by Mindy Neff
Why in the world had she let him kiss her?
Letter to Reader
Title Page
Dedication
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
Copyright
Why in the world had she let him kiss her?
Oh, she’d wanted it. Had ached for the touch of his hands, for that exclusive look from his gingersnap eyes, the look that told a woman she was special. Desirable. That she had his sole attention.
And what a kiss it had been, far beyond any and all of her expectations.
But it was wrong, wrong to yearn, to allow the intimacy that would shift their relationship, that would make living under the same roof with any sort of easiness next to impossible.
She’d made a vow to marry another man. Why was it so hard to remember that? Her mind immediately supplied the answer.
It was because of a sexy guy with killer dimples, a man who could exasperate her...thrill her.
Dear Reader,
In a tiny western town of Grazer’s Corners, something is happening.... All over the town square, weddings are in the air—and the town’s most eligible bachelors are running for cover!
Three popular American Romance authors have put together a rollicking good time in The Brides of Grazer’s Corners. On the satin-pump heels of Jacqueline Diamond’s THE COWBOY & THE SHOTGUN BRIDE comes Mindy Neff’s A BACHELOR FOR THE BRIDE—and next month Charlotte Maclay brings you THE HOG-TIED GROOM.
You’re invited to all three weddings.... Who’ll catch the bouquet next?
Happy reading!
Debra Matteucci
Senior Editor & Editorial Coordinator
Harlequin 300 E. 42nd St.
New York, NY 10017
A Bachelor for the Bride
MINDY NEFF
TORONTO NEW YORK LONDON
AMSTERDAM PARIS SYDNEY HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM ATHENS TOKYO MILAN MADRID
PRAGUE WARSAW BUDAPEST AUCKLAND
For three very special friends:
Charlotte Lobb, Joan Sweeney and Susan Liepitz.
Thanks for your friendship and support, for the hugs,
hand-holding and swearwords and, most important of all,
for never doubting. You’re the best, guys! And to
Jackie Hyman, the instigator of the Kidnapped Brides.
Chapter One
It was a dangerous thing to be at loose ends on the eve of your wedding, Jordan thought. It left a girl wide-open to second thoughts, for restlessness to creep in.
Debating her impulsive decision, she sat behind the wheel of her sporty Mazda convertible, hesitating over turning the key.
Friday night.
In twenty-four hours she’d be Mrs. Randall Latrobe.
Discontent nudged her, sending her insides tumbling. Since Pastor Lewis had had a prior commitment, they’d veered from the traditional and held the wedding rehearsal and dinner last night... which had suited Randall just fine. It left him free this evening to wine and dine some Republican bigwig from Modesto.
She wondered if he’d have been so quick to leave her to her own devices if he’d known what she had in mind.
She stared at the sprawling ranch-style house in front of her with its white stucco and wood accents. So familiar, she thought. So comfortable. Yet, after tonight, nothing would be quite the same. She wouldn’t be returning to her childhood home as a single woman.
Dear Lord, was she making the right decision?
Feeling unsettled by the idea of change, she absorbed the sight of her surroundings like a thirsty sapling in anticipation of drought. Beyond the house, dipping into the valley, were the vineyards. Ever since the fire some fifteen years back, the vines to the south had been stingy with their fruit. To the east, though, behind the stables, the crops flourished.
Still, it was a case of too little too late. By the time money was realized from that yield, the estate could very well be in foreclosure.
Jordan was determined not to let that happen.
By marrying Randall, she’d make sure Daddy would get the loan he so desperately needed to keep them afloat—a loan that would safeguard her beloved stables.
For that alone, Jordan would sacrifice almost anything.
And marriage wasn’t such a bad deal, she told herself. It was time she settled down, anyway. At twenty-seven, she was by no means “on the shelf,” as Agatha Flintstone was fond of saying—a term gleaned from her coveted romance novels—but neither was she getting younger. Jordan wanted children, a home.
Randall was a good choice—“husband material,” according to just about everybody in town. They’d been dating for more than a year and he’d proved steady, loyal and relatively attentive. So what if their relationship lacked passion. There was an easiness to it that would suit her just fine.
Besides, Randall’s busy schedule and involvement in the community would give her the space she needed, leave her plenty of free time to pursue her dream of becoming a top horse-breeder.
Although he didn’t share her enthusiasm for her horses, he wouldn’t stand in her way. It was no secret that he had his eye on the political arena, and Jordan, with her spotless reputation, would make him a good wife.
Give and take, she thought. They’d both benefit from the union.
The call of a peacock pierced the stillness of the night, making her jump. its eerie cry sounding like a woman screaming “Help!”
Help!
The plea echoed through her mind, pounding through her system.
Her restlessness grew.
Just once, she thought. One night to be somebody she wasn’t. What could it hurt?
Like a storm raging inside her, the thought kept flashing across her brain, taunting her, beckoning....
Because, inside her “I-aim-to-please” exterior lurked a wild child. Well hidden, to be sure; rarely let out to play, but there nonetheless.
Making up her mind, she twisted the key in the ignition.
At the sound of the engine, the porch light blinked. An instant later, Lydia Grazer stepped out the front door.
“Jordan?” she called, her voice sounding puzzled. “Did you square things away with the photographer?”
Damn. She didn’t want to think about any more wedding stuff tonight. She wanted one night of freedom—freedom from decision making, from the stress and tedious details that went along with a pseudo-high-society wedding.
So far she’d done everything by the book, right down to the prerequisite bachelorette party—a calm, correct little get-together at Sandra’s house. Not a beefcake male stripper in sight. That would be beneath the country-club set.
Her hands tightened around the steering wheel. Was one blessed night of autonomy too much to ask for?
But obligation and responsibility were ingrained in her. It wasn’t the photographer’s fault she was feeling restless and rebellious. And she liked Charity Arden, knew she was struggling to make a go of her photography business while freelancing for the Grazer Gazette, as well as working her family’s pig farm and raising a seven-year-old son by herself.
Added to that, since Kate Bingham had been nabbed right from the altar at her wedding in an odd shoot-em-up fiasco just last week, Charity’s finances were probably suffering. A botc
hed wedding meant no photos and no money for the talented-yetstruggling photographer.
“Jordan?” Lydia called again, taking a step down from the porch.
Adrenaline surged and Jordan automatically scooted lower in the bucket seat, feeling like a schoolgirl caught sneaking out of the dorm past curfew. Although her black cashmere sweater covered her upper body, it wouldn’t do for her mother to get a glimpse of the rest of her outfit.
What little there was of it.
“It’s taken care of, Mother.” Or would be with a phone call.
“Where are you going?”
She hated to lie, but she needed this one night more than anything—like a last meal before an execution.
And if she didn’t stop thinking about her wedding to Randall Latrobe that way, she’d be in big trouble.
“I’m meeting Charity in town. I’ll be in early.” Twenty-seven and still accounting for her whereabouts, she thought. As for the fib... well, maybe it wouldn’t be a fib after all.
Putting the car in gear before her mother could delay her further, Jordan headed out of the circular drive that wound past pristine fences and paddocks where horses grazed. Her prized stallion, Honor Bleu, was bedded down in the stables for the night.
Bleu was the only point she’d been adamant about while everyone else was orchestrating her life and her marriage.
Where she went, Bleu went. No discussion.
Randall wasn’t crazy about her dedication to her horses—neither was her father, for that matter—but she’d refused to budge. And, until Randall could have stables built at their new home, Jordan would be spending plenty of time at her parents’ estate.
Provided they didn’t lose it to the bank.
But she wasn’t going to think about that tonight.
Once on the two-lane blacktop, she picked up her cellular phone and dialed Charity Arden’s number.
“Charity? It’s Jordan Grazer. I know you wanted to go over the photo layout for tomorrow, but I’ve got a schedule conflict. Could you meet me at Gatlin’s just outside of town?” They’d already postponed the meeting once due to the date change of the rehearsal.
“Gatlin’s?” Charity was clearly astonished. The club catered to a different clientele—definitely not a spot a local debutante would patronize.
“Yes. Do you know how to get there?”
“Sure. My brother’s home, so he can watch Donnie for me. I should be able to make it in about a half hour.”
“Great. We’ll hash out the wedding-photo details over drinks. Thanks, Charity.”
She ended the call and barreled down the road, her tires hitting a patch of gravel and kicking up clouds of dust that swirled murkily in the beams of her headlights. Warm June air whipped her hair in the open convertible as stars sparkled like a canopy of diamonds overhead. The sweet smell of alfalfa mixed with the more pungent scent of cattle ranches perfumed the air.
Feeling freer by the mile, she steadied the wheel with her knees and peeled off her conservative sweater, reveling in the way the breeze caressed her skin above her low-necked top.
She really did love this locality. Living on the outskirts of Grazer’s Corners was like being in the country. There were wide-open spaces and plenty of unincorporated areas to ride horses. There were changes, yes, and growth, but big-city developers had yet to discover their sleepy, central-California paradise. And even if they did, her father, Maynard Grazer—who liked to think he owned the whole town because it was named after his forefathers—would pitch a fit. He wouldn’t stand still for tract houses in correct earth tones gobbling up their farmlands, overpopulating their slice of utopia.
Once past the Fun House Candy factory, Jordan rounded the final curve leading into the heart of Grazer’s Corners. In order to get to Gatlin’s, she had to pass through town. Nerves crowded in her throat and she pressed the accelerator, hoping to zip through without detection.
The problem with small towns was that everybody knew everybody else. Although the business owners practically rolled up the sidewalks at five o’clock, the Good Eats Diner would still be open.
And if they saw her convertible pass, people would speculate as to why Jordan Grazer was dressed as she was—and without her fiancé at her side—on the eve of her wedding.
Thankfully, she breezed right through the only stoplight in town—the one Moose Harmon had lobbied to install, right in front of his department store.
She nearly ducked as she passed the Good Eats and spared a thought for her excessive speed. Then again, there was little worry she’d get a ticket. Sheriff Brockner had moved up his retirement date and left town in somewhat of a huff, claiming he’d much rather fuss with his gardening and hothouse orchids than put up with any more local politics. And the temporary sheriff-elect, Kate Bingham, was still missing.
Lordy, bandits and kidnappings in Grazer’s Corners! Maybe they were closer to big-city change than Jordan realized.
Pulling into the crowded parking lot of Gatlin’s, she parked her Mazda next to a shiny Harley, suddenly assailed with second thoughts. A far cry from the elegant country club, Gatlin’s catered to a different crowd.
The place was a meat market for singles. She’d been here once on a dare—“uptown girls slumming,” Sandra and Jewel had said.
This time was for herself, though.
Squaring her shoulders, she got out of the car. Tonight there would be no images to uphold, no acts to put on.
Just a wild, let-your-hair-down sort of night.
One night before she became the oh-sorespectable Mrs. Randall Latrobe.
The band was loud, the crowd festive and humming with anticipation. She shook her jet-black hair over her shoulders, smoothed her animal-print miniskirt, and gave a tug to the shimmering top that scooped low over her breasts. Four-inch heels hoisted her up to an impressive, sexy six feet.
She felt the appreciative stares as she made her way through the crowd. Insides quaking, yet thrilled with herself, her nerve, her uncharacteristic gumption in seizing the moment, she ordered a beer, leaned against the counter and sipped straight from the bottle, her lipstick leaving a ring of crimson around the mouth of the dark glass.
“Hey there, good-lookin’. Where’ve you been all my life?”
She glanced toward the sound of the voice. It was an awful, trite line. She started to shut him down with a practiced look, then thought better of it. Dressed like an urban cowboy, the guy looked decent enough. Besides, she wasn’t out to go home with anybody. Just to have a good time. She wanted to dance the night away—with anyone who would ask.
And if they didn’t ask, she’d do the asking herself or dance alone.
She grinned, sauntered forward and said, “I’ve been here, darlin’... looking for you.”
The guy’s Adam’s apple bobbed and his shoulders went back. Obviously he thought he’d just gotten lucky. The deejay cranked up one of Rod Stewart’s hits from the eighties as though he’d read her mood.
Yes, like the words of the song, she was feeling sexy.
“Want to dance, cowboy?” Without checking to see if he followed, she moved onto the dance floor and picked up the rhythm. This was one of those nights when she knew that confidence and sex appeal radiated from her. She felt it, projected it, reveled in it.
Her height in the heels alone drew attention, as did the expanse of toned thighs and calves revealed by the miniskirt. She was the center of attention.
Male attention.
The image was so far removed from who she really was. And Jordan loved it. Loved this dangerous, crazy, walk on the wild side.
It was while she was laughing, head thrown back, that she spotted him.
Sitting at a table. Alone. His eyes tracking her every sway and shimmy.
Recognition slammed into her and she nearly lost her balance on her four-inch heels.
Or was it recognition? She hadn’t seen Tanner Caldwell in ten years. And it wasn’t likely that he would ever return to Grazer’s Corners.
; Not after the way her family had treated him.
Still, something in this brooding bad-boy’s look called to her, held her spellbound...made her yearn.
Her steps, fluid and graceful before, lost the rhythm of the beat. Rod Stewart still wailed on about being sexy and letting somebody know. Adrenaline shot what little alcohol she’d consumed straight to her brain, making her bold—even though her insides trembled like mad.
It was as though the room had receded, as though they were the only two in the dim, smoky club. Her gaze locked on to his, deliberately, challenging him to get up and come across the room.
Was he feeling this same mesmerizing attraction that she was? “Well, come on, hotshot,” she muttered. “Give me a hint.”
Let me know if it’s really you, or if my eyes are playing tricks.
But he didn’t smile. Didn’t acknowledge her or give any hint of recognition, just fixed her with a direct, unreadable stare.
And that raised her ire.
She tipped up her beer bottle and took several swigs, her gaze still on the long-haired stranger whose penetrating gaze and shadowed countenance rang such familiar bells.
She rotated her hips in a sultry move meant to entice.
It enticed every man in the room—except one.
Okay, she thought. I’ll play the game. She wasn’t herself tonight, could be anybody she wanted.
Act any way she wanted.
Tomorrow was soon enough to revert to the real Jordan Grazer. The “I-aim-to-please,” good-girl Jordan Grazer.
A little drunk now, she became bolder. She thanked her cowboy partner sweetly, then left the dance floor, heading for the Tanner look-alike’s table.
He never altered his slouchy position. His gaze never wavered. She almost lost her nerve, had an idea this man was more than she could ever handle.
But an incendiary spark of something—something she couldn’t put a name to—drove her on.