by Mindy Neff
She couldn’t read his expression. It could have been a mask of stone. His eyes neither welcomed nor indicated one way or the other whether he cared that she’d obviously singled him out and was on her way to join him.
He wore boots that were well broken in, tattered Levi’s that hugged his lean lower body like a lover, and a black T-shirt that stretched across his broad, muscular shoulders. His dark hair hung long to his shoulders, in the style worn by both rock stars and Hell’s Angels.
This guy was definitely rough around the edges—arrogant, yet thrilling to look at. He had a “don’t-touch-me” aura that would draw women like a magnet.
An effect Jordan was obviously not immune to.
“Jordan?”
The sound of her name broke the sensual spell like a pinprick in an overinflated balloon. A little disoriented, she dragged her gaze away from the sinfully sexy temptation.
Charity Arden stood a few feet away. Damn. She’d forgotten all about the scheduled meeting. Jordan didn’t want to think about wedding plans. But her innate sense of responsibility penetrated her fog, banishing the allure of bad boys and of acting in a manner that would probably shock the whole town if word got out.
And Charity Arden was part of that town. But Charity wouldn’t judge, Jordan realized. She had her own code of ethics that was a far cry from the uppity country-club set’s—and she had a seven-year-old son whose father’s name she’d adamantly refused to divulge.
And for that strength of character, Jordan admired her. Charity wasn’t a woman who’d marry a man if she was having second thoughts.
Like Jordan was.
Thankfully her brain wasn’t too pickled from the alcohol to outline a list of photos the Latrobes and Grazers would need.
Half of her giddiness came from the adrenaline rush of seeing Tanner Caldwell.
If it was even him.
“Hi, Charity,” Jordan said, changing direction, resisting the urge to glance back over her shoulder—to see if he was watching. “You made it. Let’s grab a table.”
“There’s one,” the photographer said.
Right next to the walking fantasy in tattered jeans and too-long hair. For some reason, Jordan didn’t want to be close enough for him to overhear her talk of wedding plans.
She wanted to be free, available to start something she had no business starting. To see where it would lead.
Taking herself—and her runaway imagination—in hand, she steered Charity to another table and ordered drinks from a passing waitress.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him rise. Her heart slammed against her chest. Would he come to her?
He didn’t. Tall and strong, with a loose, easy stride, he disappeared into the crowd.
Now she’d never know for sure if the guy was really Tanner, and that left her feeling unsettled, made her want to drive by the old trailer park where he’d lived, search the streets for him.
A really dumb idea, especially since she was to be married in less than twenty-four hours.
Maybe it was just wishful thinking; maybe she just wanted this guy to be him. At seventeen, she’d spun plenty of fantasies around Tanner—dreamed he was her motorcycle Romeo. And she was his Juliet. But because of the strict social barriers between them, that was all she’d been able to do.
Dream from a distance.
Because to get any closer would have put her impeccable reputation at risk.
A reputation she was taking a dire chance with tonight.
Her big plans for the evening suddenly lost their appeal. Although still restless, she now felt empty. She began to regret the impulsiveness of the night out, of the attention-getting miniskirt and bold crimson lipstick.
“Jordan?” Charity touched Jordan’s hand. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just wedding jitters. I’m obviously not myself.”
Charity grinned. “Hey, every girl’s entitled to one wild night...a secret or two.”
She realized that the pretty photographer was speaking from personal experience. Charity had a secret—it revolved round a very real, seven-year-old little boy—and suddenly Jordan felt a kinship with the woman.
“How’s Donnie?”
“Ornery as ever,” Charity said lovingly. “With way too much energy.”
“You should bring him out to the ranch sometime and let him ride.” Not only did Jordan have prize breeding stock, she also stabled several docile mares for pleasure riding. And one of the charities close to her heart was the school of handicapped children who came out once a month to ride and enjoy the horses.
Thinking about the sweet, innocent faces of those youngsters reminded Jordan of what was important.
Her marriage to Randall.
And the bank loan that would ensure the stables stayed afloat financially...for herself, for the horses she’d rescued that nobody else wanted, and for the . children.
Guilt washed over her in scalding waves. She had no business coming to this club, acting wild, spinning fantasies. She knew very well what was expected of her and what she needed to do.
“Maybe I’ll take you up on that sometime,” Charity said.
Jordan nodded. “Okay, let’s run down a list of family members and shots you’ll need tomorrow.” Even though she felt more than a little light-headed, she poured her beer into a glass and made an effort to sip it like a well-bred lady—though if anyone cared to look closely, they’d see that her dainty sips were more like desperate gulps.
She had an idea she’d have a heck of a hangover during her wedding ceremony.
And fantasies about the wrong man on her wedding night.
TANNER KNEW DAMNED WELL he was torturing himself. But when he’d seen the wedding announcement in the paper, he hadn’t been able to stay away. The nuptials promised to be some shindig—hell, they’d run the piece in every big-city paper from Los Angeles to San Francisco.
Debutante to Marry Banker.
She didn’t look like any bride he’d ever seen on the eve of her wedding. And the last place he’d expected to run into her was at Gatlin’s. By God, she’d been seducing him with her eyes—in a bar overflowing with people.
People who would no doubt talk.
Although Tanner was immune to gossip, Jordan wasn’t. At least, she hadn’t been ten years ago.
For the thousandth time, Tanner wondered what he was even doing here. The answer was swift and the same—tormenting himself, yearning for something, someone, he couldn’t have.
Even knowing she was out of his league, he’d still kept tabs on her over the years, had never been able to completely get her out of his mind.
In her family’s eyes, he hadn’t been good enough for Jordan Grazer; didn’t have the right surname, the right title...didn’t have enough money to be accepted into their social circle.
And that was the kicker. Now, at a point in his life when he could rightfully meet the debutante on an equal footing, she was once again out of his reach.
Engaged to marry another man.
Tomorrow.
But he’d had to come, to get one last look. To see if she still affected him so powerfully.
The answer was yes. More than ever.
And it was too late.
Get a grip, man. Swinging his leg over the seat of the Harley, he booted the kickstand, suddenly anxious to get out of town. He should never have come in the first place.
His finger hovered over the Harley’s start button. A couple of yokels stood a few feet away, their furtive mannerisms causing him to go on alert. Being a security expert made him suspicious of just about everybody.
And these two were up to something.
They moved closer, practically standing right next to his bike, dismissing him as though he were invisible.
“The broad’s worth big bucks. I tell you, it’ll be a piece of cake,” the short one said. Balding, he’d combed what few strands of hair he actually possessed from a side part that started just above the tip of one big ear.
“So w
hy don’t we just take care of it tonight?” This from the middle-aged hippie whose red suspenders drew undue attention to a watermelon-size beer gut.
“Don’t be an idiot. The boss wants the right audience to notice. We’re not exactly in the country-club parking lot, you know.”
“I thought we were going to the church.”
The little guy rolled his eyes. “Must I lead you by the hand? Here, take this.” He passed a slip of paper, grabbed the hippie by the arm and steered him toward an early-sixties minibus.
From then on, Tanner couldn’t hear enough to be absolutely certain what was going down, but he thought he heard the word “nab.”
Ah, hell. The only rich broad whose name was connected with church and country club was Jordan Grazer.
It appeared his masochism was not going to end just yet. On the off chance that Jordan was in danger, he’d have to set aside his pride and hang around a little while longer—at least until he could report his suspicions to the sheriff. Of course, if Brockner was still running the show, that wouldn’t be much help.
The man was as inept as they came.
And the sheriff wouldn’t likely place much credence on the word of Tanner Caldwell.
Because in this town, Tanner’s name was painted with the same tar-coated brush as that of his drunkard father—the man who’d set a torch to the Grazers’ vineyards.
Chapter Two
Feeling a little like a guest at her own wedding—an invisible guest—Jordan stared at her attendants. Cory, Jewel and Sandra were hogging the mirror in the tiny room near the back of the Sunday-school wing of the church.
With a hand full of hairpins, Jordan was forced to wade through a pile of discarded clothes and shoes just to get her purse. But she soon found that the little compact she kept there wasn’t going to do the trick. She needed both hands free.
“Can one of you help me with my veil?” Three sets of eyes barely flickered in the mirror’s reflection.
“Just a sec,” Sandra said. “This lipstick’s all wrong and it’s stained my lips. Where is that remover?” She rummaged through the makeup cases on the small dressing table—the seat reserved for the bride to do last-minute touch-ups.
If she’d been the type, Jordan might have sat down and bawled. She felt alone, out of sorts, scared over the decision she’d made that would change her whole life.
And hot. The air conditioner obviously wasn’t working. Already, she could feel the satin of her dress clinging to her skin.
Everything felt wrong, right down to this cramped cubicle they’d been shoved into at the last minute. Pastor Lewis had held his meeting the night before in the Green Room, where the bridal party normally convened, and had claimed it simply wasn’t up to standard this morning.
Jordan blew out a weary sigh. Did the old preacher consider this one up to standard? There were newspapers on the windows, for pete’s sake. Frowning, she did a double take. For a second, she could have sworn she saw the weathered face of a man peering in where the newspapers didn’t quite meet over the dusty panes.
Ridiculous.
She was simply overwrought. Wedding jitters.
Added to that, the music blaring out of Sandra’s boom box was sending shards of pain through her temples.
This wasn’t the way she’d imagined the day would be.
And what was keeping her parents? Since they were so eager for this marriage to take place, it seemed they could at least have had the decency to be early, to wait with her, ease any nerves.
Neither one was in sight. Daddy claimed he had details to see to. Mother was orchestrating the guests.
Needing air, needing a friend, Jordan grabbed her veil, her purse and her bouquet of roses, carnations and gardenias and left the room. Charity Arden ought to be around somewhere. Jordan knew that at least she would stop long enough to fasten a veil.
With her satin train looped over her arm so she wouldn’t trip herself, she peeked into the hallway, then headed in the direction of the main sanctuary, making an effort to stay out of sight. Through the vestibule, she could see that the side doors were open, as were the front. The small church was already bursting with people—predominantly the country-club set. Randall had insisted on a big, splashy affair.
Jordan knew it was costing Daddy money he couldn’t afford, but Maynard, too, insisted on keeping up appearances.
Heaven forbid if the good folks of Grazer’s Corners should find out he was teetering on the brink of financial disaster.
She caught sight of the photographer and was trying to figure out a way to get the woman’s attention when there was a commotion at the side door. Probably one of the guests who’d wandered into the wrong hall. It was hard to tell the front from the side entrance because of the way the church sat on the corner.
“Wrong door,” she said.
A short, balding man who looked a little like a penguin in a tux, nudged an aging hippie who wore suspenders rather than the traditional cummerbund under a jacket that had no hope of buttoning over the size of his belly.
Who were these two? Jordan wondered. They had to be from Randall’s side of the family, because she certainly didn’t recognize them as any of her kin.
“Nope, I believe we got the right door, girlie.” The fat one with the gray ponytail wrapped a meaty hand around her arm, dragging her toward the door as the short guy held it open.
Something was terribly wrong here. The familiar smell of roses and gardenias permeated the church. The organ played a traditional ballad and ushers seated last-minute guests. All fairly normal. Yet this was no friendly stroll through the vestibule.
“Wait a minute,” she commanded in the no-nonsense voice she used to get recalcitrant horses to obey.
“Sorry. Can’t wait. No, siree. We got our orders.” He continued to force-march her toward the doors.
“What orders?” His bulk was too much for her to handle. She tried to jerk her arm away, but his pudgy grip tightened, his sweaty fingers mangling the delicate, expensive fabric of her sleeve.
“Never you mind, little lady,” he said.
She was used to dealing with headstrong males—four-legged ones. And Honor Bleu could be as stubborn as they came.
The difference was, Bleu would never intentionally hurt her. She couldn’t be sure about this aging hippie or his rotund sidekick.
She needed help. Reinforcements.
“Daddy!” Jordan screamed, her high heels skidding against the hardwood floors, unable to find purchase, as she attempted to stop the momentum. Her veil fell from her fingers, landing in a heap with her purse.
“Here now. None of that. Just come peacefully, girlie, and everything will be fine.”
“Not on your life, buster!” She screamed again, but the organ kept playing. Nobody came to her rescue. Where the hell was her father? Where was Randall? How could he not hear? Not know that she was in trouble? As her husband-to-be, wasn’t he supposed to watch over her? Protect her?
And, by heaven, those were the thoughts of a wimp. She grabbed the door frame, trying to stop their progress. Her bouquet of ribbons and flowers slapped the wall and rained rose petals over the wood floor. From the corner of her eye, she saw Charity Arden round the corner.
“Oh, for pity’s sake. Not again!” Charity said, reaching into the pockets of the fisherman’s vest she wore over a gauzy pastel dress.
Now they were getting somewhere, Jordan thought. Charity Arden had a deadly accurate aim with film canisters. She’d proved as much just last week by telling the bandits at Kate Bingham’s wedding.
“Stop right there, sister,” the short guy said. “Just keep your mouth shut and nobody will get hurt.”
Jordan’s heart slammed against her chest as he whisked aside his jacket, showing the butt of a gun he had jammed into his cummerbund.
Charity’s hand stilled, her eyes widening in surprise, and Jordan gave an understanding nod. At least the photographer had tried—which was more than could be said about anyone else around he
re. She had an idea she could scream down the house and the bridesmaids wouldn’t budge from their makeup session at the mirror.
The sun nearly blinded her as the two men ushered her out the door. And she’d had enough. Sounding low from a distance, a rumbling din gathered momentum, building to a deafening roar.
The distraction was just what she needed to break free. She jammed her spike heel into her captor’s foot and simultaneously elbowed him in his overlarge belly. He let out a startled oomph and doubled over, lost his balance and toppled down the concrete steps like a fallen oak. The short guy, clearly astonished by the sight of a human bowling ball heading straight for him, sprang out of the way. The piece of paper clutched in his hand went sailing.
Jordan snagged it. She wanted to know who these clowns were.
The roaring in her ears did not subside. A motorcycle, she realized. Loud and lethal. Like a thundering mustang, it sprang forward, heading straight for them. Jordan stood her ground, wondering if she’d be forced into a dangerous game of chicken. Well, why the hell not? she thought in disgust, her heart hammering. What should have been the happiest day in her life had turned to ruin.
The motorcycle didn’t show any signs of braking.
The bungling intruders scattered.
Jordan didn’t budge.
Breaking every noise-abatement law in the county, the maniac on the bike cranked the front wheel at the last minute, executing an impressive power slide that halted mere inches from her feet.
Impressions flashed in her mind as recognition stole her voice. Hair nearly as long as hers. Masculinity so powerful her breath caught. A face so handsome it made her want to weep—or throw every bit of good reason she possessed right out the window.
Tanner Caldwell.
My God, it had been him last night.
“Get on, party girl.”
Jordan hesitated, feeling paralyzed even though her heart raced at an unhealthy speed.
People were pouring out of the church doorway—at last.
Shorty was fumbling at his waist for his gun.