Bride Quartet Collection

by Nora Roberts

“No, never mind. Off topic. I’m telling you, it was like I was hypnotized, or drugged. I had to get out of there. And . . . oh, God, I acted like a guy.” As it replayed in her head, Mac covered her face with her hands. “The kind of guy who rolls off you after, gets up and says, ‘That was great, babe. Got an early day tomorrow. I’ll call you.’ ”

  “Oh, Mac, you didn’t.”

  Mac jabbed a finger at Emma. “I had to. It was self-preservation. And Carter-preservation, too. I was supposed to de-lust after we had sex. Not go all gooey. It’s too much for me, that’s all. He’s too much for me. He’s sweet and funny, he’s smart and genuinely kind. He’s sexy and he’s got those glasses. He’s got the ear-blush thing happening. He loves teaching. I watched him lead a class, and it’s . . . It gets everything stuck right here.” She rubbed a hand between her breasts. “All this feeling and need clogged up.”

  She picked up the nearest cup of tea and downed it. “He pays attention. He listens, and he thinks about what I say. He makes me think.”

  “Clearly he must be stopped.” Laurel shook her head. “Mac, honey? You’re in love with him.”

  “That’s just not an option. Why do you think I left the way I did? It’s like being sucked into quicksand. Only really soft, warm, pretty quicksand. I’m not built for this. I don’t believe in this kind of thing. It doesn’t last. It’s the moment, or the series of moments until it goes south, or it erodes, fades. God, how many weddings have we done that are the second time around? Hell, we’ve done a few where for at least one of the parties involved, it was the third go. Who needs that? I know what it’s like when it falls apart. It can’t be worth it.”

  “Let’s whittle this down,” Laurel suggested. “You’re afraid to be in love with a man you’ve just described as the Mary Poppins of men. Practically perfect in every way,” she explained when she got blank looks all around. “You panicked and ran after you had what appears to be sex as a religious experience, with this guy you respect and admire and have the hots for, because your mother’s a big ho.”

  “Laurel!”

  “No.” Mac shook her head at Emma. “That’s fair. My mother is a big ho. But she doesn’t see herself that way, which is part of my point. She sees herself as eternally searching for love. It’s more about money, status, and security, but she’d swear it was all about love. My father strolled away from her, for which I can’t blame him, and from me—for which I damn well can—because it just wasn’t worth the effort.”

  “They’re not you, Mac,” Parker said quietly.

  “No. I know. And maybe it’s cynical to believe they’re not so much the exception as par. But that’s how it strikes me. And I like the way my life’s working out, I’m comfortable with the direction of it.”

  A little calmer, she sat again. “Carter’s a serious man. Under it all he’s a serious man with a traditional mind-set. He’s got a major crush on me, that’s what it is. A crush that’s been flickering in there for years. If I let this escalate, he’s going to start thinking about hiring us for the event. He’s going to end up asking Parker where he should buy the ring. I can’t do that to him. I was right to leave. It’s better to cut it off now than to—”

  “Risk being happy with someone who’s crazy about you?” Emma suggested.

  “Okay, when you put it like that . . . yes. From where I’m standing that’s about right.”

  “Can I have him?”

  Mac glared at Laurel. “That’s not funny.”

  “No, it’s really not.”

  “You know what it’s about right from where you’re standing?” Emma studied Mac with her big, dark eyes. “Because nobody’s ever been crazy about you before, not in a way that matters, that’s solid and real. And you’ve never felt it for anyone. That’s what I know because I’m in the same place—I’d say all of us are. The difference is, with me, I’m always hoping it’ll happen.”

  “Hence, the serial dating.”

  “Knock it off, Laurel,” Parker told her.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m being a smart-ass because I’m jealous. Right down to my bones. Nobody’s ever seen only me.”

  “But he’s seeing me through the filter of an old crush.”

  “I don’t know him as well as you, in the biblical sense or otherwise, but he strikes me as smarter than that.”

  “Love and smart don’t go hand in hand.”

  “No, they don’t.” Laurel lifted her arms toward Mac. “And here stands living proof of that. You’re stupid in love with the guy.”

  “You’re not helping. Parker?”

  “You’re afraid you’ll crush him. That because he is, at the core, a nice guy, you’ll walk all over him on the way to breaking his heart and leaving him shattered.”

  “That’s a little dramatic, but yes. Basically.”

  “And you’re determined to believe yourself incapable of sustaining a mature, committed relationship. Of not only seeing yourself as not worthy of love, but doubting you’ve got the backbone and balls to work at maintaining it.”

  “That’s a little harsh, but—”

  “I think you underestimate him, and yourself.” She rose, walked to the mantel for a photograph framed in silver. “Remember this?”

  Mac took the photo of Parker’s parents, caught in a laughing hug, their eyes full of delight, of life, of each other. “Of course, I do.”

  “You took that, just a few months before they died. Of all the pictures I have of them, this is my favorite. You know why?”

  It made Mac’s eyes sting to look at it. It always did.

  “You can see how much they loved each other,” Parker continued. “How happy they made each other. They fought, and they argued, and I imagine there were times they each got thoroughly sick of each other. But they loved anyway. For half their lives, they made it work. You captured that in this picture. Because you saw that. You recognized that.”

  “They were exceptional.”

  “So are you. I don’t waste my time on friends who aren’t exceptional.” She took the photo, set it back on the mantel. “Take a breath, Mac. Love’s scary, and sometimes it’s transient. But it’s worth the risks and the nerves. It’s even worth the pain.”

  SHE WASN’T SURE. HOW COULD ANYONE BE SURE? BUT MAC knew the single thing she could do, had to do, was put it all aside for work. Her partners, her business, their clients depended on her doing her part. So she had to settle down and respect priorities.

  A good night’s sleep, she determined, an early start. And a complete and professional focus on her clients’ needs.

  She spent a restless night arguing with herself, then thought—bitterly—that she hadn’t lost a night’s sleep over a man since she’d been sixteen.

  She brewed coffee so strong it all but stood up and howled. But it smothered fatigue under a buzz of caffeine. Because the box of Pop-Tarts seemed to indicate she had the appetite and the emotional stability of a six-year-old, she prepared what she thought of as an adult breakfast of yogurt, fresh fruit, and a muffin she’d stolen from Laurel’s stash.

  Dishes dutifully washed, she reviewed her notes for the day’s event, checked her equipment. A relatively small event, she mused as she selected what she needed. A single attendant serving as MOH. The client wanted intimacy, simplicity.

  The bride, she knew, had opted to wear a tea length gown in blue, and a very smart hat in lieu of veil and headdress. She’d carry a trio of white gardenias, the stems wrapped in satin ribbon.

  Good choices all, in Mac’s opinion, as this was a second marriage for both.

  See?

  “Don’t get started on that,” she muttered.

  FOB would walk the bride down the aisle, but they were skipping the “giving away” part. Because, hello, already did that once before.

  With her gear, the event schedule, and her notes in place, she checked the time. Plenty of it left to do a quick check on e-mail.

  She toggled over, scanned and homed in instantly on an unopened from MaguireC
101. She pushed away from her work station, paced around the studio.

  She stalked back to the kitchen for another cup of brutal coffee.

  She didn’t have to open the e-mail now. In fact she shouldn’t open it now. She had to keep her mind on work, didn’t she? That was the responsible thing to do. The grown-up thing, like yogurt and fresh fruit.

  It couldn’t be urgent. He’d have called if there was anything important to tell her. Or to discuss.

  Like, why did you blow me off after I got you off?

  Not that he’d ever say anything so crude.

  The thing to do was go upstairs, shower, dress, then go over to the main house for the review and setup. She didn’t have time for any personal . . .

  “Oh, please, who are you kidding?”

  She walked back to the computer, clicked open Carter’s e-mail.

  Mackensie,

  I got this address from your business card. I hope it’s all right to contact you this way. Knowing how busy you’d be today, I didn’t want to call and disturb you.

  I wanted to say, first, how much I enjoyed last night. Every minute with you. My house seems brighter and fuller today because you’ve been in it.

  “Oh God. Carter.”

  Also, on behalf of Bob, his wife, and their unborn child, I should express my relief that I won’t be required to murder him. He owes you.

  Lastly, in case you’ve been looking for it, I found one of your gloves on the floor of the closet. It must’ve fallen out when you got your coat. Initially, I thought to ask if I might keep it as a token, such as women in medieval times bestowed on their knights. However, on reflection that seemed a little scary, even for me.

  I’ll get it back to you.

  Meanwhile, I hope your event today goes well. Best wishes to the happy couple.

  Carter

  “Oh, man.”

  Thinking Carter Maguire was like a drug in her system, she read the entire e-mail through again. Then, feeling foolish, she printed it out. She took it upstairs, tucked it away in a drawer.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  BY SATURDAY MORNING, MAC FELT SHE’D FOUND HER BALANCE again. Friday’s event had not only gone off without a hitch, but Vows had secured another client. The parents of the groom booked the works for their wedding anniversary the following November.

  Added to it, she’d dealt with a cheerful, nerve-free bride who’d photographed like a dream.

  The buzz had kept Mac working with the prints until well past midnight.

  And she’d only read Carter’s e-mail twice more before dropping dreamlessly into bed.

  It was all about focus, she reminded herself. About knowing yourself, your strengths, your weaknesses, your goals. She just had to turn it down a few notches with Carter, make it clear where both of them stood—and the boundaries outside that. Then they could enjoy each other and nobody would get hurt.

  She’d overreacted; she could see that now. A little space, a little distance, a little time, and everything balanced out. The manic weekend and today’s minefield of a wedding were the perfect antidote. In a few days, maybe a week, they’d have a talk. He was a reasonable man. He’d understand it didn’t make sense for this thing between them to get out of hand.

  He’d been hurt before in a relationship, she was certain, by the mysterious Corrine. Surely he didn’t want to repeat the experience. In fact, she decided he probably felt exactly the way she did, and he’d be grateful she’d brought it all to the surface.

  Friendly, rational, straightforward. Those were the tickets.

  And, on the professional front, she and her partners would be vigilant so today’s minefield would be negotiated. With no casualties.

  She chose a pearl gray suit with just a hint of sheen, and low heels dressy enough to suit the formal affair and comfortable enough to respect the feet she’d be standing on most of the day.

  As she packed her tools for the day, she ran through her notes and impressions. The dress was a showpiece, she remembered, glittery strapless bodice and miles and miles of skirt. She remembered, too, the bride was a workout fanatic, and beautifully toned. And the couple, college sweethearts, were of a traditional bent.

  Armed and armored, she arrived at the main house.

  “Red alert!”

  Mac gaped at Emma as her friend flew down the stairs. “Already?”

  “You didn’t answer your phone, or your cell.”

  “I just left the studio. I haven’t turned on the cell yet. What?”

  “MOH got wind that the CBBM plans to bring SBP to the reception. His idea of a compromise, which he did not bother to discuss with either the B or G. The B and G, upon hearing this, are threatening violence against the CBBM, which he’d richly deserve if rumor is fact. Parker’s trying to put out the fire.”

  “Shit. Just shit.” Mac had no problem deciphering the code. Cheating Bastard Best Man, Slut Business Partner. And if the fire could be put out, Parker would do it.

  But it didn’t bode well.

  “What’s our assignment?”

  “All the subs have to be alerted. Parker got a picture of the SBP from a newspaper article. She’s making copies. Every sub needs one. If the SBP is spotted, she has to be stopped, barred, tackled to the ground.” As if to prove she meant it, Emma slapped her fist into her palm. “Whatever works until Parker can deal with her.”

  “I hope it’s the tackling. It would make a good shot for our outtakes file.”

  “Laurel’s contacting Jack so he can get here early and charm the MOH out of whatever plans of retaliation she might be brewing. I’ve got to round up my people, brief them, then start hauling over the flowers. Laurel’s still got to fuss with the cake. It’s her Silk and Lace.”

  “I know. It’s in my notes.”

  “That one weighs a ton, and gets the beadwork and tiara topper at reception. She’ll need a couple of people to help her carry it in, which means less on patrol for the SBP.

  “Pre-event briefing’s ditched,” Emma added once she’d sucked in a breath, “so we’re minute by minute. You need to help set up in the Grand Hall. Somebody’ll beep you when we have a sighting on the bride.”

  “Okay, I’m on it. Let me set up what I can in the Bride’s Suite first. Stay strong.”

  “I am ready to kick me some ass.”

  Upstairs, Mac set up in the Bride’s Suite, then strapped on her bag with one camera body and a selection of lenses. She’d add on the second body once the bride arrived. Before going down, she headed up, to check on Parker’s progress.

  She found her friend opening a fresh roll of Tums.

  “It’s bad?”

  “No, no, it’s currently under control. But I am pissed. I just got off the phone, at the bride’s request, with the CBBM. Who started off informing me that nobody, including his brother, was going to tell him who he could date. Fucking selfish child.”

  “You said fucking. You are pissed.”

  “Then, then, he reams me for interfering in his personal life.

  I have to take it, because better me than either the B or G, but I want to hurt him. I managed to calm him down, appeal to the minute sliver of decency and consideration in him. He’ll do his duty, and intends to leave immediately following his—sure to be heartfelt—toast to the new couple.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  Parker’s eyes slitted. “Not for a minute. He’s primed to make a scene. He’ll need to be watched like a hawk because he’s going to parade that woman into the reception if we don’t stop him. Which we won’t be telling anyone in the wedding party.”

  Huffing out a breath, Parker handed Mac a stack of printouts with the photograph of an attractive blonde. Under the photo it read:

  ROXANNE POULSEN

  NO ADMITTANCE

  “Pass these out to subs. I’ll give Laurel a stack for the caterers.”

  “I’m on it. You know, Parks, sometimes I just love this job beyond reason. Oddly, this is one of those times.”

  “Rig
ht there with you.” Parker crunched down on the antacid. “We probably need therapy.”

  MAC DELIVERED WHAT SHE THOUGHT OF AS THE MUG SHOTS TO Emma and her crew, then passed the rest to the small hive working in the Grand Hall. She helped dress the tables—lavender cloths over blue—adding setups while Emma delivered centerpieces. In widemouthed glass bowls white star lilies floated above a bed of shimmering stones.

  “Nice,” Mac decreed.

  Emma set little vases holding the heads of fat roses and white candles around the center bowl, scattered petals and tiny red hearts, blue stars. “Nicer. Only nineteen more to go. Let’s get the favors set up,” she called out. “Let’s finish the . . . Oh, hello, Carter.”

  “What?” Mac spun around.

  In a dark gray suit, Carter stood in the middle of the pre-event chaos. He looked, Mac thought, like an island of baffled calm in a sea of motion and color.

  “Ah, somebody named Lois said I should just come back. There’s a lot going on. I’m probably in the way.”

  “No, you’re not,” Emma assured him. “But be careful, anybody capable of moving, lifting, or hauling may be put to use at any time.”

  “I’m happy to help if I can.”

  “The magic words. We have a hundred and ninety-eight favors, bubble bottles, and candy nets to set out. Mac, why don’t you get our newest slave started? I have to check on the Parlor.”

  “Sure.” How could she have forgotten she’d asked him to come? And what was she supposed to do about this flutter in her belly that just wouldn’t stop when she looked at him? “Nice suit.”

  “It’s not tweed. You look beautiful and professional at the same time.”

  “Staff needs to blend. I’m sorry, I’m distracted. We’re on red alert. The CBBM may try to sneak the SBP into the reception.”

  “Wait a minute.” His brow furrowed. “I think I’ve got it. The best man and the business partner. The one he had an affair with. He’s going to bring her? That’s rude.”