Bride Quartet Collection

by Nora Roberts

  “Thanks.”

  “Just stay out of the way. Yes, they’re ready,” she said to Parker through the headset. “Yeah, in thirty. In place.” She glanced over at the caterers. “On schedule. Oh, Del’s here. Uh-huh.”

  Leaning on the counter and eating berries, he watched her as she stripped off her apron. “Okay, heading out now.”

  Del pushed off the counter to follow her as she headed through the mudroom that would soon be transformed into her extra cooler and storage area. She pulled the clip out of her hair, tossed it aside, and shook her hair into place as she stepped outside.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’m going to help escort guests inside. You’re going away, somewhere.”

  “I like it here.”

  It was her turn to smile. “Parker said to get rid of you until it’s time to clean up. Go find your little friends, Del, and if you’re good boys you’ll be fed later.”

  “Fine, but if I get roped into cleanup, I want some of that cake.”

  They separated, him strolling toward the remodeled pool house that served as Mac’s studio and home, her striding toward the terrace, where the bride and groom exchanged their first married kiss.

  Laurel glanced back once—just once. She’d known him all her life—that was fate, she supposed. But it was her own fault, and her own problem, that she’d been in love with him nearly as long.

  She allowed herself one sigh before fixing a bright, professional smile on her face to lend a hand herding the celebrants into Reception.

  CHAPTER TWO

  LONG AFTER THE LAST GUEST DEPARTED AND THE CATERERS LOADED up, Laurel stretched out on the sofa of the family parlor with a well-deserved glass of wine.

  She wasn’t sure where the men might be—back to their dens with a six-pack maybe—but it was nice, very nice, to unwind with just the women, and the relative quiet.

  “Damn good weekend.” Mac lifted her glass in toast. “Four rehearsals, four events. Not a single hitch in any of them. Not even a blip of a hitch. That’s a record.”

  “The cake was amazing,” Emma added.

  “You had a forkful,” Laurel pointed out.

  “An amazing forkful. Plus it was just sweet today, the way the groom’s little boy stood as best man. He was so cute. It got me weepy.”

  “They’re going to make a nice family.” Parker sat, eyes closed, BlackBerry on her lap. “You watch some of the second-timearounds with kids, and think: Ho boy, rough sailing coming up. But this?You can just see she and the kid are nuts for each other. It was sweet.”

  “I got some killer pictures. And the cake was awesome,” Mac added. “Maybe I should go for the poppy seed for mine.”

  To ease the cramping, Laurel curled and uncurled her toes. “Last week you wanted the Italian cream.”

  “Maybe I should have cake samplers. Small versions of several kinds, different designs. It would be a culinary orgy, plus amazing photography.”

  Laurel cocked a finger. “Die, Mackensie. Die.”

  “You should stick with the Italian cream. It’s your favorite.”

  Mac pursed her lips as she nodded at Emma. “You’re right. And it is all about me. What are you leaning toward, cakewise?”

  “I can’t even think about it. I’m still getting used to being engaged.” Emma studied the diamond on her finger with an undeniably smug smile. “Plus, once I shift into wedding plans and details, I fully expect to succumb to mania. So we should put that off as long as possible.”

  “Yes, please.” Laurel sighed her agreement.

  “You need the dress first anyway.” Parker kept her eyes closed. “The dress always comes first.”

  “Now you’ve done it,” Laurel muttered.

  “I’ve barely thought about it. More than a thousand times,” Emma added. “I’ve hardly looked at more than half a million pictures. I’m going for princess. Miles and miles of skirt. Probably an off-the-shoulder bodice, maybe a sweetheart neckline since I do have exceptional breasts.”

  “It’s true, you do,” Mac agreed.

  “Absolutely nothing simple. Lavish is my byword. I want a tiara—and a train.” Dark eyes glowed at the thought. “And since we’re squeezing it into next May, I’m going to design myself an incredible, and yes, lavish, bouquet. Pastels, I think. Maybe. Probably. Romantic, heartbreaking pastels.”

  “But she can’t even think about it,” Laurel put in.

  “All of you in soft colors,” Emma went on, unfazed. “A garden of my friends.” She let out a sigh of her own, long and dreamy. “And when Jack sees me, he’ll lose his breath. In that one moment, you know, when we look at each other, the world’s going to stop for us. Just for a minute, one incredible minute.”

  From her position on the floor, she rested her head against Parker’s leg. “We didn’t really know, all those times we played Wedding Day when we were kids. We didn’t really know what that one incredible moment meant. We’re so lucky we get to see it as often as we do.”

  “Best job ever,” Mac murmured.

  “Best job ever because we are.” Laurel sat up enough to toast. “We put it together so people can have that one incredible moment. You’ll have yours, Em—orchestrated down to the last detail by Parker, surrounded with flowers you’ve arranged yourself, captured in a photograph by Mac. And celebrated with a cake I’ll create just for you. A lavish one. Guaranteed.”

  “Aww.” Emma’s dark eyes filled. “As much as I love Jack—and boy, do I ever—I couldn’t be as happy as I am now without all of you.”

  Mac handed Emma a tissue. “I’m still first. I want a cake that’s just for me,” she said to Laurel. “If she gets one, so do I.”

  “I can put little cameras and tripods around the tiers.”

  “And little stacks of books for Carter?” Mac laughed. “Silly, but apt.”

  “It follows the theme of your engagement shots.” Emma dried her eyes. “I love the way you set those up, with you and Carter on the couch, your legs all tangled together, him with a book on his lap, you looking like you’ve just lowered your camera after taking his picture. Both of you just grinning at each other. Which leads me to ask you about our engagement portrait. When, where, how?”

  “Easy. You and Jack in bed, naked.”

  Emma shot out a foot to give Mac a light kick. “Stop.”

  “Also apt,” was Laurel’s opinion.

  “We do more than have sex!”

  “You certainly do. You think about having sex.” Parker opened one eye.

  “We have a very layered relationship,” Emma insisted. “Which includes lots of sex. But seriously—”

  “I’ve got a few things in mind. We should look at our schedules and set something up.”

  “Now?”

  “Sure. Parks must have both our schedules on her CrackBerry.” Mac reached toward it.

  Parker opened both eyes, aimed a smoldering warning stare. “Touch it and die.”

  “Jesus. Let’s go check my book at the studio. We should probably round up the guys anyway—and we’d have to have Jack clear the time.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Where are the guys?” Laurel wondered.

  “Down with Mrs. G,” Emma told her. “Eating pizza and playing poker—or that was the plan.”

  “Nobody asked us for pizza and poker.” Laurel managed a horizontal shrug as eyes turned to her. “Okay, no, I don’t want pizza and poker because I like it right here. But still.”

  “Anyway.” Mac pushed to her feet. “Rounding up under the circumstances might take some time. Let’s just plant the seed, then go figure the schedule.”

  “That’s a plan. Good job, girls,” Emma said as she stood.

  As they left, Laurel stretched. “I need a massage. We should have an in-house masseur named Sven. Or Raoul.”

  “I’ll put that on the list. Meanwhile, you could call Serenity and book one.”

  “But if we had Sven—I think Sven is better than Raoul—I could have one right now, th
en I’d slide bonelessly into bed and sleep. How many days until vacation?”

  “Too many.”

  “You say that now, but once we’re free and get to the Hamptons, you’ll still have that BlackBerry attached to your hand.”

  “I can give it up anytime I want.”

  Laurel answered Parker’s smile. “You’ll buy a waterproof bag for it, so you can swim with it.”

  “They should make them waterproof. We must have the technology.”

  “Well, I’m going to leave you and your one true love alone, go soak in a hot tub, and dream of Sven.” Laurel rolled off the couch. “It’s good seeing Emma and Mac so happy, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “See you in the morning.”

  The HOT BATH WORKED WONDERS, BUT LEFT HER WIDE AWAKE instead of relaxed and sleepy. Rather than spending an hour trying to will herself to sleep, Laurel turned on the TV in her sitting room for company, then sat down at her computer to check her week’s schedule. She browsed recipes—as much an addiction for her as the BlackBerry was to Parker—and found a couple worth book-marking to tweak and personalize later.

  Still restless, she settled down in her favorite chair with her sketch pad. The chair had been Parker’s mother’s, and always made Laurel feel cozy and safe. She sat cross-legged on the deep cushion, the pad across her lap, and thought of Mac. Of Mac and Carter. Of Mac in the fabulous wedding dress she’d chosen—or that Parker had found for her.

  Clean, sleek lines, she mused, that so suited Mac’s long, lean body. Not a lot of fuss, and just a touch of flirt. She sketched a cake that mirrored the idea—classic and simple. And immediately rejected it.

  Clean lines for the gown, yes, but Mac was also about color and flash, about the unique and the bold. And that, she realized, was one of the reasons Carter adored her.

  So bold. Colorful fall wedding. Square tiers rather than the more traditional round, with the buttercream frosting Mac favored. Tinted.Yes, yes. Dusky gold then covered with fall flowers—she’d make them oversized with wide, detailed petals—in russet and burnt orange, loden.

  Color, texture, shape, to appeal to the photographer’s eye, and romantic enough for any bride. Crowned with a bouquet, trailing ribbons in dark gold. Touches of white in some piping, to bring out all the color.

  Mac’s Fall, she thought, smiling as she added details. The perfect name for it—for the season, and for the way her friend had tripped into love.

  Laurel held the sketch out to arm’s length, then grinned in satisfaction.

  “I am damn good. And now I’m hungry.”

  She rose to prop the open sketchbook against a lamp. First chance, she decided, she’d show it to Mac for the bride’s opinion. But if she knew Mac—and she did—this was going to get a big, happy woo!

  She deserved a snack—maybe a slice of cold pizza if there was any left. Which she’d regret in the morning, she told herself as she started out, but it couldn’t be helped.

  She was awake and she was hungry. One of the perks of running your own business and your own life was being able to indulge yourself from time to time.

  She moved through the dark and the quiet, guided by her knowledge of the house and the stream of moonlight through the windows. She crossed out of her wing, started down the stairs as she talked herself out of cold pizza and into a healthier choice of fresh fruit and herbal tea.

  She needed to be up early to fit in a workout before Monday morning baking.Then she had three couples coming in that afternoon for tastings, so she’d need to prep for that, and get cleaned up.

  An evening meeting, full staff, with a client to determine basic details of a winter wedding, then she had the rest of the night free to do what needed to be done—or what suited her fancy.

  Thank God she’d initiated a dating moratorium so there was no worry about getting dressed to go out—and what to wear when she did—making conversation, and deciding whether or not she was inclined to have sex.

  Life was easier, she thought as she turned at the base of the stairs. It was easier, simpler, and just less fraught when you took dating and sex off the menu.

  She rammed straight into a solid object-male-shaped-then tumbled backward. Cursing, she flailed out to save herself. The back of her hand smacked sharply against flesh—causing another curse that wasn’t hers. As she went down, she grabbed a fistful of material. She heard it rip as the male-shaped solid object fell on top of her.

  Winded, her head ringing where it thudded against the stair tread, she lay limp as a rag. Even dazed in the dark, she recognized Del by his shape, his scent.

  “Jesus. Laurel? Damn it. Are you hurt?”

  She drew in a breath, constricted by his weight—and maybe by the fact that a certain area of that weight was pressed very intimately between her legs. Why the hell had she been thinking about sex? Or the lack thereof?

  “Get off me,” she managed.

  “Working on it. Are you okay? I didn’t see you.” He pushed up partway so their eyes met in that blue dust moonlight. “Ouch.”

  Because his movement increased the pressure—center to center—something besides her head began to throb. “Off. Me. Now.”

  “Okay, okay. I lost my balance—plus you grabbed my shirt and took me down with you. I tried to catch you. Hold on, let me get the light.”

  She stayed just where she was, waiting to get her breath back, waiting for things to stop throbbing. When he flicked on the foyer light, she shut her eyes against the glare.

  “Ah,” he said and cleared his throat.

  She lay sprawled on the steps, legs spread, wearing a thin white tank and a pair of red boxers. Her toenails were sizzling pink. He decided concentrating on her toes was a better idea than her legs, or the way the tank fit, or ... anything else.

  “Let me help you up.” And into a really long, thick robe.

  She waved him off, half sat up to rub at the back of her head. “Damn it, Del, what are you doing sneaking around the house?”

  “I wasn’t sneaking. I was walking. Why were you sneaking?”

  “I wasn’t—Jesus. I live here.”

  “I used to,” he muttered. “You tore my shirt.”

  “You fractured my skull.”

  Annoyance dissolved instantly into concern. “Did I really hurt you? Let me see.”

  Before she could move, he crouched and reached around to feel the back of her head. “You went down pretty hard. It’s not bleeding.”

  “Ouch!” At least the fresh ringing took her mind off the torn shirt, and the muscle beneath it. “Stop poking.”

  “We should get you some ice.”

  “It’s fine. I’m fine.” Stirred up, no question, she thought, and wishing he didn’t look so tousled, roughed-up, and ridiculously sexy. “What the hell are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night.”

  “It’s barely midnight, which, despite the term, isn’t the middle of the night.”

  He stared straight into her eyes, looking, she imagined, for signs of shock or trauma. Any second he’d take her damn pulse.

  “That doesn’t answer the question.”

  “Mrs. G and I were hanging out. There was beer involved. Enough beer I decided I’d just ...” He pointed up. “I was going to crash in one of the guest rooms rather than drive home with a buzz on.”

  She couldn’t argue with him for being sensible—particularly since he was always sensible. “Then ...” She mimicked him, and pointed up.

  “Stand up so I can make sure you’re okay.”

  “I’m not the one with a buzz on.”

  “No, you’re the one with a fractured skull. Come on.” He solved the matter by hooking his hands under her arms and lifting her so she stood on the step above him with their faces nearly level.

  “I don’t see any X’s in your eyes, no birds circling over your head.”

  “Funny.”

  He gave her that smile. “I heard a couple birds chirping when you backhanded me.”

  She couldn’t
stop her lips from twitching even as she scowled. “If I’d known it was you, I’d’ve put more behind it.”

  “There’s my girl.”

  And wasn’t that exactly how he thought of her? she thought with a slippery mix of temper and disappointment. Just one of his girls.

  “Go, sleep off your buzz, and no more sneaking around.”

  “Where are you going?” he asked as she walked away.

  “Where I please.”

  She usually did, he mused, and it was one of the most appealing things about her. Unless you considered how her ass looked in short red boxers.

  Which he wasn’t. Exactly. He was just making sure she was steady on her feet. And on her really excellent legs.

  Deliberately, he turned away and walked up the stairs to the third floor. He turned toward Parker’s wing, and opened the door to the room that had been his as a child, a boy, a young man.

  It wasn’t the same. He didn’t expect it to be or want it to be. If things didn’t change, they became stagnant and stale. The walls, a soft, foggy green now, displayed clever paintings in simple frames rather than the sports posters of his youth. The bed, a gorgeous old four-poster, had been his grandmother’s. Continuity, he thought, wasn’t the same as stagnation.

  He pulled change and keys out of his pocket to toss them on the dish set on the bureau, then caught sight of himself in the mirror.

  His shirt was ripped at the shoulder, his hair disordered, and if he wasn’t mistaken, he could see the faint mark where Laurel’s knuckles had connected with his cheekbone.

  She’d always been tough, he thought as he toed off his shoes. Tough, strong, and damn near fearless. Most women would’ve screamed, wouldn’t they? But not Laurel—she fought. Push her, she pushed back. Harder.

  He had to admire that.

  Her body had surprised him. He could admit it, he told himself as he stripped off the torn T-shirt. Not that he didn’t know her body. He’d hugged her countless times over the years. But hugging a female friend was an entirely different matter than lying on top of a woman in the dark.

  Entirely different.