’ve got it. I just put it together that I know the bride’s first step-mother.”

“Really?”

“Didn’t last long, did she?” Movements brisk, Mrs. Grady transferred the trays to a tea cart. “Never made the second wedding anniversary, if I remember right. Pretty woman, and sweet enough. Dim as a five-watt bulb, but good-hearted.” Mrs. Grady flicked her fingertips over the skirt of her bib apron.“She married again—some Spaniard—and moved to Barcelona.”

“I don’t know why I spend any time on the Internet, when I can just plug in to you.”

“If you had, I’d’ve told you Mac’s mother had a flirt with the bride’s daddy between wives two and three.”

“Linda? Not a surprise.”

“Well, we can all be grateful it didn’t take. I like the girl’s pictures,” she added as they rolled the cart toward the parlor.

“You’ve seen them?”

Mrs. Grady winked. “You’re not the only one who knows how to use the Internet. There’s the bell. Go on. Snag us another client.”

“That’s the plan.”

Parker’s first thought was the bride looked like the Hollywood version of a fantasy artist with her waist-length tumble of gilded red hair and almond-shaped green eyes. Her second was what a beautiful bride Deeanne would make, and on the heels of it, just how much she wanted a part of that.

“Good morning.Welcome to Vows. I’m Parker.”

“Brown, right?” Wyatt shot out a hand. “I just want to say I don’t know who designed your landscape, but they’re a genius. And I wish it had been me.”

“Thank you so much. Please come in.”

“My mother, Patricia Ferrell. Deeanne’s mom, Karen Bliss.”

“It’s lovely to meet all of you.” Parker took stock quickly.Wyatt took charge, but genially—and all three women let him. “Why don’t we have a seat in the parlor for a few minutes and get acquainted.”

But Deeanne was already wandering the spacious foyer, scanning the elegant staircase. “I thought it would be stuffy. I thought it would feel stuffy.” She turned back, her pretty summer skirt swaying.“I studied your website. Everything looked perfect, looked beautiful. But I thought, no, too perfect. I’m still not convinced it’s not too perfect, but it’s not stuffy. Not in the least.”

“What my daughter might’ve said in many fewer words, Ms. Brown, is you have a lovely home.”

“Parker,” she said, “and thank you, Mrs. Bliss. Coffee?” she invited. “Or iced sun tea?”

“Could we just look around first?” Deeanne asked her.“Especially outside, as Wyatt and I want an outdoor wedding.”

“Why don’t we start outside, then circle back through.You’re looking at next September,” Parker continued as she moved to the door leading to the side terrace.

“A year from now.That’s why we’re looking at this time, so we can see how the landscape, the gardens, the light all work.”

“We have several areas that can be utilized for outdoor weddings. The most popular, especially for larger events is the west terrace and pergola. But . . .”

“But?”Wyatt echoed as they strolled around the house.

“When I see the two of you, I picture something a little different. Something we do now and then. The pond,” she said as they rounded to the back.“The willows, the roll of the lawns. I see a flower-strewn arbor and white runners flowing like a river between the rows of chairs—white again, strung with flowers. All of that reflected in the water of the pond. Banquets of flowers everywhere—but not formal, more natural arrangements. Cottage garden flowers, but in mad abundance. My partner and our floral designer Emmaline is an artist.”

Deeanne’s eyes took on a gleam. “I loved what I saw of her work on the website.”

“You can speak with her directly if you decide to have your wedding with us, or even if you’re just considering it. I also see fairy lights glittering, candles flickering. Everything natural, organic—but sumptuous, sparkling. Titania’s bower. You’ll wear something flowing,” she said to Deeanne.“Something fairylike, with your hair down. No veil, but flowers in your hair.”

“Yes.You’re very good, aren’t you?”

“It’s what we do here.Tailor the day to reflect what you want most, what you are, individually and to each other. You don’t want formal, but soft and dreamy. Neither contemporary nor old-fashioned. You want you, and a bluegrass trio playing you down the aisle.”

“‘Never Ending Love,’” Wyatt supplied with a grin. “We’ve already picked it.Will your artist of a florist work with us, not only on the wedding landscape, but the bouquets and all that?”

“Every step of the way. It’s entirely about you, and creating the perfect—even too-perfect—day for you,” she said with a smile for Deeanne.

“I love the pond,” Deeanne murmured as they stood on the terrace looking out. “I love the image you’ve just painted in my head.”

“Because the image is you, baby.” Karen Bliss took her daughter’s hand. “It’s absolutely you.”

“Dancing on the lawn?” Wyatt’s mother glanced over. “I checked out the website, too, and I know you have a gorgeous ballroom. But maybe they could have dancing out here.”

“Absolutely. Either, both, however you want it done. If you’re interested we can set up a full consult, with my partners, discuss those areas, and more details.”

“What do you say we take a look at the rest.” Wyatt leaned down to kiss Deeanne’s temple.

AT FOUR THIRTY, PARKER WAS BACK AT HER DESK REFINING SPREADSHEETS, charts, schedules. In concession to the end of the day’s appointments, her suit jacket hung on the back of her chair, and her shoes sat under the desk.

She calculated another hour’s paperwork, and considered the day a blissfully light one.The rest of the week promised to be insanely jammed, but with any luck, by six she’d be able to change into casual clothes and treat herself to a glass of wine and actually sit down to a meal.

She went hmm? at the rap on her doorjamb.

“Got a minute?” Mac asked.

“I happen to have several on me. You can have one.” Parker swiveled in her chair as Mac hauled in two shopping bags. “I missed you in the gym this morning, but I see you’ve continued your weight lifting.”

Grinning, Mac flexed. “Pretty good, huh?”

“You’re ripped, Elliot.You’ll have showstopping arms on Wedding Day.”

Mac dropped into a chair.“I have to do justice to the dress you found me. Listen, I’ve sworn not to become Mad Bride or Weepy Bride or other various aspects of Annoying Bride, but it’s getting close and I just need assurances from the goddess of all wedding planners.”

“It’s going to be perfect, and exactly right.”

“I changed my mind on the first dance again.”

“It doesn’t matter.You can change it up until the countdown.”

“But it’s symptomatic, Parks. I can’t seem to stick to a basic item like a damn song.”

“It’s an important song.”

“Is Carter taking dance lessons?”

Parker widened her eyes. “Why would you ask me?”

“I knew it! God, that’s so sweet.You got Carter to take dance lessons so he won’t step on my feet during our first dance.”

“Carter asked me to arrange it—as a surprise. So don’t spoil it.”

“It makes me gooey.” Her shoulders lifted and fell with her happy sigh.“Maybe I can’t stick because I keep going gooey. Anyway, I had that off-site engagement shoot this afternoon.”

“How’d it go?”

“Aces.They’re so damn cute I wanted to marry both of them. Then I did something stupid on the way home. I stopped by the shoe department at Nordstrom.”

“Which I have already cleverly deduced by the shopping bags.”

“I bought ten pair. I’m taking most of them back, but—”

“Why?”

Mac narrowed her green eyes. “Don’t encourage the lunatic. I couldn’t stick, again. I already bought my wedding shoes, right? Didn’t we all agree they’re perfect?”

“Stunning and perfect.”

“Exactly, so why did I buy four alternate pair?”

“I thought you said ten.”

“The other six are for the honeymoon—well, four of them, then I really needed a new pair of work shoes and they were so cute I got one pair in copper and another in this wild green. But that’s not important.”

“Let me see them.”

“The wedding shoes first, and don’t say anything until I line them all up.” Mac held up both hands. “Total poker face. No expression, no sound.”

“I’ll turn around, work on this spreadsheet.”

“Better you than me,” Mac muttered, then got to work.

Parker ignored the rustling, the sighs, until Mac gave her the go-ahead.

Turning, Parker scanned the shoes lined up on a work counter. Rose, crossed over, scanned again. She kept her face blank, said nothing as she picked up a shoe, examined it, set it back, moved to the next.

“You’re killing me,” Mac told her.

“Quiet.” She walked away to take out a folder, slipping out the photo taken of Mac in her wedding dress. She took it back to the selection of shoes, nodded.

“Yes. Definitely.” She picked up a pair. “You’d be a lunatic not to wear these.”

“Really!” Mac slapped her hands together. “Really? Because those were the ones.The. Ones. But I kept waffling back and forth and sideways. Oooh, look at them.The heels, they’re all sparkly, and the ankle strap’s so sexy—but not too sexy. Right?”

“The perfect blend of sparkly, sexy, and sophisticated. I’ll take the others back.”

“But—”

“I’ll return them because you’ve found the ultimate wedding shoe and need to stick.You have to remove the others from your sight and stay out of the shoe department until after the wedding.”

“You’re so wise.”

Parker inclined her head. “I am indeed wise. And as such, I do believe this pair may very well be Emma’s wedding shoe. I’ll exchange it for her size, and we’ll see.”

“Oh, oh, again, wise points.” Mac picked up the pair Parker indicated. “More romantic, more princessy. This is great. I’m exhausted.”

“Leave the wedding shoes—all of them—with me. Take the others. Oh, and check your calendar when you get home. I added in consults.”

“How many?”

“Out of the five tours I did today, we have three full consults, one need to talk it over with Daddy—who’s footing the bill—and one who’s still shopping around.”

“Three out of five?” Mac did a double fist pump. “Woo-hoo.”

“I’m betting four out of five, because Daddy’s girl wants us, and wants us bad.The fifth? The bride just isn’t ready to decide. Her mother wants us, which my instincts tell me is a strike against us in this case.We’ll see.”

“Well, I’m psyched. Three fulls and I’ve bagged the perfect wedding shoes. I’m going home to give my guy a big wet kiss, and he won’t know it’s because he’s taking dance lessons. Thanks, Parks. See you later.”

Parker sat, studied the shoes on the counter. She thought of Mac rushing home to Carter.Thought of Laurel greeting Del when he came home after a two-day business conference in Chicago. And Emma maybe sitting out on her little patio having wine with Jack and dreaming of her own wedding flowers.

She swiveled around to stare at the spreadsheet on the screen. She had her work, she reminded herself. Work she loved. And that’s what mattered right now.

Her BlackBerry signaled, and a glance at the readout told her another bride needed to talk.

“I’ve always got you,” she murmured, then answered. “Hi, Brenna.What can I do for you?”

[Dalyia]

CHAPTER TWO

PARKER DEALT WITH THE SHOES, AND BECAUSE SHE WAS ON A tight schedule, she only indulged in one pair for herself. She met a bride, the bride’s favorite aunt—who would give her away—and the bride’s maid of honor for lunch to discuss wedding favors, music, and—coincidentally—shoes.

She swung by the bridal boutique where, at the request of another bride, she assisted in the finalization of the gowns for the wedding party, gave her input on underpinnings and headdresses, met yet another bride and entourage to pore over linen choices. Then she dashed to Coffee Talk for a quick meeting with Sherry Maguire, Carter’s delightful sister, whose wedding was imminent.

“Diane’s being a poop,” Sherry announced and pouted with her chin on her fist.

“The wedding’s not about your sister.”

“I know, I know, but she’s still being a poop. A total downer. A kill-all-the-joy bitchfestia.”

“Sherry, in less than two weeks you’re marrying the man you love. Correct?”

The light sparked in Sherry’s summer blue eyes. “Oh yeah.”

“Everything about the day has been designed to make you happy, to celebrate that love. Correct?”

“God. God. It really has.You, all of you, have been amazing.”

“Then be happy. Celebrate. And if your sister’s cranky about it,I have to say that’s her problem.”

“That’s exactly what Nick says.” Sherry tossed up her hands, then shoved them through her sunny blond hair.“And my mother. But . . . she says she’s not coming to the rehearsal or the rehearsal dinner.”

The poop, Parker thought, but showed only light sympathy. “I’m sorry.Why not?”

“She’s not in the wedding, she says. Well, she didn’t want to be. I asked her to be the matron of honor, but she didn’t want that. Didn’t see why she should have to go through all that fuss, why I wanted a matron and a maid of honor.”

“Your sister and your oldest, closest friend.”

“Exactly.” Sherry thumped a fist on the table, then jabbed a spoon in the whipped cream on her fancy coffee. “So now, she doesn’t see why she should get a sitter and come to the dinner. I said the kids were invited, too, but then it’s how she’s not going to ride herd on them all night at a rehearsal dinner, then turn around and ride herd on them at the wedding.Too much stimulation for them, she says, too exhausting for her. So I said we’d pay for the damn sitter then so she and Sam could have the night out. And she got huffy about that. I can’t win.”

“Stop trying to.”

“But she’s my sister, Parker. It’s my wedding.” Tears sparkled as emotion trembled in Sherry’s voice.

And this, Parker thought, had been throughout the entire process, the most cheerful, delightful, and flexible of brides.

Damn if she’d see a moment of it spoiled for her.

“I’ll speak with her.”

“But—”

“Sherry.” Parker laid a hand over hers. “Trust me.”

“Okay.” Sherry sucked in a breath, blew it out as she blinked back the tears. “Sorry. I’m an idiot.”

“You’re not.” To emphasize it, Parker gave Sherry’s hand a quick, firm squeeze. “Let me say, because I know a lot of idiots, you just don’t make the cut. So, do me a favor and put this out of your mind for now. Just put it aside and concentrate on how good things are, and how wonderful they will be.”

“You’re right. I knew you’d make me feel better.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” Under the table, Parker turned her wrist to check the time. She could spare another ten minutes.

“So, you’re all set on your spa and salon dates, your final fittings?”

The ten eked to nearly fifteen, but she’d built time in to cushion the trip back home for the early-evening consult. Even the rain that splattered as she walked back to the car didn’t worry her.

She had plenty of time to drive home, freshen up, grab the files, check on the refreshments, and run through the client data with her partners. But to save time, she plugged in her phone and used the voice controls to contact Laurel.

“Icing at Vows.”

“Hey, I’m on my way in. Are we set?”

“Coffee, tea, champagne, simple yet fabulous hors d’oeuvres, chocolates. Emma’s already switched the flowers.We all have—or will have—our sample albums. Wow, is that thunder?”

“Yeah, it just opened up.” Parker shot a glance to the angry boil of clouds. “I’ll be home in about twenty. Bye.”

The storm roared through, wild and vicious, and she thought just how much she’d have enjoyed it if she’d been inside. Soon would be, she thought, but adjusted her speed cautiously as rain hurled against the windshield.

She rolled along the road toward home, going over details about the new clients in her head.

It happened fast, all in a rain-washed blur.

The dog—deer?—raced across the road. The oncoming car swerved to avoid it, fishtailed. Parker eased off the gas, tapped her brakes, even as her heart leveled again when the animal cleared the road.

But the oncoming car fishtailed again, straight at her.

Once again her heart flipped. With no choice, she cut the wheel hard to avoid the collision. Her car skidded, bucked onto the shoulder of the road. Her rear end shimmied around while the car jolted side to side.The oncoming car nipped by her.

And just kept going.

She sat, her hands glued to the wheel, her knees shaking, and her heart a drumbeat in her ears.

“Okay,” she breathed. “I’m okay. Not hurt. I’m not hurt.”

Since she wanted to stay that way, she ordered herself to steer the car fully onto the shoulder until the shaking stopped. Someone else could come along and broadside her.

The best she could manage was a thumping limp.

Flat tire, she thought and closed her eyes. Perfect.

Grabbing her fold-up umbrella from the glove box, she got out to survey the damage.

“Oh, not a flat,” she muttered. “A flat’s just not good enough. Two. Two goddamn shredded tires.” She rolled her eyes to the heavens, which, she noted bitterly, were already clearing.

She found the faint shimmer of a rainbow arching in a miserly glint of sun personally insulting under the circumstances.

She would, almost certainly, be late for the consult, but she wouldn’t arrive soaking wet.

Bright side.

She climbed back in, called for roadside assistance. Because her hands still shook, she opted to wait another few minutes before calling home.

She’d just say she had a flat, she decided, and was waiting for the guy to come change it. She could damn well have changed a flat tire if she’d had to, she mused. But she only had one spare.

Pressing a hand on her jumpy belly, she thumbed a Tums out of the roll in her purse.

Probably thirty minutes for the tow truck, if she was lucky, then she’d have to ask the driver to take her home, or call a cab. She wasn’t going to call home and ask one of her partners to come get her and let them see the car.

Not before a consult.

A cab, she decided. If she called a cab it would be on its way here along with the tow truck. More efficient that way. If she’d just stop shaking, she could get everything in order again. Deal with the situation.

She heard the roar of an engine, and her gaze flew to the rear-view mirror. Already slowing down, she realized as she let air out again.A motorcycle, which certainly had more than enough room to get around her.

Instead, it pulled up behind.

Good Samaritan, she thought. Not everyone was a negligent ass like the other driver had been. She pushed her door open to tell the biker she’d already called for help, and stepped out.

And saw Malcolm Kavanaugh pull off the black helmet.

It just got better and better, she thought. Now she was being “rescued” by her brother’s friend, their current mechanic, a man who irritated her more often than not.

She watched him survey the situation while the thinning rain dampened his black, unkempt hair. His jeans were ripped at the knee, stained with oil on the thighs. The black shirt and leather jacket added to the image of sexy bad boy with a build for sin.

And eyes, she thought as they met hers, that challenged a woman to commit one. More than one.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

He gave her a long look as if deciding for himself.“Your airbag didn’t deploy.”

“I wasn’t going that fast. I didn’t hit anything. I avoided getting hit by a moron who swerved to avoid a dog, then kept coming at me. I had to cut toward the shoulder and—”

“Where is he? The other driver?”

“He just kept going. Who does that? How can anyone do that?”

Saying nothing, he reached by her, pulled her bottle of water out of the cup holder. “Sit down. Drink some water.”

“I’m okay. I’m just angry. I’m really, really angry.”

He gave her a little poke, and she sat sideways on the front seat. “How’s your spare?”

“It’s never been used. It’s new. I got all new tires last winter. Damn it.”

“You’re going to need a couple new ones now.” He crouched for a moment so those sharp green eyes were level with hers.

It took her a moment to realize the movement, and the matter-of-fact tone of his voice, were probably designed to keep her calm. Since it seemed to be working, she had to appreciate it.

“We’ll match them with what you’ve got,” he continued. “I want to check the car out while I’m at it.”

“Yes, fine, okay.” She drank, realizing her throat was raw. “Thanks. I’m just—”

“Really, really angry,” he finished as he straightened. “I don’t blame you.”

“And I’m going to be late. I hate being late. I’ve got a consult at home in, oh hell, twenty minutes. I need to call a cab.”

“No, you don’t.” He looked back down the road at the approaching tow truck.

“That was fast, you were fast. I didn’t expect . . .” She paused as her brain started to function again. “Were you out this way, on your bike?”

“I am out this way, on my bike,” he corrected. “Since you called in for service due to being run off the road.You didn’t call the cops?”

“I didn’t get the plate, or even the kind of car.” And that galled her. Just galled. “It happened so fast, and it was raining, and—”

“And it would be a waste of time. Still, Bill’s going to take pictures and report it for you.”

She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. “Okay. Thanks. Really, thank you. I guess I’m a little rattled.”

“First time I’ve seen you that way. Hold on.”

He walked to the truck, and while he spoke with his driver she sipped the water and ordered herself to settle down. Everything was fine, just fine.The driver would give her a ride home, and she wouldn’t even be late.Ten minutes home, five minutes to freshen up. She’d give the simple flat tire story after the consult.

Everything was just fine.

She looked up as Malcolm walked back and handed her a fire-engine red helmet. “You’ll need this.”

“Why?”

“Safety first, Legs.” He put it on her head himself and his grin edged ever so slightly toward smirk. “Cute.”

“What?” Her eyes popped wide. “If you think I’m getting on that motorcycle—”

“You want to make your meeting? Keep your rep as Ms. Prompt and Efficient? Rain’s stopped.You won’t even get wet.” Again he reached past her, but this time their bodies bumped. He pulled out again holding her purse. “You’ll want this. Let’s go.”

“Can’t the driver—can’t he just drop me off ?”

Mal strapped her purse to the bike, swung a leg over. “You’re not afraid to ride a bike, are you? And for what, about six miles?”

“Of course I’m not afraid.”

He put on his helmet, turned on the bike, gave the engine a couple of muscular revs. “Clock’s ticking.”

“Oh for God’s—” She bit off the words, clipped her way to the bike in her heels, and, keeping her teeth gritted, managed to get a leg over the bike behind him. Her skirt hiked up high on her thighs.

“Nice.”

“Just shut up.”

She felt rather than heard his laugh. “You ever ride a Harley, Legs?”

“No.Why would I?”

“Then you’re in for a treat.You’re going to want to hold on. To me,” he added after a beat.

She put her hands lightly on either side of his waist.

But when he revved the engine again—she knew damn well he did it on purpose—she swallowed pride and wrapped her arms around him.

Why, she wondered, anyone would want to drive something so noisy, so dangerous, so—

Then they were flying down the road, and the wind blew cool and balmy and gorgeous over every inch of her.

Okay, a thrill, she admitted, and her heart skipped as he leaned into a turn. A terrifying sort of thrill. Like a roller coaster, which was another thing she could admit was exciting without being a necessary experience in a well-rounded life.

The landscape whizzed by. She smelled the rain, the grass, the leather of his jacket, felt the throb of the bike between her legs.

Sexual, she admitted. Add arousing to that terrifying thrill. Which was surely the reason people rode bikes.

When he swung onto her drive, she had to resist flinging her arms up in the air to feel the wind give her palms a slapping high five.

As he stopped in front of the house, Del came out.

“Mal.”

“Del.”

“Parker, where’s your car?”

“Oh, I had a flat just down the road. Mal came by. His tow truck driver’s fixing it. I have a consult.”

Her brother cocked his head, and she saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “Parker.You rode on a motorcycle.”

“So what?” She tried to ease off gracefully, but the heels and skirt added challenge.

Mal simply swung off, then plucked her off like a package for delivery.

“Thank you.Very much. I have to run or—”

“You’ll be late.” He unstrapped her purse.“You probably don’t want to wear this.”

He unclipped the helmet, took it off for her.

“Thank you.”

“You said that already. A few times.”

“Well . . .” Uncharacteristically blank, she turned and hurried toward the house.

She heard Del say, “Come on in and have a beer.”

And tried not to wince when Mal drawled out a “Don’t mind if I do.”

Mal followed Del inside, and caught a glimpse of Parker charging up the stairs.The woman had legs, what he thought of as Hollywood legs.

The rest of her partners—the cool blonde, the raven-haired beauty, the willowy redhead—stood in the doorway of what he supposed they called a parlor, all talking at once.

They made a hell of a picture.

“Flat tire,” Del said and kept walking.

The Brown mansion had style, Mal thought, had class, had weight, and still managed to feel like a home instead of a museum. He figured that clicked on credit for those who lived there, and had lived there.

Warm colors, art that drew the eye rather than baffled it, comfortable chairs, glossy tables, and flowers, flowers, and more flowers mixed together with that style, that class and weight.

But he never felt as if he should keep his hands in his pockets for fear of getting a fingerprint on something.

He’d been through most of the place—excluding Parker’s private wing (and wouldn’t it be interesting to change that?), and always felt comfortable. Still, the easiest and most welcoming area of the house remained Mrs. Grady’s kitchen.

The woman herself turned from the stove where she stirred something that turned the air to heaven.

“So, it’s Malcolm.”

“How’re you doing, Mrs. Grady?”

“Well enough.” She cocked a brow as Del took a couple beers from the refrigerator. “Take those outside. I don’t want you underfoot.”

“Yes, ma’am,” both men said together.

“I suppose you’ll be staying for dinner,” she said to Malcolm.

“Are you asking?”

“I will if Delaney’s forgotten his manners.”

“He just got here,” Del muttered.

“As the other boys have wheedled a meal after the consult, I can stretch things to one more. If he’s not picky.”

“If you’re cooking it, Mrs. Grady, I’ll be grateful for even a single bite.”

“You’ve a clever tongue, don’t you, boy?”

“All the girls say so.”

She let out a quick bark of a laugh, and tapped her spoon on the edge of a pot. “Outside, the pair of you.”

Del opened the fridge, grabbed two more beers. He shoved three of the four on Mal, then flipped out his phone as they walked outside. “Jack. Mal’s here. Got beer. Get Carter.” He snapped the phone closed again.

He still wore his suit, Mal noted, and though he’d taken off his tie, loosened his collar, he looked every inch the Yale-educated lawyer. He shared his sister’s coloring—thick, dense brown hair, misty blue eyes. Her features were smoother, softer, but anyone with working eyes would make them as siblings.

Del sat, stretched out his legs. His manner tended to be more casual and a hell of a lot less prickly than his sister’s, which might have been why they’d become poker buddies, then friends.

They popped the bottles, and as Malcolm took the first cold sip, his body relaxed for the first time since he’d picked up his tools twelve hours earlier.

“What happened?” Del asked.

“About?”

“Don’t play me, Mal. Flat tire, my ass. If Parker’d had a flat, you’d have changed it—or she would have—and she wouldn’t have ridden home on your bike.”

“She had a flat.” Malcolm took another pull on his beer. “In fact, she had two.They’re toast.” He shrugged. He wouldn’t lie to a friend.“From what she said, and how it looked when I got there, some asshole swerved to avoid a dog. Parker had to cut it hard to the shoulder to avoid getting creamed. Wet road, maybe a little overcompensating, she had herself a little spin, shot out the two left tires. Looked to me from the skid marks, the other driver was booking—she wasn’t. And he kept right on going.”

“He left her there?” Outrage colored Del’s voice, blew across his face in a storm.“Son of a bitch. Did she get the plate, the make?”

“She got nothing, and I can’t blame her. It must’ve happened at the peak of that quick squall, and she was busy trying to get control of her car. I’d say she did pretty well. Didn’t hit anything, didn’t even pop the airbag. She was shaken up, and she was pissed. And she was extra pissed thinking she’d be late for her meeting.”

“But not hurt,” Del said, mostly to himself. “Okay.Where?”

“About six miles out.”

“Were you out this way, on your bike?”

“No.” Damn third degree. “Look, Ma got the call, and she came out to tell me somebody ran Parker off the road, and she was stuck, so I rode out to check on her while Ma dispatched Bill.”

“I appreciate that, Mal.” He glanced over as Mrs. Grady walked out, then set a bowl of pub mix and a plate of olives on the table. “Sop up some of that beer. Here come your boyfriends,” she added, nodding across the lawn as the dusk light flickered on.

“You.” She poked Malcolm in the shoulder.“You can have one more beer, as we won’t be sitting down to dinner for another hour or more, then that’s it until you park that monster machine back at your own place.”

“You and me could go out dancing first.”

“Careful.” She twinkled at him. “I’ve got plenty of moves left in me.”

She strolled back into the house, leaving Malcolm grinning. “Bet she does.” He tipped his beer toward Jack and Carter in greeting.

“Here’s what the doctor ordered.” Jack Cooke, the golden-boy architect and Del’s college pal, opened a beer. The sturdy boots and jeans told Mal Jack had focused on site work rather than office work that day.

He made a contrast with Carter’s oxford shirt and khakis. Carter’s reading glasses poked out of his shirt pocket and had Malcolm imagining him sitting up in his new study grading papers with his Professor Maguire tweed jacket neatly hung in the closet.

He figured they made a motley crew—if he had the meaning right—with Del in his slick Italian suit, Jack and his work boots, Carter in his teacher’s khakis, and himself . . .

Well, hell, if he’d known he’d get invited to dinner, he’d have changed his pants.

Probably.

Jack grabbed a handful of pub mix. “What’s up?”

“Somebody ran Parker off the road. Mal came to the rescue.”

“Is she okay?” Carter set his beer down quickly without drinking. “Is she hurt?”

“She’s fine,” Malcolm said.“Couple shredded tires. No big.And I get a couple of beers and dinner out of it. Pretty good deal.”

“He talked Parker onto the bike.”

Jack snorted, glanced from Del to Mal. “You’re not kidding?”

“Lesser of two evils.” Amused now, Malcolm popped an olive.

“My bike or being late for her meeting. Anyway . . .” He popped another olive. “I think she liked it. I’ll have to take her on a real ride.”

“Right.” Del let out a half laugh. “Good luck with that.”

“You don’t think I can get her back on the bike?”

“Parker’s not what you’d call your Motorcycle Mama.”

“Careful what you say about my ma.” Mal considered as he sipped his beer.“I’ve got a hundred that says I can get her back on within two weeks for a solid hour.”

“If you throw away your money like that, I’ll have to keep buying your beer.”

“I’ll take your money,” Jack said, and dug into the pub mix. “I have no scruples about taking your money.”

“Bet.” Malcolm shook on it with Jack. “Still open to you,” he told Del.

“Fine.”As they shook, Del glanced at Carter.“Do you want in?”

“No, I don’t think . . . Well, actually, I guess I’ll put mine on Malcolm.”

Malcolm gave Carter a considering stare. “Maybe you are as smart as you look.”

[Dalyia]

CHAPTER THREE

IN MALCOLM’S EXPERIENCE, MOST PEOPLE DIDN’T SIT DOWN TO A meal of honey-glazed ham, roasted potatoes and baby carrots, and delicately grilled asparagus on your typical Tuesday. And they probably didn’t chow down with candlelight, flowers, and wine sparkling in crystal glasses.

Then again, the Brown household wasn’t most people.

He’d have skipped the fancy French wine even without Mrs. Grady’s baleful eye. He’d long ago grown out of the stage where he’d knock them back before climbing on his bike.

He’d had vague plans to go home, sweat off the long day with a workout, grab a shower, slap something between a couple slices of bread, pop a brew, and zone awhile in front of the tube.

He’d’ve been fine with that.

But he had to admit this was better.

Not just the food—though, Jesus, Mrs. Grady could cook— but the place, the whole ball of wax. Pretty women, men he liked, the amazing Mrs. Grady.

And, particularly, the always intriguing Parker Brown.

She had a face for candlelight, he supposed. Elegant but not cold, unless she wanted it to be. Sexy, but subtle, like a hint of lace under a starched shirt.

Then there was that voice—low register, a wisp of smoke, but changeable as the weather from brisk to prim from warm to ice. She got things done with those tones. Knew, he decided, just how to use them.

She’d had to relate the full story of her near miss, and used the casual notes with hints of temper. If he hadn’t seen her himself directly after the incident, he might have bought her pretense that she’d never been in any real danger, and was only annoyed with her own overreaction and the other driver’s carelessness.

Even with the act, the others smothered her with concern, peppered her with more questions, slung outrage at the other driver. And dumped gratitude on him until he felt buried in it.

He figured he and Parker hit about the same level of relief when the topic shifted.

He liked listening to them, all of them. Group—or he supposed more like family—dinner ran long, ran loud, and involved a whole hell of a lot of cross talk.That was fine with Mal. It meant he didn’t have to say much himself, and to his way of thinking you learned more about people when you let them take the wheel.

“What are you going to do with your pool table?” Jack asked Del.

“I haven’t decided.”

It stirred Malcolm enough to ask. “What’s wrong with the pool table?”

“Nothing.”

“Del’s selling his house and moving in here,” Carter told Mal.

“Selling it? When did that happen?”

“A very recent development.” Del arched his eyebrows at Mal as he buttered one of Mrs. Grady’s fancy crescent rolls.“You want to buy it?”

“What the hell would I do with it? It’s big enough for a family of ten and their grandparents from Iowa.” He considered as he cut another bite of ham. “Any way to just buy the game room?”

“Afraid not. But I’ve got a couple ideas on all that.”

“Let me know when you’re ready to sell the pinball machines.”

“Where are you going to put them?” Jack demanded. “You’ve barely got room to turn around in that place over your mother’s garage.”

“For the classics I’ll toss out my bed and sleep on the floor.”

“Boys and their toys.” Laurel rolled her eyes toward Del. “You can’t put yours in our bedroom. Line in the sand, Delaney. Indelible line.”

“I had a different location in mind.” Del glanced at Parker. “We’ll talk about it.”

“All right. I thought you might want to convert one of the attics,” Parker began, “but I took a look myself, and I don’t know that they’d safely hold all that weight. At least not if you wanted to keep the slate pool table.”

“I wasn’t thinking up. I was thinking down.”

“Down?” Parker repeated. “Where . . . Oh God, Del, not one of the basements.”

“How many attics and basements are in this place?” Mal whispered to Emma.

“Three attics, two—no, three basements if you count the scary boiler room where the demons who eat the flesh of young girls live.”

“Cool.”

“Sure, if you’re a young boy like Del was.” Emma narrowed her dark eyes as she glared across the table. “But if you’re a young girl playing Treasure Hunt, you could be scarred for life by a certain mean boy with a flashlight with a red bulb, a shambling walk, and a low, maniacal laugh.”

She picked up her wine, shuddered a little. “I still can’t go down there.”

He tuned back in while Parker and Del batted basements around, Laurel sat smiling into her wine, Jack grabbed another roll, and Mac whispered something in Carter’s ear that made the tip of that ear flush pink.

Interesting.

“Look,” Del said, “you use the west wing basement to store event supplies—extra tables, chairs, whatever.”

“We’re buying more. Investing in our own,” Parker pointed out. “So we snag the rental rather than subbing it out.”

“Which is good business. I’ve been down there too many times to count when I’ve pitched in with events.You have enough space for a showroom.”

“It’s not the space, Del, you can have the space.” Obviously weighing options, Parker frowned at her water glass, then at Del. “We could move the storage to the east side, but even then—”

“No, no!” Emma waved both hands. “It’s too close to the Hellmouth.”

“And he’s still there,” Del said darkly, “waiting for you.”

“I hate you, Delaney. Beat him up, Jack,” Emma demanded.“A whole lot.”

“Okay. Can I finish this roll first?”

“East, west,” Parker interrupted, “it’s still a basement. There’s next to no natural lighting, the ceilings are barely seven feet, concrete floors, parged walls, pipes everywhere.”

“All the better for a Man Cave. Besides, why do you think I keep him around?” he gestured at Jack. “He’s more than a pretty face.”

“Take a cavernous basement and remodel it into a MEA? That’s Manly Entertainment Area, to you civilians,” Jack explained as interest lit in his smoky eyes. “I can do that.”

“The walls are a foot thick,” Del went on,“so the space could be used even during events and nobody’d hear a thing.” He lifted his wineglass, swirled the last half inch of wine while he aimed his gaze at Emma. “Just like nobody hears the pitiful screams of girls being eaten alive by the demon with a single red eye.”

“You bastard.” Emma hunched her shoulders.

“Let’s go take a look.”

Parker stared at Del. “Now?”

“Sure.”

“I’m not going down there,” Emma muttered.

“Aw, baby.” Jack leaned over to wrap an arm around Emma. “I’ll protect you.”

She shook her head at Jack. “You say that now.”

[Dalyia]

“You guys go ahead.” Mac waved her wineglass. “Carter and I are just going to finish our wine, then we have . . . some things to do at home.”

“There’s peach pie yet,” Mrs. Grady announced.

“Well . . .” Mac smiled. “We have dessert at home, don’t we, Carter?”

His ears blushed again. “Apparently.”

“Come on, Mal,” Del invited. “We’ll give you a tour of the depths, work up an appetite for pie.”

“Sure.” He rose after they did, reached for his plate to clear it.

“Leave that for now.” Mrs. Grady wagged a finger at him.“Go on and explore first.”

“Okay. Best ham I ever ate.”

“I’ll wrap some up for you to take home.”

He bent down as he passed her.“I owe you a dance,” he whispered in her ear and made her laugh.

“What was that about?” Parker asked him.

“Private conversation.”

He tagged along, taking back stairs he imagined had once seen the scurry of servants and wondering why Parker still wore those skinny heels.

As Del hit switches, hard fluorescent lights flickered on to reveal a massive labyrinth.

He noted the low ceilings, unfinished walls, exposed pipes, and, as they turned into an open area, the utilitarian shelving, stacks of tables, chairs, stools.

A basement, no doubt, with just a pleasing edge of creepy and as ruthlessly clean as the kitchen of a five-star restaurant.

“What, do you have basement gnomes that come out and scrub at night?”

“Just because it’s storage and utility doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be clean,” Parker answered. “Del, it’s depressing down here.”

“Now.”

He moved into a passageway, ducked under more pipes with what Mal assumed was the grace of experience, and kept winding.

“Old boiler room.” Del jerked a thumb at a locked wooden door. “Where demons drool and sharpen their fangs on the bones of—”

“I didn’t fall for that when I was eight,” Laurel reminded him.

“It’s a damn shame.” He slung his arm around her shoulders; she wound hers around his waist.

Malcolm adjusted his stride so he walked beside Parker. “It’s a lot of space.”

“It’s had a few incarnations and various uses. Storage and utility, just as now. And my great-grandfather had a workshop down here. He liked to build things, and so it’s told he liked to have a quiet space to retreat when my great-grandmother was on a tear. They stored preserves and root vegetables, whatever else they canned during harvests. My father said his parents outfitted it as an air-raid shelter during the fifties.”

As the space widened again, she stopped, put her hands on her hips. “God, Del, it’s creepy. It’s like a catacomb.”

“I like it.” Jack circled, eyes narrowed.“Take out that wall, widen the opening. Beams, columns.That brings in one more window, a little more light.”

“You call that sliver a window?” Laurel asked.

“Lighting’s a priority, and we have ways.” Jack looked up.“We’d have to reroute some of the pipes, give you more headroom. Space isn’t an issue, so I’d fir out the walls, run the electric, more plumbing. Put a nice john over there, balance that with a closet over here. Me, I’d put in a gas fireplace. Heat and ambiance, maybe do some stone or brick on that wall.Tile the floor, put heat elements under the tile.

“You’ve got your storm cellar doors out there. I want to think about that, take measurements, but it’s doable. Oh yeah, it’s doable.”

Del glanced at Parker, cocked an eyebrow.

“If it’s what you want, of course, I’m fine with it.”

“There’s your green light, Cooke.”

Jack rubbed his hands together. “Yeah, baby.”

“They’re going to start talking about bearing walls and rough plumbing.” Laurel shook her head.“I’m going up. I’ve barely cleared the brain haze from the construction of my auxiliary kitchen. Which is the work of genius,” she added to Jack.

“We do no less.”

“I’ll go with you.” Parker started out with Laurel, stopped. “Jack, can we do heated floors in the storage area?”

“All that, my lovely, and more.”

She smiled. “Maybe we’ll talk.”

By the time Malcolm came back up—and damn if Jack hadn’t made him see a space as slick, maybe even slicker, than the testosterone paradise in Del’s current house—Mrs. Grady, Emma, Laurel, and Parker had made a serious dent in the clearing up.

He took Mrs. Grady’s hand, shaking his head.“Uh-uh.You sit.” He gestured to the bench in the breakfast nook. “The one who cooks doesn’t clean up.That’s the Law of Kavanaugh.”

“I always liked your mother.”

“I’m pretty fond of her myself.Want some more wine?”

“I’ve had my share, but I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.”

“You got it.”

He walked back to the stove, shook the kettle, then bumped Parker out of the way to fill it from the tap. He answered her stare with one of his own.

“Problem?”

“No.”

“Your hair smells like this white flower that bloomed all over this bush I had under my bedroom window when we were stationed in Florida. It gets its hooks right in me.”

He set the kettle on the burner, turned it on. The other men walked in as he took a stack of dishes from Emma.

“Damn,” Del complained. “We didn’t stay down there long enough.”

“You can grab what’s left on the table,” Laurel told them. “We’re shorthanded as Mac and Carter ducked out to have dessert at home.Which is spelled s-e-x.”

“If they’d waited an hour, they could’ve had pie and sex.” Malcolm found a cup and saucer in a cupboard. “It doesn’t get any better than that.”

And, he discovered in short order, it was damn good pie.

He gauged his timing before he pushed back from the table. Del and Jack huddled over designs Jack sketched on a legal pad someone had dug up, and Laurel talked recipes with Mrs. Grady.

“I’ve got to take off.Thanks, Mrs. Grady.”

“Poker night,” Del said, glancing up. “Bring cash.”

“Sure, since I’ll be leaving with yours.”

“You give my best to your mother. Parker.” Mrs. Grady tapped a finger on the table. “Get Malcolm the leftovers I put aside for him.”

Even better, Malcolm thought, and flashed Mrs. Grady a grin when she winked at him. He trailed Parker into the kitchen.

“Looks like I’ll be eating like a king tomorrow, too.” He tucked the container under his arm.

“Mrs. G has a weakness for strays. I didn’t mean it like that,” she said quickly.

“I didn’t take it like that.”

“I’m really grateful for your help tonight.You saved me a lot of time and aggravation. I’ll walk you out.”

She’d pulled out that formal tone, he noted. The one that clearly ordered a man to take a step back. He moved deliberately closer as they walked through the house.

“Can you give me an estimate on when I can pick up my car?”

All business now, Malcolm mused. “Ma’ll call you about the tires in the morning, and work that out with you. Since I’ve got it in, I can give it a once-over.”

“I was going to schedule a general maintenance next month, but yes, since it’s already there.”

“You been having any problems with it?”

“No. None.”

“That should make it easy.”

She reached for the door. He beat her to it.

“Thanks again. I’ll expect your mother’s call tomorrow.”

Brisk and dry as a handshake, he thought. He set the container down on a table holding a vase of fat orange roses. Sometimes, he thought, you moved fast; sometimes you moved slow.

He moved fast, giving her a quick yank that had her body colliding with his.The way she said excuse me, like a veteran school-teacher to an unruly student made him grin before he took her mouth with his.

It was even better than the pie.

Soft, tasty, ripe, with just a hint of shock to cut the sweet. He felt her fingers dig into his shoulders, and the light tremble might have been outrage, might have been pleasure.

He’d tasted her before. Once when she’d grabbed him and planted one on him to take a slap at Del, and again when he’d followed his own instincts on a visit to their place in the Hamptons.

And every taste made him want more.

A lot more.

He didn’t bother to be gentle. He imagined she’d had plenty of the smooth type, the polite type, and he wasn’t inclined to be either. So he pleased himself, letting his hands run up that truly exceptional body of hers, then down again, enjoying her slow melt against him.

When he heard the low purr in her throat, when he tasted it on his tongue, he let her go. He stepped back, picked up the container of leftovers.

He smiled at her. It was the first time he’d seen her stunned and speechless.

“See you later, Legs.”

He strolled out, strapped the container onto his bike.When he swung on, revved the engine, he glanced back to see her standing in the open doorway.

She made a hell of a picture, he thought, framed there in her power suit, just a little bit mussed, with the big, gorgeous house around her.

He tapped his helmet in salute, then roared away with that picture as clear in his head as the taste of her on his tongue.

Parker stepped back, shut the door, then turned and jumped when she saw Laurel in the hallway.

“Can I just say wow?”

Parker shook her head, wished she had something to do with her hands. “He just . . . grabbed me.”

“I’ll say. And let’s have one more wow.”

“He’s grabby and pushy and—”

“Really, really hot. And I say that as a woman madly in love with your brother. I might also add,” she continued as she walked to Parker, “that as I didn’t politely avert my eyes and go away, I happened to observe you weren’t exactly fighting him off.”

“He caught me by surprise. Besides, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.”

“Sorry, but he looked pretty satisfied. And Parker?” She gave her friend’s arm a pat. “You look flustered, glowy, and dazzled.”

“I am not glowy.”

Laurel simply turned Parker by the shoulders to the big foyer mirror. “You were saying?”

Maybe color did glow in her cheeks, and maybe her eyes were a little dazzled, but . . . “That’s irritation.”

“I won’t say ‘liar, liar,’ but, Parks, under that skirt, your pants are on fire.”

“All right, fine. Fine. He’s a good kisser, if you like the rough, arrogant style.”

“You seemed good with it.”

“That was only because he ambushed me. And this is a stupid conversation about nothing. I’m going up.”

“Me, too, which is why I got an eyeful of the nothing.”

They started up together, but before they separated Parker stopped on the landing. “I was wearing the Back-Off Cloak.”

“What?”

“I’m not stupid. He made a little move in the kitchen.Actually, he makes little moves every time I run into him, which is disconcerting, but I can handle it. So when I walked him to the door, I thought he might get ideas.”

Laurel’s eyes widened. “You swirled on the Back-Off Cloak? The famed shield that repels men of all ages, creeds, and political affiliations?”

“Yes.”

“Yet he was not repelled. He’s immune.” She gave Parker a slap on the arm. “He may be the only creature of his kind.”

“It’s not funny.”

“Sure it is. Also sexy.”

“I’m not interested in funny and sexy with Malcolm Kavanaugh.”

“Parker, if you weren’t interested, on some level, you’d have flicked him off like lint on a lapel. He . . .” Laurel searched for the right word. “He intrigues you.”

“No, he . . . Maybe.”

“As your friend, let me say it’s nice to see you intrigued by a man, especially since I like the man, and have noted he is also intrigued by you.”

Parker jerked a shoulder. “He just wants to get me in bed.”

“Well, of course he wants to get you in bed. But I’m not at all convinced it’s ‘just.’”

“I’m not going to have sex with him.We have a business relationship.”

“Because he’s your mechanic?”

“He’s Vows’ mechanic now, and he’s Del’s friend.”

“Parks, your excuses are so lame they’re limping, which makes me think you’re worried you want to have sex with him.”

“It’s not about sex. Everything’s not always about sex.”

“You brought it up.”

Caught, Parker admitted.“Now I’m bringing it down. I’ve got too much on my mind to think about this anyway.We’re jammed tomorrow.We’re jammed for the next five days straight.”

“We are. Do you want me to come up, hang out awhile?”

The fact that she did, really did, only confirmed to Parker she was making too much out of nothing.“No, thanks, I’m good.And I’ve got a little work I want to get in before bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She walked up alone, and switched on the TV for company. After slipping out of her shoes, she checked them for any dings, scrapes, or scratches. Satisfied, she set them in their proper place on the shoe wall of her closet. She dropped her suit in the dry cleaning bag, replaced her jewelry in the slots designed for them in the thin drawers.

She slipped on a nightshirt, a robe, tucked her phone in the robe pocket. She considered a long, hot bath, but exed it out since long, hot baths encouraged thinking and dreaming. She didn’t care to do either.

Instead, she fixed her mind on the next day’s schedule while she cleansed, toned, moisturized her face.

Glowy, she thought, giving her reflection a cool stare. What a silly word. It wasn’t even a word in the first place, and totally inaccurate.

Laurel had romance fever. Nearly all brides caught it, and due to its side effects they saw everything and everyone through a pretty haze of love.

Nice for them, she admitted as she took the band from her hair. Good business for Vows.

And speaking of business, she’d take an hour now to input all the new data from the evening consult and the initial choices made by the clients.

An estimated 225 on the guest list, she thought as she wandered back into the bedroom with the intention of going to work on her laptop in her sitting room. A bridal party of six, including a flower girl who’d be five by the June wedding.

The bride’s favorite flower was peony, her color choices—for now anyway—pink and green. Soft tones.

Soft, Parker thought again, and changed direction to open her terrace doors and step out. She’d just get a little air first, just take in a little of the night air.

The bride wanted soft and delicate. She’d asked Parker to meet her at the salon to view the gown she’d chosen, which proved she was a bride who understood that the wedding dress created the center of whatever tone or theme or mood the wedding took.

All those lovely, floaty layers, Parker recalled, the subtle gleam of seed pearls and tender touches of lace.

Pastels and peonies, shimmering tulle, and whispered promises.

She could see it. She would see to it. She excelled at seeing to things.

There was no reason, no good reason to feel so restless, so unsettled, so addled.

No reason to stand here looking out at night-drenched gardens remembering the unexpected thrill of a motorcycle ride that had lasted only minutes.

And had been fast and dangerous and foolishly exciting.

Like, very like, the hard, rough kiss of a brash man in her own foyer.

She wasn’t interested in those things.Absolutely not. Intrigued, maybe, but intrigued was a different matter. She found sharks intriguing when they swam their eerily silent way in the tank at an aquarium, but that didn’t mean she had any interest in taking a dip with them.

Which wasn’t a fair comparison, she admitted with a sigh. Not fair at all.

Malcolm might be cocky, he might be brash, but he wasn’t a shark. He’d been so natural with Mrs. G, and even a bit sweet in that area. She had unerring radar for phonies when it came to their behavior with those she loved, and there hadn’t been a phony note in Malcolm’s.

Then there was his friendship with Del. Del might tolerate professional relationships with phonies and sharks, but never a personal one.

So the problem, if there was a problem, was obviously with her. She’d just have to correct it. Correcting, solving, and eliminating problems was her stock-in-trade.

She’d just figure out the solution to this one, implement it, then move on. She needed to ascertain and identify said problem first, but she had a pretty good idea of its root.

At some level of the intrigue—not interest, but intrigue—at some level of that level, she was attracted.

In an elemental, strictly chemical way.

She was human, she was healthy, and Laurel was right. Malcolm was hot. In his primal, rough-edged manner.

Motorcycles and leather, torn denim and cocky grins. Hard hands, a hungry mouth.

Parker pressed a hand to her belly.Yes, definitely an aspect of attraction. Now that she’d admitted it, she could work out the best way to defuse it.

Like a bomb.

Like the bomb that had gone off inside her when he’d yanked her . . . Yanked her, she thought again. She didn’t like being yanked.

Did she?

“Doesn’t matter,” she mumbled.You fixed problems with answers, not more questions.

She wished she didn’t have so many damn questions.

In her pocket, her phone rang. She plucked it out like a woman reaching for a float in a stormy sea.

“Thank God.” She breathed out relief. Crazy Bride would absolutely, no question, give her a problem she could efficiently solve. And keep her mind off her own.

“Hi, Sabina! What can I do for you?”

[Dalyia]

CHAPTER FOUR

PARKER PREPPED FOR THE MORNING STAFF MEETING WITH BLACKBerry and laptop. She sat at the large round table in what had been the library of her home and now served as Vows’ conference room.

The walls of books and the rich scent of leather remained, and on brisk fall or cold winter mornings a fire would snap away in the hearth as it had for as long as she could remember. Lamps that warmed cozy seating arrangements had belonged to her grandmother. The rugs, a bit faded and frayed with time and use, came down from a generation before that. Framed articles on Vows and the women behind it were displayed artfully on the walls between cabinets.

On the long table nearby, her mother’s silver coffee service gleamed, and under it, tucked behind the antique doors, sat an office-sized refrigerator stocked with water and soft drinks.

To her mind the room epitomized the blending of tradition and enterprise essential to her goals for herself and her business.

She checked the day’s agenda, including the morning appointments, the afternoon’s bridal shower, and the rehearsal for Friday evening’s event. Her phone signaled as Mac came in with a basket of muffins.

“Laurel’s on her way. Emma says she’s not late.”

Parker nodded. “Friday night’s bride. Good morning, Cecily! Ready for the big day?”

She nodded again as Mac held the coffeepot over Parker’s cup. “Um-hmm. That’s so sweet. Yes, we can do that. Oh, absolutely.” She listened, winced only a little.

“I think that’s incredibly generous of you and Marcus. I know you must be,” she responded.“Listen, I’m just thinking, just throwing this out there. I wonder if considering the wedding cake and the groom’s cake, another might be overkill. Not quite as special as you’d like. What about a cupcake? Heart-shaped, elaborately frosted with their names on it. It would fit right on the head table in front of them. Be exclusively theirs.”

Listening again, Parker began to key in data one-handed on her laptop.“Leave it to me.You know Laurel will make it beautiful, and very special.”

Parker just beamed out a smile as Laurel came in and narrowed her eyes at the statement.

“What’s your sister’s favorite flower?” Parker asked. “Dahlias. Lovely. Oh, of course he can if he wants to. I’ll be available for that if he can get here just a few minutes early tonight.Yes, we’re excited, too. Not a word, I promise. See you tonight.”

“What am I making beautiful and special?” Laurel demanded.

“A cupcake. One single cupcake.” Parker held up one finger. “Heart-shaped, maybe a little oversized just for impact. Maybe iced with dahlias as the design and with the names Griff and Jaci—Friday night’s groom’s brother and the bride’s sister, also the BM and MOH. They’ve been dating about six months now. He’s going to propose at the wedding, as a crescendo to his toast to the bride and groom.”

“Why would he want to do that?” Mac demanded.

“I don’t know, because he’s crazy from love, because he wants to tie the way he feels about her to the way his brother feels about his sister. He asked his brother and the bride first, and they love it. They’re weeping with joy. And,” she added with a steely look at Laurel, “she wanted another cake. I talked her down to cupcake, so you owe me.”

“What’d I miss?” Emma rushed in. “I’m not late.”

“You’re late,” Mac corrected,“and love is in the air is what you missed.”

“Oh, well, that’s all over the place around here anyway.”

“New business, just so Emma’s up-to-date.” Parker ran through the phone call and resulting additions. As she expected, Emma went dewy-eyed.

“That’s adorable.”

“It won’t be if she says hell no,” Laurel pointed out.

“She won’t.” But Emma looked stricken. “Oh God, what if?”

“Let’s take a good look at the two of them tonight,” Parker suggested. “See what sense we get. If we think oops, we’ll come up with a plan to cover. Next? Today’s afternoon event. Bridal shower with guests arriving at two.”

“Champagne Elegance,” Laurel said.“That’s the name of the cake as that’s what the very snooty MOH and bridal shower hostess demanded as ambiance. We have a small-scale wedding cake with champagne accents, a variety of cookies, mini pastries, chocolates. The caterer’s providing the girly food, the champagne, and the coffee and tea. Party favors include chocolates in glossy white boxes, with monogrammed silver ribbons accented with a sparkly hair clip.”

“I’ve done white roses, as requested.” Emma gulped coffee. “Individual contemporary bouquets in black vases for each table. Tink’s finishing up the arbor and pergola as we speak. We’ll do white rose displays in the portico urns, and on the terraces.”

“The guests have been requested to wear white,” Parker reminded her partners. “We’re to wear black, as are all the subs and the string trio who’ll play during the mingling and nibbling portions of the event.The forecast is for mostly sunny, light winds, and a high of seventy-one. So we should be able to hold the event outside as we hoped. Gift table will be under the pergola.At three, we’ll set up the bride’s chair, and at three fifteen, begin the opening of gifts. I’ll be keeping the record of who gave what for the bride. By four fifteen, we should be able to transfer the gifts to the limo. By four forty-five, we wave good-bye. Mac?”

“The MOH wants candids, by which she actually means carefully posed shots where everyone, especially her, looks fabulous and happy and natural and ten pounds lighter. She wants a shot of the bride with every gift, and with every guest. No problem on my end.”

“The Mason-Easterbay wedding party should arrive at five thirty for rehearsal.They have reservations at Carlotta’s for seven thirty, so they need to be out and gone by seven.Any problem there?”

When she got negatives, Parker moved on.“Any questions, problems, comments, sarcastic remarks about their actual event?”

“If I’d known there was a sarcastic remark slot, I’d’ve had one ready,” Laurel told her.

“Otherwise, today. I may need to have somebody drive me into the garage to get my car. Or I’ll take a cab if everyone’s busy. Mrs. Kavanaugh’s calling me this morning, and hopefully can give me a time frame. I do have an appointment here at ten.” She waited a bit. “With Carter’s sister Diane.”

“What about?” Mac wondered.

“About her being a bitch. Sorry, I shouldn’t call your soon-to-be sister-in-law a bitch.To your face.”

“No problem. She is kind of a bitch. The passive-aggressive type that makes me want to boot her in the ass. Often.”

“The sky’s never blue enough for Diane,” Emma commented. Her family and the Maguires had been friends for years.

“What’s she being a bitch about?” Laurel asked.

“She’s upset Sherry. Didn’t want to be in the wedding because it’s too much fuss, too much trouble.”

“She’s been snarky about the wedding right along.” Mac nodded, shrugged. “She’s given me some nudges about it, and about mine.Who wants that in their wedding party? Sister or not.”

“Now she’s saying she won’t come to the rehearsal dinner. Not in the wedding party, doesn’t want to get a sitter, doesn’t want to come with the kids and deal with them. Me, I’d say fine, don’t, but Sherry wants her there.” Parker’s eyes glittered.“So she’ll be there.”

“Kick her ass, champ.”

Parker smiled at Laurel.“Count on it. Once I’ve done that, I’ll be available to pitch in with anything for anyone, until it’s time to get my car.”

“Maybe you’ll get more smoochies.”

“Laurel.”

“What? Do you think I’m keeping that to myself ?” She grinned as both Mac and Emma demanded details.

“Malcolm Kavanaugh, in the foyer, with a hot embrace.”

“Well, well.” Mac wiggled her eyebrows.

“There’s no ‘well, well’ about it.” Wanting to move on, Parker pulled out her casually dismissive tone.“He was just showing off.”

“He’s good at it,” Laurel put in. “I got singed by the heat, and I was fifteen feet away.”

“Are you going out?” Emma asked her.

“If you mean am I going out at some point to pick up my car, yes.”

“Come on.Are you going to see him—a date,” Emma qualified.

“No. It was just a . . . He was being a smart-ass, that’s it.”

“You kissed him first.” Emma wagged her finger. “Fourth of July.”

“I was mad at Del, and it was a mistake. And that doesn’t mean—” She broke off and grabbed her ringing phone.

“Saved by the CrackBerry,” Mac announced.

“Hi, Buffy.” Taking advantage, Parker pushed up, walked out of the room as she spoke.

“They’ve got the hots, the mutual hots.” Laurel folded her arms. “I am not mistaken on this.”

“He looks at her. Don’t give me that smirk.” Emma pointed at Mac.“He looks at her, a lot, and she tries not to look at him. I say mutual hots a definite.”

“He’s got that whole James Dean thing going.”

“The sausage guy?” Mac asked, frowning at Laurel.

“No, Jesus, Mackensie.” Laurel aimed her gaze at the heavens. “That’s Jimmy Dean. James. Bad boy, all attitude.”

“I kind of like that he rattles her,” Emma decided.“Our Parker isn’t easily rattled, which is one of the aspects that makes her our Parker, but I kind of like seeing it.”

“He’s not slick, which earns him points from me.” Laurel shrugged, rose. “We’ll see where it goes, if anywhere. Meanwhile, duty calls.” She paused at the doorway. “Hey, you know what Parker said after the smoking-hot kiss?”

“What?” Mac demanded.

“Absolutely nothing.”

PARKER MIGHT NOT HAVE THOUGHT OF ANYTHING TO SAY THEN, but she had plenty to say to Carter’s older sister.

She greeted Diane at the door herself, extending both hands and a beaming smile.“Di, it’s so good to see you! Thanks so much for making time today. How are the kids?” she added as she drew Diane inside.

“They’re fine.”

“Mac tells me they got a puppy recently.” Deliberately she draped an arm over Diane’s shoulders, just a couple of girl pals catching up, to lead her into the parlor.

“My father managed to get around me there. Of course, he’s not the one dealing with it.”

“Isn’t that always the way?” Parker said cheerfully. “I know an excellent trainer if you’re interested in a little help. She’s wonderful, and has kid-puppy classes, so the kids get involved in the work. How about some coffee?”

“I’m cutting back on caffeine.”

“I drink far too much of it myself.We’ve got some lovely green tea. Carter says it’s your favorite.”

With a quick hitch in her stride, Diane stared, blinked.“Carter did?”

“It’s surprising isn’t it, what our brothers notice and remember? Let’s sit down. You look just terrific, Diane. What have you been doing?”

Obviously flustered, Diane pushed back at her bob of brown hair. An attractive woman, she habitually marred her looks with a dissatisfied expression. “I joined a yoga class a couple months ago, but it’s so full of nonsense that I—”

“Oh, I love yoga.” All smiles, Parker poured the tea. It was no accident she used one of her grandmother’s best Doulton tea services. Diane, she knew, noted and set store by such things. “Even a fifteen-minute session helps me release all the stress of the day. Good for you for taking a little me-time. With your work, your family, all those obligations, you have to fit twenty-five hours into every day. I honestly don’t know how you do it, and here I’ve added to those hours by asking you to come talk to me.”

“I assume it’s about Sherry’s wedding, and I don’t really understand what that has to do with me.”

“Can you believe it’s almost here?” Undeterred, Parker sipped her tea. “And before we know it, it’ll be Carter and Mac.” She reached out to take Diane’s hand again. “It makes us family. And that’s what sparked this idea I have.”

“What idea?”

“I should start at the beginning, and the credit for that goes to Mac.You know that Sherry’s main wish for the wedding was fun. She wants it to be a fun day—friends and family—a celebration. I have to tell you, Di, so many brides are focused on the tiny details, the minutiae. And of course, that’s what we do here. It’s part of what we offer. But it’s so refreshing to work with your sister, a woman who sees the big picture. She sees, well, your parents, and you.”

“Me?”

“You and Sam and your children.What you’ve built—the life, the family, the continuity. It isn’t an easy thing, that build—as you know—and she sees what you’ve accomplished. And all that starts with the wedding itself, the celebration of those first steps.You’re her big sister. You took the steps before her, and you’ve helped show her the way.You’ve been a huge influence on her.”

Diane sniffed. “Sherry never listens to anything I have to say.” “You know, I think those who have impact and influence over us are often unaware. Why just the other day . . .” She broke off, gave a little shake of her head. “I don’t want to betray a confidence, but since it’s family, Sherry told me just the other day how important you are to her, how much you mean to her. I guess it’s easier to say that to someone just a little outside, isn’t it?”

Again the stare, the blink. “She said that?”

“Yes, and it made me realize . . . I’m ahead of myself again.” With an easy laugh, Parker waved a hand as if she’d scattered her thoughts. “Mac’s idea. She’s put together photographs of Sherry, of your family, Nick and his family. Old photos, recent ones. A kind of chronological retrospective. Mac’s so talented. I know I’m biased, but I have to say the CD she created is wonderful. Sweet, funny, charming, poignant. The idea is to run it at the rehearsal dinner.”

“Oh, I’m not going to—”

“What it’s missing,” Parker interrupted, “is a narrator. An emcee if you will. Someone who’s been there from the beginning. Not your parents, as it’s a surprise for them, too, and Mac added their wedding photo to kick the whole thing off. I thought Carter, as he’s a teacher as well as her brother, so he’s used to speaking in public, but when Sherry and I talked, I realized no. It’s a sister thing. A big sister thing. After all, who has a more unique, clever, intimate perspective on Sherry, on your family, on Nick and his, than you? Please say you’ll do it.”

Again, Parker reached out a hand, making that contact, making it personal.

“I know it’s a lot to ask, and it’s such short notice, but it’s all just coming together.We really need you.”

[Dalyia]

“You want me to . . . to narrate pictures?”

“Not just want, but need. And not just pictures. It’s a journey, Diane. Sherry and Nick’s, yes, but also all of you. Family’s so essential to both of them. I’ve gotten to know them and understand that over these past months. It’s going to be the highlight of the evening. Carter’s drafted out the script, and he’s hoping you’ll say yes and work with him on refining it.”

“Carter wants me to—” She broke off, obviously stunned.

“Oh, I know you’re incredibly busy already, and it’s a lot to ask. But I’ll help as much as I can, as much as you want or need. Frankly, I don’t think you’ll need any help.Anyone who can manage a family the way you do can, in my opinion, manage anything.”

“I might be able to do it, but I’d have to see the CD and whatever Carter’s written before I could commit.”

Parker whisked a file off the table.“I happen to have a copy of both right here.The CD runs just about twelve minutes. Have you got time to watch it now?”

“I . . .I guess.”

“Perfect. I’ll just get my laptop.”

Twenty-six minutes later, Parker wheeled the tea trolley back in the kitchen.

“I see by the canary feathers stuck to your lip that you pulled it off.” Mrs. Grady set the basket of cherry tomatoes just harvested from her kitchen garden on the counter.

“I troweled it on pretty thick, then I shoveled on more. She’ll not only attend the rehearsal and the rehearsal dinner, but she’ll emcee Mac and Carter’s CD. And bless Carter for being willing to step out as emcee, especially since it was as much his idea as Mac’s.”

“He’s a good boy. And his older sister’s always been a pain in the rear.”

“Well, she’s attractive, but she lacks Sherry’s vivacity and easy confidence. She’s smart, but not as innately bright as Carter, and not anywhere near as sweet. She’s the firstborn but not, I think, often first otherwise. And it irks. All I had to do was make it as much about her as Sherry.” Parker shrugged. “And tell her a few truths. Her family loves her. She’s important to them. Some people just have to hear it, a lot.”

“I bet it didn’t hurt it came from you.‘Parker Brown needs my help.’”

Parker shrugged again. “Whatever works.The bride gets what she wants and deserves.” She glanced at her watch. “And I’m on schedule.”

She pitched in on decor for the event, checked on Laurel’s progress, spoke with the caterers on their arrival, the parking attendants at theirs.

She stepped out on the terrace for a last check as Mac took shots of the setup, and thought, Champagne Elegance all around.

Not her particular taste for a wedding shower—and since she had three in planning stages for her friends, she had plenty of ideas—but the scene had an appealingly stylish Deco feel, with just enough lush from Emma’s stunning arrangements to soften it.

“Totally Gatsby,” Mac said as she lowered her camera.

“I was just thinking that. I’d say the hostess, and the bride, will be very pleased.”

“You’ve already scored today. Carter sent me a text. His sister wants to meet him after his classes today and talk about the script for the rehearsal dinner. Nice job.”

“I think she’ll do one, too. I really do. She was excited about the whole thing when she left.”

“Diane? Excited? Did you spike her tea?”

“In a manner of speaking, but it was the CD itself that did it. She got misty a few times.”

Mac’s eyebrows winged up. “I underestimate my own power. Everything a go inside?”

“Emma was just finishing the public areas, and Laurel’s done and with the caterer. I’m about to . . .” She laid a finger on her headset. “Be right there. Our hostess just arrived,” she told Mac. “I’ll go meet her, bring her through.”

“I’ll go around, get some unobtrusive shots of arrivals.”

With a nod, Parker started inside. “Em, Laurel,” she said into her headset, “we’re green.”

Within the hour, Parker watched women in stylish white suits, floaty white dresses, sharply tailored white pants mingle on the terrace. They sipped champagne, chatted, laughed, nibbled on pretty passed hors d’oeuvres.

Mac moved among them, capturing moments. The burst of delight as the bride-to-be threw back her head and laughed, the affectionate hug of greeting between friends, the sweetness of a granddaughter tapping flutes with her grandmother.

It pleased her, as it always did, to see happiness here, to feel it sparkling in the air like champagne, to know what had come to her could be a setting for joy.

Today it pleased her to be in the company of women, and to have played a part in creating this individualized vision of the female ritual.

At the appointed time, she moved forward to ask the guests to be seated for lunch, then again retreated to the background.Then braced when the hostess made her way over, her face set in harassed lines.

“Olivia asked about games. She wants shower games.”

Which you expressly vetoed, Parker remembered, but smiled. “I can take care of that.”

“She asked about games and prizes. Obviously I haven’t prepared for—”

“It’s not a problem. I’ll see to it during lunch. How about three? I find that’s just enough. Fun and simple games with pretty prizes for the winners.”

“I don’t want to hand out anything tacky or foolish. I’d want something in keeping with the ambiance.”

And gee, Parker thought, I was going to get the glow-in-the-dark dildos. “Absolutely. Leave it to me. We’ll have it all arranged for after lunch. Please, go enjoy yourself. Don’t worry about a thing.”

She waited until she’d slipped inside. “Laurel, I need you to take over outside,” she said into her headset. “The BTB wants games and prizes. I need fifteen minutes to set it up.”

“Got it.”

“Emma, I need a small prize table set up.”

“Oh, for God’s sake—”

“I know, I know. Whatever you can do. You’ve got forty minutes.”

She charged up the back steps, all the way to the gift room, a space designed for gift wrapping, present storage. Inside one of the cabinets she had labeled, prewrapped gifts. She scanned, debated, and after choosing three, slipped them into white embossed gift bags, tucked in black tissue. From another cabinet she grabbed a stack of notepads, pencils, pulled other supplies.

She dashed back down, set the bags and the box of supplies on the dining room table, then zipped through the kitchen and into the old butler’s pantry to choose the proper tray for the display.

“What are you after?” Mrs. Grady asked from behind her.

“The BTB wants games, which the hostess vetoed during the planning stages. I don’t think white bags on a white tray, and we don’t have an appropriate black one. I think silver. Or glass. Maybe glass.”

“Try both.”

“Good idea. Can you come, give me an opinion?”

Mrs. Grady walked along with her. “Oh, your car’s back.”

“Back where?”

“Here.”

Parker stopped, frowned. “My car’s here?”

“Delivered about twenty minutes ago.Washed and waxed, too. I put the bill up on your desk.”

“Oh. But I didn’t ask him to deliver it. I was going to—”

“Saves you time, doesn’t it?” Which, in Mrs. Grady’s opinion, made Malcolm Kavanaugh a very shrewd customer.

Parker said nothing, only continued to frown as she arranged the bags on the silver tray.“I think the glass one’s better.The silver makes too much of a statement, and Emma could sprinkle some white rose petals on the glass, and with the little black vases . . . Who delivered the car?”

Mrs. Grady smothered a smile. “Didn’t catch his name. Well, theirs, as the one had another following him in a tow truck.”

“Oh. Um . . . The glass?”

“I’d say. It’s classy, but more subtle than the silver.”

“Yes, that’s what I’m after.” She stepped back. “I’ll leave this here, go see if I can help Emma set up the table.”

She started out. “Really, I could’ve picked up the car.”

“No doubt.What do you say when someone does you a favor?”

Parker heaved out a breath at the implied tsk in the tone.“You say thank you. I will.When I get a chance.”

She didn’t have one, or so she told herself.The event required her focus, and with the additional time for the unscheduled games ran about thirty minutes over.Which cut back on the time to prep for the evening’s rehearsal.

“The games were a hit,” Mac commented.

“They generally are.”

“Nice prizes. I really liked the travel jewelry caddy, the green leather? Somebody who’s going to Tuscany for her honeymoon could really use one of them.”

“Maybe somebody’ll get lucky.” Parker chugged from a bottle of water. “We seriously pulled that off. And our hostess didn’t bat an eye at the additional invoice for the prizes, especially since I gave her the extra half hour on the house.”

She took a last scan of the terrace.They’d broken down all the tables, but had left the pergola and urns dressed.They had only to set up the refreshment table, and they were good to go.

She probably had five minutes now to call in her thanks, but really, she had to check the invoice first. For all she knew he’d gouged her on a delivery charge.

“I’m just going to—” Her phone rang. “God. Crazy Bride.”

“Better you than me. Go ahead.We’ve got this.”

Crazy Bride ate up her time. And gave her space to think.

SHE’D SEND A THANK-YOU NOTE WITH THE CHECK FOR THE SERVICE and tires.That was, Parker decided as she ran the rehearsal, appropriate.

“With five minutes to go,” she said, “the groom’s brother—and best man—will escort their mother to her seat, with her husband following.That’s perfect.The best man will join the groom, standing to the groom’s left. And at three minutes to go, the bride’s brother will escort their mom to her seat. Brother moves up to the left of best man, right of George. Angle just a little, Sam. Exactly. Music change for the bridal procession.Wendy, Nikki,Addy—and I’ll be there to cue you tomorrow. Remember to smile, ladies. Then Jaci, the maid of honor.

“Good.When she’s halfway down, it’s time for the ring bearer. That’s the way, Kevin!”

The five-year-old strutted down to laughter and applause.

“And the flower girl. Really good, Jenny, and tomorrow there’ll be real flowers in your basket. Kevin on the boys’ side, Jenny on the girls’.You stand right there with your daddy, Kevin.Then . . .”

She trailed off, blank as she looked back and saw Malcolm leaning on one of the urns, a bouquet in his hand. She couldn’t see his eyes, not with the sun slanting off the dark glasses he wore. But she could see his grin clearly enough.

“Then?” the groom prompted with a laugh. “Do I get married?”

“Almost. Music change, everyone stands. And the bride begins her walk escorted by her father.And,” she said to the groom,“she’s the most beautiful woman in the world. She’s everything you’ve ever wanted. And she’s about to be yours.”

She waited. “Stop here. And as you requested, your mom will step over with you and your dad.The minister will ask who gives this woman, and your line, Mr. Falconi?”

“Her mother and I.”

They kissed their daughter, then took her hand and placed it in the groom’s.

“Lovely. Now . . .”

She ran them through the ceremony, hitting the highlights, outlining the timing and choreography.

“He’ll say you may kiss your bride.”

“I got that part.” The groom spun his bride, dipped her while she laughed, and bent to give her a lavish kiss.

“Cecily, if you get cold feet tomorrow, I’m happy to stand in for you.”

The bride laughed again, twinkling at Parker.“My feet are really, really warm, but thanks.”

“I bet. At that point, you’ll face your friends and family, the minister will introduce you for the first time as husband and wife, and those of us not still swooning over that kiss will applaud. Music changes to recessional, and you’ll walk down the aisle. Mac will take you from there. From here, the rest of the wedding party recesses in reverse order. Flower girl and ring bearer first.”

Good, she thought, very good. If everyone smiled and beamed like this tomorrow, they’d hardly need the sun.

“After the wedding party, the parents and grandparents of the bride, then the groom’s. Mac will also need all of you for wedding pictures.The guests will be escorted inside the Solarium for canapes and drinks to keep them happy during the photo session.”

She ignored the itch at the back of her neck. She knew he was staring at her, as she outlined the timing and procedure for introductions, dinner, toasts, the shift to the Ballroom, first dances, cake cutting, and so on.

“The Bride’s and Groom’s suites will be available to the wedding party from four until the end of the evening. We’ll transfer the gifts from the gift table to the newlyweds’ limo, as well as any flowers they want to take with them or give to others. I know it’s a lot, but my partners and I will be here for all of you every step of the way. All you really have to do is enjoy and celebrate.”

[Dalyia]

CHAPTER FIVE

SHE RAN THE SHOW LIKE A VELVET-VOICED GENERAL, MALCOLM thought, striding around in her mile-high heels and severe black suit. A lot of smiles, though, he noted, and buckets of warmth.

Except when she looked in his direction.

He waited her out, smothered in the scent of roses that made the bouquet he carried seem a bit puny. Still, he’d wrangled it from the nose-ringed Goth girl who worked with Emma, so he’d kept it all in the family.

Emma breezed by him. “Mine?”

“Not anymore.”

“Still very pretty. Parker’s going to be a few more minutes.”

“I’ve got time.”

“Grab a drink if you want. There’s plenty. Or you can wait inside.”

“I’m good, but thanks.”

“I’ve got to go. If you were over at my place, you saw we’re neck deep.”

“Wedding tomorrow?”

“No, actually, they had a conflict, so they rehearsed for their Friday wedding tonight. I’ve got an outside event tomorrow, and Parker’s got a couple tours, plus we’ve got another full-staff consult. And a four-event weekend.”

“Busy girls. I’m fine here. Go ahead.”

“She won’t be long,” Emma assured him and hurried away.

When he waited another fifteen minutes, he figured she took her time. But she came out again, with that ground-eating stride she managed to make look both unhurried and graceful.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” she began. “If I’d known you’d planned to come by, I’d have told you we had a rehearsal.”

“I didn’t come to see you.”

She opened her mouth, closed it again.

“I came by to see Mrs. Grady.” He gestured with the flowers. “To thank her again for dinner and the ham sandwich I had for lunch today.”

“Oh, well, she’s not here.”

“I got that.”

“She went out with friends. Dinner and a movie.You brought her flowers.”

“Coals to the place that has all the coals.”

“She’ll love them, and she’ll be sorry she missed you. I’ll put them in water for her.”

“Okay.”

But when she reached for them he turned and started to the house. He glanced back. “Coming?”

“I don’t want to hold you up any more than I already have,” she said as she walked with him.

“I’ve got nothing booked.You?”

“Actually, I was going to call you,” she said, evading the question, “to thank you for having my car sent out.You didn’t have to go to the trouble, but I appreciate it.”

“We’re both full of thank-yous.”

“Apparently.” She led the way in, through the kitchen and back into the butler’s pantry.

He stopped, looked around. “Wow. This place just keeps on keeping on.”

“My family’s always liked to entertain, and often in a way that takes a lot of space.” She chose a vase from a cabinet.“Del may be home if you want company.”

“You know, it feels like you’re trying to shake me off.”

“Does it?” She added flower food and water to the vase.“That would be rude.”

“And you wouldn’t be.”

“Oh, I can be, depending on the circumstances.” She waited a beat.“But doing me a favor, two actually, and bringing one of my favorite people flowers aren’t meriting circumstances.”

“I can’t say I thought of kissing you as doing you a favor.”

He felt the temperature drop twenty degrees.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I bet that usually works. The freeze,” he added. “But me? I don’t mind the cold.”

“I’m sure that’s handy for you, and I also think you’ve gotten the wrong impression.”

When she turned, he shifted, and boxed her in.“No, I haven’t.”

Her eyes flashed, blue lightning cased in ice.“I don’t like being maneuvered.”

“No, you like doing the maneuvering, and you’re damn good at it. I admire that.When I was doing gags—”

“Gags?”

“Stunts. Stunt work. Anyway, back then I liked to watch the horse wranglers if I had a chance.You’ve got the same kind of skill with people. It’s impressive.”

“I’d say thank you, but we seem to have passed that phrase around plenty already.”

“Don’t mention it.” He eased back. “I like your house. Who wouldn’t, but I mean I like how it works. I like seeing and figuring out how things work.”

“How the house works?”

“House, home, business. Canvas.”

She paused at that, a flower in her hand, and just stared at him.

“You let people paint the picture they want on it.You guide a lot of the strokes, maybe influence them toward certain colors, but they get what they want at the end of it. It’s good work.”

“Th—” The phone saved her from another thank-you. “Excuse me. Hello, Bonnie, what can I do for you?” She wandered a few paces away.

Malcolm heard the hysteria through the phone even before Parker yanked it an inch from her ear. “I see.Yes, I . . .”

He listened—why the hell not—and began to stick flowers in the vase himself.

“Of course I understand. But I also think you’re very stressed just now, again understandably. I bet Richie is, too. Well, Bonnie, your mother isn’t marrying Richie, and though I know she loves him, she doesn’t know him the way you do. I think, if Richie thought of it as anything other than a silly, blowing-off-steam male tradition, he’d never have told you. But he did, and the way he did tells me he thinks of it as a joke. His brother’s just doing what brothers often do.”

She closed her eyes a moment, listened as she thumbed out a Tums. “Yes, I do understand, but you’re not marrying Richie’s brother. I’m sure none of you, really, want something as unimportant as this to cause any sort of a family rift.”

She listened again. “Yes. Mmm-hmm. Does Richie love you? Mmm-hmm. Has he given you any reason to doubt that, any reason not to trust him? What I think isn’t important. It’s what you think, and what you feel. But since you asked, I think I’d laugh it off, and I’d go have a wonderful time with my friends before I spent the next week getting ready to marry the man I’m just crazy about.”

While she wound it up, he finished the arrangement, then stepped back, hands tucked in his back pockets to study the result.

“That’s nicely done,” Parker commented.

“It’s not bad. So . . . problem?”

“Nothing major.”

“The groom’s brother’s hired a stripper for the bachelor party. She projected,” Malcolm added, “really well.”

“I guess she did.Yes, and the bride hit flashpoint, aided by the fury and dire warnings of her mother—who really doesn’t think anyone’s good enough for her baby girl, and will, I predict, always find fault with Richie.”

“She wanted you to back her up.”

“Naturally.”

“And you soothed and smoothed while managing to turn it back on her. Nice wrangling,Tex.”

“If you’re mature enough to marry, you ought to be mature enough to stop crying to Mommy every time something upsets you. And if she doesn’t trust her perfectly affable, devoted, and honest-to-a-fault fiancé not to jump on a stripper a week before the wedding, she shouldn’t marry him.”

“That’s not what you said to her.”

“Because she’s the client.” She caught herself.“And I shouldn’t be saying it to you.”

“Hey, what’s said in the—What is this room?”

“Butler’s pantry.”

“No shit?” He let out a half laugh as he scanned the space again. “Okay, what’s said in the butler’s pantry stays in the butler’s pantry.” That got a smile out of her, a faint one. “You calmed her down.”

“For now anyway. They’re moving to Atlanta—he’s been transferred—in a couple months.The mother is supremely pissed over that, and it’s the very best thing that could happen. They’ve got a good chance, I think, if she gets out from under Mommy’s thumb.”

“It tensed you up.”

She shrugged and picked up the vase. “I’ll get over it.”

“I gotta ask you something.”

She glanced back at him as they walked out. “What?”

“Do you own a pair of jeans?”

“Of course I own a pair of jeans.”

“How about a leather jacket, with or without designer label.”

“Your interest in my wardrobe is very strange.” She set the vase on the counter, then handed Malcolm a notepad and pen. “You should write her a little note, so she’ll see it with the flowers when she gets home.”

“Okay, while I’m doing that, go put on the jeans and jacket.”

“Excuse me?”

“I love the way you say that.You’ll enjoy the ride more out of that suit.”

“I like this suit, and I’m not going for a ride.”

“I like how you look in the suit, but you’ll be more comfortable on the bike in jeans.” He tucked a thumb in his front pocket, leaned a hip against the counter. “It’s a nice night. Neither of us have anything booked. So, we’ll take a ride, clear your head. I’ll buy you dinner.”

“I’m not getting back on that motorcycle.”

“You’re not afraid of the bike, or of having dinner with me.”

“It’s not a matter of fear but preference.”

He smiled. “Prove it. Here’s the deal. You take the ride, have dinner—casual, public place—I bring you home. If you don’t have fun, or at least enjoy the change of pace, I back off. All the way.”

This time the look was regal, and just a little amused. “I don’t need to negotiate to get you to back off, Malcolm.”

“You’re right about that.” He waited a beat while their eyes stayed locked. “So why haven’t you backed me off ?”

Good question, she thought. She might as well figure out the answer. “A ride, a casual meal.That’s it.”

“That’s the deal.”

“I’ll go change.”

She did something for him, Malcolm thought as he scrawled You still owe me a dance on the notepad. He wasn’t altogether sure what it was she did, but it was something.

He wanted his hands on her, no question, but Parker Brown wasn’t the jump in, roll around, then roll off type. Added to that, he valued his friendship with her brother.

He walked out of the kitchen, wandered the first floor.

If he considered Parker an easy bang, and acted on it, he’d fully expect Del to kick his ass, or try to. Reverse positions, he’d do exactly the same. And that was one of the reasons he valued the friendship.

He poked into what he figured they called—due to the big-ass piano—the music room. The misty watercolors shimmering on the walls were undoubtedly originals, and nice enough. But the collection of instruments in a fancy glass case caught his interest.

Guitar, violin, various flutes—maybe a piccolo—a concertina, a drum, harmonica, what he thought was a dulcimer, a cowbell, bongos, and a few things he couldn’t readily identify.

If it hadn’t been locked, he doubted he’d have resisted the urge to open the cabinet and try out a couple of instruments, just to see how they sounded, to see how they worked.

And, he supposed, that was why he didn’t consider Parker a casual bang. He had this urge to open her up, see how she worked.

Rich girl—wealthy woman, he corrected—with exceptional looks, the pedigree, the connections, the smarts. And she worked as hard, maybe harder, than anyone he knew. She could’ve coasted on her very fine ass, jetting off for drinks in Majorca, sailed the Aegean to sun those amazing legs, sipped wine in a Parisian cafe between shopping sprees.

Instead, she’d founded a business with childhood pals that kept her running around at other people’s beck.

He wandered to the piano, improvised a few chords.

Not for the money, he decided. He didn’t get the greed vibe from her. Money would be a result, a practicality of business, but not the essential ingredient. He knew what it was like when money was the essential.

Satisfaction played a role, but there had to be more.

He wanted to figure it out.

He sensed her—a little heat along the skin—and looked up to see her in the doorway.

And oh yeah, he wanted his hands on her.

She wore jeans as well as she wore her woman-in-charge suits. Her boots had short, skinny heels. She wore a bright red shirt under a thin leather jacket the color, like the boots, of dark chocolate. Silver hoops glinted on her ears.

Classy Biker Babe? he wondered.

No. Just classy.

“You play?”

“Me?” He shrugged.“No. I just mess around.That’s some collection.”

“Yes. My father’s mostly. He had absolutely no musical talent, and so admired those who did.”

“Del plays a mean piano, especially after a couple beers. How about you?”

“Piano, violin—with or without beer.The dulcimer.”

“I thought that’s what that was.What’s this one?”

She walked to the case as he tapped the glass toward a small, key-shaped instrument.

“A trump or jaw harp.You hold it against the teeth, or the lips, and pluck. Simple, effective, and very old.”

“Is that a piccolo?”

“No, that’s a soprano flute. That’s a piccolo. I can get the key for the case.”

“No, that’s okay.” He wondered, idly, where people came up with names like piccolo or saxophone. “I just like knowing what I’m looking at. Plus, if you opened it, I’d just want to play with everything and we wouldn’t get to that ride.”

He shifted so instead of shoulder-to-shoulder they stood face-to-face. “Maybe by the end of it, I’ll figure out what I’m looking at.”

She stepped back. “It’s not that complicated.”

“You’re not doing the looking. Ready?”

She nodded, led the way out. On the way she picked up a purse with a long strap, and slipped it on cross-body.

“One thing I know about you.You think things through.” He tapped the bag with his finger.“Getting on a bike, need your supplies. So you put them in something you can hang on, instead of hang on to. Smart. I like smart.”

He opened the door, holding it until she’d walked through.

“I like practical. That’s not practical.” She gestured toward the bike.

“Sure it is. It gets me where I’m going, gets good gas mileage, and can fit in small spaces for parking.”

“I’ll concede those points. I doubt it feels practical through a Connecticut winter.”

“Depends.” He walked down to unstrap a helmet.“Before you get on,” he said as he handed it to her, “and in the interest of fair play, I’ve got a bet going.”

“A bet?”

“With Del. Jack and Carter wanted in on it. I bet Del a hundred I’d get you back on the bike.”

Her eyes, he noted, neither heated or frosted. They just narrowed a fraction.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. Del figured no way in hell. Jack’s with him on it, so I’ve got two on the line. Carter put his hundred on me.”

She turned the helmet in her hands. “You’re telling me this after I’ve agreed to take this ride, but before I actually take it. Meaning, I can toss this helmet in your face and tell you to go to hell.”

“Yeah.”

She nodded again. “Carter can keep his full winnings, but I want half of yours—Del’s hundred specifically.” She put the helmet on.

“Fair enough.” Grinning, he swung onto the bike.

He didn’t have to tell her to hold on this time, he noted, and with her arms wrapped around his waist, he roared off.

Maybe her heart thundered, especially on the curves, but Parker couldn’t deny she enjoyed the sensation. Neither could she deny if she hadn’t wanted to be there, she wouldn’t be.

Curiosity, she thought. Now she’d satisfied the curiosity. Yes, streaking down the road, punching through the wind, was just as thrilling as it had been on her initial, brief ride.

It didn’t mean she’d make a habit of it, but she appreciated being able to file the experience under Things Accomplished.

Almost as much as she appreciated winning the hundred from Del.

Served him right.

Since she was in the process of admissions, she had to admit it had been damn perceptive of Malcolm to calculate her reaction.