by Lori Wilde
But now he wasn’t so sure. Would love and magic be enough to bridge the chasm between their upbringings? He feared it would not.
Despair consumed him.
He reached up to start the engine and accidentally hit Lalule. She hula danced.
Shake it up.
What on earth had compelled him to let down his guard and let her get so close to him? Why had he told her about his mother? Why had he given her a hula doll of her own?
From the minute Delaney had tarped him outside Evan’s office, he’d known she had the potential to hurt him bad. He hated feeling like this—all soft and mushy. He wanted his hard outer shell back, wanted his cynical cop attitude back.
It was too late for regrets. He’d fallen in love with Delaney, but she was out of his league, out of his reach.
There was a knock on his window and Nick almost jumped a foot. He looked up and saw Trudie standing there, a deep frown on her face.
He rolled down the window. “Jesus, Trudie, you about scared me to death.”
“What are you doing out here feeling sorry for yourself?”
“I’m thinking,” he said.
“Well, your grandmother is looking for you. She just found a new buyer for the house, but she wants your approval first.”
“She didn’t want it before, why is she suddenly interested in my opinion now?”
“Don’t be a putz,” Trudie said. “Get over to the house.”
Grumbling, Nick drove over to Nana’s. Lalule did the hula.
Shake it up.
Damn that hula doll.
He parked in the driveway of the house he’d grown up in and his chest tightened. He hated that he was losing both Delaney and his home too.
“Nana,” he called as he went up the steps, house keys in hand. He turned the key in the lock, pushed open the door. “Nana? What’s up?”
The smell of lasagna was thick on the air. Damn, but he was going to miss the smell of this house.
He went to the kitchen.
And stopped dead in his tracks.
There at the stove stood Delaney. Wearing nothing but high heels and an apron.
What was this?
She turned to smile at him. “Welcome home, Nick.”
“What do you mean, welcome home?”
“I’m your grandmother’s new buyer.”
Damn if his smile didn’t spread all the way across his face. “You’re kidding me.”
“Nope. Unfortunately, this house is just a little bit too big for little ole me. I was hoping that maybe you could help me fill it with children.”
“Why, Delaney Cartwright,” he said. “Are you proposing to me?”
“Why yes, Nick Vinetti, I think I am.”
And that’s when Nick Vinetti knew all was right with the world.
Epilogue
The winter issue of Society Bride declared the double wedding ceremony of undercover cop Nick Vinetti to successful business entrepreneur Delaney Cartwright—and oil tycoon Jim Bob Cartwright to Fayrene Doggett—the “must crash” nuptials of the season.
Texas Monthly decreed that following on the heels of her daughter’s faked kidnapping from her wedding to Evan Van Zandt, the outing of Philadelphia blue-blood Honey Montgomery Cartwright’s true identity was nothing less than a Texas-sized scandal.
The Houston Chronicle dubbed it the best water-cooler gossip of the year.
Bouquet clutched in her hand, Fayrene walked down the rose-petal-strewn garden path in the backyard of her daughter’s home on Galveston Island. Accompanied by the traditional Wagner’s wedding march and escorted by Nick’s father, Vincent, Fayrene wore a simple pale blue dress and the happiest smile on her face. When she got to the makeshift altar, she stopped and turned to wait for her husband and daughter to come down the cobblestone walkway behind her.
The backyard was packed with friends and family. Tish was recording it all on video. Jillian and Rachael were bridesmaids. Lucia and Trudie sat in the front row, beaming like the conniving matchmakers they were. Chalk up another one for the whammy.
The wedding march ended and the band struck up the Cars’ tune “Shake It Up.”
Jim Bob was dressed in a Texas tuxedo—tuxedo top, blue jeans on the bottom, and shiny new cowboy boots. Honey would have had a hissy fit over such lax wedding attire. Fayrene, however, thought he looked adorable.
Delaney wore an off-white gown and the wish-fulfilling consignment-store wedding veil that had foretold this very day. She looked to the altar where Nick stood to the right of her mother, patiently waiting for her. He looked stunningly handsome in his own Texas tuxedo. She’d never seen a more glorious sight.
Her father shifted his weight. “You sure you want to do this, princess?”
“Positive. How about you?”
Jim Bob looked to his wife. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
“Me either. Let’s go then.” She didn’t even wait for her father to take the lead. Delaney was already hurrying down the aisle, pulling him along with her. She couldn’t wait to marry Nick. Couldn’t wait to start the next chapter of their lifelong romance.
When they got to the altar, her father put her hand in Nick’s, then he stepped over to his bride and looped his arm through hers. The minister stepped forward to renew the vows between her parents.
“You look so beautiful,” Nick whispered. “I’ll never forget this day for as long as I live.”
Their eyes met and Delaney’s heart soared. She didn’t hear the minister’s words to her parents, didn’t smell the scent of the sea on the air, didn’t see the crowd surrounding them. She only had ears and nose and eyes for the man standing beside her.
He was gazing at her with eyes so bright she thought she might stop breathing. This, then, was nirvana. Happiness enveloped her so completely she lost awareness of everything but him.
In that moment, true courage was born in her. She was not afraid of anything. Not with Nick.
For most of her life, she’d lived in the illusion of the perfect world, shielding herself from pain and the uncertainty of taking risks. But through knowing Nick, she’d learned to say “yes” to what she wanted and “no” to what she didn’t.
She’d come full circle and now she was back where she’s started, but totally changed. She was a fully realized person now. She could see clearly all the ways in which she’d held herself back, let her mother run her life. And she could see it in her friends too. Tish, who was afraid to admit she loved her ex-husband. Jillian, who was terrified to love altogether. Rachael, who fell in love too easily. She wanted desperately to help them all.
Her heart swelled with the exquisiteness of everything she’d learned, with the sweetness of her journey. And as the minister joined her and Nick together, Delaney knew what she must do to help her friends.
The band played “Shake It Up” again as they went back up the aisle accompanied by applause. Tish had taken up a crouching position at the end of the back of the last row of folding chairs. She started to stand up as Delaney and Nick walked up, but ended up bumping her head on the corner of the gift table.
“Son of a…” Tish started to swear, realized she was recording, and clamped her lips closed.
“Wait.” Delaney placed a restraining arm on Nick’s hand. “There’s something I need to do.”
He stopped, waited patiently. He would always be there for her. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name. “Do what you have to do.”
Delaney reached up, took the veil from her head, walked over, and handed it to Tish.
“What’s this?” Tish asked.
“Be careful what you wish for,” Delaney said, gazing happily at her new husband. “Because you’re going to get your soul’s desire.”
“Huh?”
Delaney left her friend staring with puzzlement at the wedding veil and went back to Nick. He took her hands, kissed her tenderly, and then just before family and friends descended upon them, Delaney caught sight of someone sta
nding at the far corner of the backyard.
Claire Kelley.
Her eyes met Delaney’s,
Claire nodded at Tish, winked, and then she was gone.
And in that whisper of a second, Delaney realized the truth of the universe. The magic of the wedding veil had been inside her all along. Faith—in herself, in love—was what had activated it.
With that, she took Nick’s hand and walked into her brand-new life.
Once Smitten, Twice Shy
This book is dedicated to my parents,
Fred and Maxine Blalock, who lost two children
but never lost their faith or love in each other.
Acknowledgments
No one writes a book alone. It feels like it sometimes, all those hours spent in front of a computer wrestling with the words, but if it weren’t for the following people propping me up, I wouldn’t be able to make the magic happen.
To my husband, Bill, who takes care of all the domestic details so I don’t have to worry about any of that and who loves me unfailingly. I’m the luckiest person on earth.
To my editor, Michele Bidelspach, who gently nudges me in the right direction.
To my agent, Jenny Bent, who keeps my spirits up when the publishing business closes in.
To the people of my hometown, from Jay, Melinda, and June at the post office who smilingly accept my numerous packages to Leah Western at Freedom House to Linda Bagwell at Weatherford College, I’m blessed to know you all. Thank you for all your support over the years.
Chapter 1
From behind his high-end designer sunglasses, Secret Service agent Shane Tremont scanned the crowd gathered for the groundbreaking of the Nathan Benedict wing at the University of Texas campus.
His elbows were loose, his breathing regular, his stance commanding and self-confident. The perimeter had been secured. The crowd controlled. His Sig Sauer P229 357-caliber pistol nestled comfortably in his shoulder holster, freshly cleaned and loaded, along with a full capacity of ammunition clips stowed in the holster pockets and a bulletproof vest molded against his chest.
Although Nathan Benedict, the President of the United States, was being honored at his alma mater, he wasn’t attending the ceremony. In Nathan’s place was his twenty-two-year-old daughter, Elysee, who’d been entrusted with clipping the ceremonial ribbon in her father’s absence.
Everyone loved sweet-natured Elysee, and it was Shane’s job to guard her life with his own. His nerves might be relaxed, but his muscles were tense as coiled springs, cocked and ready for action.
The sky was clear and blue and balmy—the perfect mid-October afternoon in Texas. He was acutely aware of the political protesters. They carried signs scrawled with anti-Benedict sentiment. The Austin police held them at bay behind the picket line several hundred yards from the groundbreaking site.
Potential assassins, all of them. From the smiling young mother with a towheaded toddler in her lap to the elderly man leaning on a cane, to the trio of cocoa-skinned, dark-haired men gathered at the periphery of the crowd.
Shane narrowed his eyes and took a second look at the three men. They fit a profile that was politically correct to ignore, but he was Secret Service. Political correctness didn’t figure into it. A whiff of Al-Qaeda and his adrenaline kicked into hyperdrive. He touched his earpiece and quietly mouthed a coded message that sent another Secret Service agent closer to the trio. Better safe than sorry.
“Everything okay?” Elysee laid a hand on his elbow.
“Yes, miss.”
“Miss? Getting formal on me, Agent Tremont?” Her eyes twinkled.
“We’re in public. I’m on high alert.” He resisted the urge to smile.
“The crowd looks pretty tame to me.”
“Protesters lined up on the sidewalk.”
“Ubiquitous,” she said. “I’m surprised. Usually there’s more.”
“It’s because it’s you here and not your father. Few are eager to protest a true lady.”
“Why, Agent Tremont.” A soft smile touched her lips. “What a gentlemanly thing to say.”
He gave her a conspiratorial wink and her smile widened.
“Your tie’s crooked,” she said and reached up to give his plain black necktie a gentle tug, then passed the flat of her hand over his shoulder. “There now. Spit-polish perfect.”
“What does that mean?” he teased.
“I don’t know. Just something my mother always said to my dad when she hustled him out the door each morning.”
Shane and Elysee and her entourage were standing on a small platform suspended over the site of the groundbreaking. A fat yellow backhoe, along with several other heavy construction vehicles, sat with their engines powered up and running, ready to get to work as soon as Elysee sliced through the thick scarlet ribbon.
Some committee had decided a ballet of earthmoving equipment would be more cinematic than Elysee shoveling dirt. Although in the end, cinematography had turned out to be a nonissue. A devastating category four hurricane had just crashed ashore along the South Carolina coastline, pulling news crews eastward. Other than a few print journalists, the groundbreaking ceremony was devoid of the usual media brouhaha.
Shane swung his gaze back to the President’s daughter. He had been assigned to her detail for the past thirteen months and in that time they’d become close friends. The relationship between a bodyguard and his protectee bore many similarities to that between a psychiatrist and his patient. Elysee told him things she couldn’t tell anyone else. He listened, sympathized, and kept his mouth shut.
The intimacy had created a special connection. Shane liked her, even though she was seven years younger than he. This unexpected emotional bond wasn’t something his training had fully prepared him for.
Elysee was petite and soft-spoken, with earnest opinions and tender sensibilities. She loved fully, completely, and without reservation, although men were always breaking her heart.
Shane couldn’t understand why she hadn’t become hardened or cynical about love. Her capacity to pick up her crumpled spirit and move on with the same degree of hope, trust, and optimism impressed him.
He thought of his ex-wife and his own heart—which was finally, finally starting to mend—swelled, testing the tentative seams of its emotional stitches. Two years divorced and thoughts of Tish still made him shaky. He’d loved her so damned much and she’d disappointed him so deeply. No pain had ever cut like Tish’s secrecy and betrayal.
Many times over the past twenty-four months he’d tried to convince himself that he hated her. His anger was a red-hot flame he held close to his chest and stoked whenever his mind wandered to tender memories. But he couldn’t hate her. Not really. Not when it counted.
Thing was, no matter how hard he tried to suppress his weakness, in the dark of midnight, he found himself longing for Tish and all that they’d lost.
He still ached for the feel of her curvy body nestled against his. Still longed to smell the spicy scent of her lush auburn hair. Still yearned to taste the rich flavor of her femininity lingering on his tongue. Even here, in the brightness of the noonday sun, surrounded by a crowd, he felt it.
Dry. Empty. Desperately alone.
The tip of his left thumb strayed to the back of his ring finger, feeling for the weight of the band that was no longer there. He swallowed past the unexpected lump in his throat.
Head in the game, Tremont.
Shane clenched his jaw to keep from thinking about Tish. Channeling all his attention onto safeguarding Ely-see. This was his life now. Without a wife. Without a real home. The job was the only thing that defined him. He was a bodyguard, a protector, a sentinel. He was descended from war heroes. It was in his blood. In his very DNA.
The University of Texas chancellor stepped to the microphone and made a speech about Nathan Benedict and the dedication of the new Poli-Sci wing in his honor. Then he introduced Elysee.
A cheer went up. She was a crowd pleaser.
Elysee sm
iled and cameras clicked. An award-winning high school marching band that had been recruited for the event struck up “God Bless America.” Shane’s eyes never stopped assessing; his brain never ceased analyzing.
An assistant handed Elysee a pair of scissors so outrageously large that she had to grab onto them with both hands. Laughing, she raised the Gulliver-sized shears. Whenever she smiled, Elysee was transformed. Her bland blue eyes sparkled and her thin mouth widened and she tossed her hair in a carefree gesture. For one brief moment she looked as beautiful as any runway model.
Elysee snipped.
The thick red ribbon fell away.
The backhoe dipped for dirt at the same moment the bulldozer’s blade went to ground and the road grader’s engine revved.
The crowd, including the protesters behind the picket line, cheered again and applauded politely. Nearby, the backhoe operator was apparently having trouble with the equipment. It moved jerkily as its bucket rose. Elysee was perched precariously close to the platform’s edge.
The backhoe arm swung wide.
In that instant Shane saw pure panic on the backhoe operator’s face and realized the man had lost control of the machinery. The bucket zoomed straight for Elysee.
Shane reacted.
He felt no fear, only a solid determination to protect the President’s daughter at all costs.
But it felt as if he were moving in slow motion, his legs locked in molasses, his arms slogging through ballistics gel. He lunged, flinging his body at Elysee.
He hit her with his shoulder. She cried out, fell to her knees.
Spinning, Shane turned to face the earthmoving equipment, hand simultaneously diving for his duty weapon at the same second the backhoe bucket sluiced through the air, slinging loamy soil.
His arm went up, gun raised.
The bucket caught his right hand, yanking him up off the platform. He heard the awful crunch, but the pain didn’t immediately register. He was jerked from his feet. He tried to pull the trigger, not even knowing what he was shooting at, just reacting instinctively to danger. He’d kill for Elysee, if that’s what it took.