by Various
“You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved,” Travis continued. “I wasn’t looking to fall in love, but when I came home from my assignment in Jordan and found you, I found the very best part of my life. And when I lost you … I lost part of my heart and my soul. Part of me.”
Her mind was still reeling. He sounded so sincere, and she wanted to trust what he was saying was true. She desperately wanted to believe that he felt even half of what she did, but her still-bruised heart was wary.
“It took you two years to figure this out?” she challenged.
“I didn’t want to believe it,” he admitted to her now. “For so long, you were just Kevin’s little sister, then somewhere along the line you became my friend, too. I didn’t expect—I didn’t want—anything more than that. And then, with one kiss, everything changed.
“But still, it wasn’t supposed to change forever. We both knew—we agreed—it was only supposed to be for two weeks.”
“Except that I got pregnant,” she said softly.
“I’d been gone more than three weeks when you called to tell me about the baby, but not a single day went by in all of that time that I didn’t think about you, and how much I missed you.
“And maybe I did panic when you told me you were pregnant. But beneath the panic, there was hope that we could turn our two-week affair into something more.”
She lifted her brows.
“Okay … maybe I wasn’t thinking that coherently about it at the time, but I knew that marrying you was the right thing to do. To be a father to our baby. I didn’t realize it was also the right thing for me—because being with you is so much better than being without you.
“Being with you completes my life in a way that nothing and no one else ever has. And maybe it did take me two years to figure it out, but I finally did, and I know now, without a doubt, that I want to share every minute of that life with you.”
“Damn you, Travis Stanford.” Her voice was a whisper, and her eyes filled with tears as her heart overflowed with joy. “That was exactly the right thing to say.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
New Year’s Eve
AS BROOKE waited for the opening notes of Pachelbel’s Canon, which would signal the procession of the bride, she took a last look around to ensure that every detail was as it should be.
The bride’s chosen colors were silver and white, and the decorating team she’d hired had done a fabulous job setting up the front parlor of the Carrington mansion for the candlelight ceremony. The neat rows of chairs were draped with white fabric and accented with silver tulle bows. More silver tulle, entwined with twinkling fairy lights, was draped like garland over the doorways and the windows and the mantel of the fireplace. Enormous silver urns overflowed with white roses, gardenias and lilies, and dozens of white candles flickered around the room.
Not just timeless and elegant, Brooke decided, but absolutely perfect. Then the music began, drawing her attention to the back of the room.
She’d helped Lacey pick out her gown and she’d attended each of the fittings to ensure that it was nipped and tucked just right, so she had a pretty good idea what to expect when her soon-to-be sister-in-law walked down the aisle. Lacey’s dress was strapless, with an intricately beaded bodice and a billowing skirt, and she’d planned to wear her hair up, with an elbow-length veil attached to a delicate tiara that had reputedly once belonged to a member of the Romanov family.
Yes, Brooke had seen the dress and the headpiece and she’d seen Lacey wearing both, but she’d also planned enough of these events now to know that a bride always looked different on her wedding day. Happier. More radiant. And Lacey did not disappoint.
When she came through the doorway, Brooke was certain she had never seen a more beautiful bride. Glancing over at her brother as he caught his first glimpse of the woman who would soon be his wife, she realized that nothing—not even the diamonds at Lacey’s ears and throat—sparkled as much as the bride and groom when they looked into one another’s eyes.
After the ceremony, the guests were invited to mingle in the parlor while the bridal party had pictures taken. Brooke was doing double duty as wedding planner and matron of honor, so she was in and out checking on the caterers and music and smiling for the cameras as required.
She moved almost seamlessly from one task to the next, with no tiny detail escaping her attention. When she slipped back into the reception while the bride was dancing with her father, Travis was finally able to snag her hand and draw her close for a long, lusty kiss.
After he eased back, she smiled up at him. “What was that for?”
“To let you know that I love you.”
Her smile widened. “I never get tired of hearing you say that.”
“Good. Because I’m never going to stop.”
“Saying it? Or loving me?”
“Both,” he promised.
“Well, that’s good,” she said, and pulled his head down for another kiss. “Because I happen to love you, too.”
“Hey, you two.” Kevin nudged his sister with his elbow. “I think you’re forgetting that this day is supposed to be about the bride and the groom.”
“I’m focused on my bride,” Travis assured him.
“I can see that,” his friend said dryly.
Brooke kissed her brother’s cheek. “Thank you.”
“Why are you thanking me?”
“Because you knew what I wanted, even before I did.”
“Yeah, well, once I got over being mad about the fact that my best friend had hooked up with my little sister behind my back, I realized that you guys deserved a chance to work things out—and I’m really glad that you did.”
“Me, too,” she agreed.
“And that,” Kevin said, as the music changed, “is my cue to join my bride.”
Brooke smiled as she watched him walk away. “It was a good day, wasn’t it?”
“The best,” Travis agreed. “Although I can’t believe you managed to pull off such an extravagant event in such a short amount of time.”
“It’s called delegating. Mostly what I did was make a lot of phone calls to bring the players together and then coordinated the staging.”
The players being a veritable army of photographers and videographers to record every minute of the event, caterers and waiters to ensure dinner was prepared perfectly and served promptly, bartenders to ensure that no one’s glass was ever empty. And those were just some of the people Travis had seen on-site. Earlier in the day, there had been decorators in to set up various rooms that were being used for the ceremony and reception, florists to arrange the flowers, the pastry chef who delivered and set up the cake, and various others he couldn’t even remember.
Having been hired to ensure Lacey Carrington’s safety, Travis was a little nervous because of the sudden influx of unknown people. But only a few days earlier, her wanna-be kidnapper had suffered a fatal heart attack. The news of his death had lifted the weight of worry for her parents so that they were able to truly celebrate the start of their daughter’s life with her new husband.
Another consequence was that, as of tonight, Lacey Carrington McFarlane’s security was no longer Travis’s responsibility. But the telecommunications mogul had been so pleased with his daughter’s bodyguard that he’d offered him work in the security department of his offices downtown. Since it ensured that Travis would be able to remain in Red Rock with Brooke, he was more than happy to accept the terms.
“I know you did a lot more than delegating to pull this wedding together,” Travis said to his wife.
“It helps to have an unlimited budget to work with.”
“Unlimited?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Carrington wanted their daughter to have the wedding of her dreams.”
“And you gave it to her.”
“That’s my job,” she reminded him.
“And a job you have to do all over again tomorrow,” he noted.
“The Fortune wedding,” she agreed, and smiled
.
“Why do I know that name?”
“There are a lot of Fortunes in Red Rock.”
“So who’s the lucky couple?”
“William Senior and Lily. It’s a second marriage for both of them, but they’re as happy together and as much in love as a couple of teenagers, and they’ve truly been a joy to work with.”
“Well, after that, I have another event I’d like you to give some thought toward planning,” Travis said.
“What’s that?”
“Your wedding. Our wedding,” he amended.
“We’re already married,” she reminded him.
“But you never got the wedding you wanted—the one you’ve probably been planning since you were a kid.”
She smiled. “But I got the groom I wanted.”
“Don’t you want to do it up big—with a fancy dress and bridesmaids and flowers and all the rest?”
She shook her head. “None of that matters. All I ever really wanted was to marry the man I loved—and for him to love me back.”
“He does and will. Forever,” he assured her.
“But now that you mention it,” she said. “There is one part of the whole wedding deal that I have to admit I’m a little disappointed we missed out on.”
“What’s that?”
“The honeymoon.”
“We’ll definitely have to do something about that,” he said.
And the bodyguard sealed the promise to his bride with a kiss.
Seduced by the Season
Merline Lovelace
About the Author
MERLINE LOVELACE spent twenty-three years in the Air Force, pulling tours in Vietnam, at the Pentagon and at bases all over the world. When she hung up her uniform, she decided to try her hand at writing. She’s since had more than fifty novels published, with over seven million copies of her work in print.
Look for new novels from Merline in Mills & Boon® Intrigue and Desire™.
CHAPTER ONE
Dublin, Ireland
BALANCING a tray of empty beer glasses, Sophie Hawthorne wove her way to a small booth wedged into a corner of the Bull and Crown.
Located in the heart of Dublin, just a short walk from the campus of Trinity College, the pub featured a centuries-old oak bar that ran the length of the establishment and a selection of libations that made it popular with students, locals and tourists alike.
Although it was just midafternoon, the pub was jammed with students celebrating the completion of exam week and their imminent departure for Christmas break. Their noisy chatter and laughter swirled around Sophie as she paused beside the corner booth.
Its occupant was bent over a guidebook, affording Sophie a view of neatly trimmed black hair and wide shoulders encased in tweed. He was busy scribbling notes on a sheet of yellow lined paper. One of those notes caught Sophie’s eye.
“That should be thirty-two hundred B.C.,” she commented, switching the heavy tray to her other hip.
The customer glanced up, and a jolt went through Sophie.
Sweet Molly Malone! Despite the guidebook and the nerdy black-framed glasses, this fella sure didn’t look like a typical tourist. With those broad shoulders, a strong, square chin and bedroom-blue eyes, he had all the makings of a world-class hunk.
“I’m sorry.” He cocked his head to hear her over the din. “What did you say?”
His accent immediately identified him as a fellow American. Sophie herself was solidly Midwestern, but she’d acquired a definite lilt during her years in Dublin.
“The passage tomb at Newgrange was constructed circa three thousand B.C.,” she said cheerfully, “not two thousand.”
The customer consulted his book and hooked a brow. “You’re right.”
She had to grin at his surprise. “Irish prehistory is my specialty, y’see.”
Clint Walker blinked behind his fake glasses. He’d been so absorbed in his prep work that he’d barely noticed the waitress when she’d approached his table.
But she had his full attention now! With a shaft of sheer male appreciation, he took in her tumble of tawny curls, laughing green eyes and mile-long legs encased in black tights beneath a short cherry-red skirt. The enticing combination almost made Clint forget the dangerous assignment that had brought him to Dublin.
Almost.
“You’re a student?” he managed to ask, recovering.
“A doctoral candidate at Trinity College. What can I bring you?”
“I’ll have a pint.”
“Original, draft, extra stout, smooth or red?”
“Draft.”
“Righto.”
While the blonde wove her way back to the bar, the interest she stirred in Clint took a sharp turn from personal to professional.
He was on the trail of an art thief who specialized in obtaining prehistoric artifacts for a shadowy Miami-based drug lord with discriminating and extremely expensive tastes. Two days ago, the FBI’s Art Crimes Division had received a tip that the thief might be one of the handful of spectators who were allowed into the megalithic Newgrange tomb at sunrise on December 22nd. On that day—and only that day—the rising sun would align at precisely the right angle to illuminate the tomb’s inner chamber.
Despite the fact that art theft ranked fourth in major international crimes after drugs, people-trafficking and illegal arms, most law-enforcement agencies—including the FBI—had only limited resources to devote to it, hence the reason he was the only agent assigned to the case. Plus, his superiors hadn’t been impressed by the vagueness of the tip. Nevertheless, Clint had jumped on a plane the very next afternoon and landed in Dublin just a few hours ago.
Problem was, what he knew about Stone Age tombs wouldn’t fill even one of the beer glasses on the sexy waitress’s tray. He was counter-narcotics, for God’s sake! But this as-yet-unidentified art thief was the Bureau’s best hope of nailing Rafael Mendoza. The drug czar had ruined hundreds of lives—Clint’s teenage nephew among them. One way or another, the bastard was going down.
A contact in Ireland’s Arts and Antiquities Division had arranged Clint’s entrance into the exclusive group that would watch the sun light up the inner chamber tomorrow. He had until then to transform himself into a prehistoric art enthusiast.
Like the alluring waitress …
His gaze tracked the tawny-haired girl as she delivered a round of drinks to a group of boisterous young males. When she bent to place their order on the table, one of them reached out and fondled her rear.
She stiffened, then smiled sweetly and dumped a pint of foaming stout over the jerk’s head. He leaped to his feet with an outraged bellow. His chair toppled backward, crashed into a gent at the next table and brought him to his feet. Fists bunched, the two looked ready to lay into each other … with the waitress caught between them.
Clint came out of his booth and had started across the room when the blonde slapped a palm against each combatant’s chest.
“Behave yerselves, lads! It’s Christmas, doncha know!” Green eyes flashing, she gave the one who’d groped her ass a bruising thump. “And as for you, Michael Quinn, yer a bleedin’ eejit. Lay a hand on me again, and I swear I’ll reef y’proper!”
Clint had no idea what dire punishment she’d just threatened, but the hulking young male swiped a hand across his dripping chin and muttered a shamefaced apology.
The tumult had subsided and the noise levels were back to ear-numbing levels when the waitress delivered Clint’s pint.
“That’ll be five euros,” she said with a breezy smile, as if the fracas had never happened. “Or do y’want to run a tab?”
“I’ll run a tab.” He leaned against the oak-backed booth and regarded her with a speculative look. “What’s your name?”
“Sophie Hawthorne. And yours?”
“Clint Walker. Listen, I was wondering—what time do you get off work?”
“And why would y’be askin’, Clint Walker?”
“I have a proposition for you.”
She went stiff, and he added hastily, “A business proposition.”
CHAPTER TWO
“YOU’RE going to be allowed inside Newgrange? At sunrise tomorrow?”
Sophie’s voice rose to a near-squeak. At the man’s request, she’d dropped onto the bench opposite his to hear his “business” proposition. At his pronouncement about Newgrange, sheer excitement almost made her tumble to the floor.
She couldn’t believe he’d won that coveted prize. Twenty thousand nature worshippers, scientists and history buffs—Sophie among them—put their names in every year for the Newgrange lottery. Now here was this fella, this Clint Walker, calmly announcing he’d scored one of the greatest coups in Ireland!
“How in the world did you get so lucky?”
Instead of answering her eager question, he gave her a considering, almost suspicious look.
“What happened to your accent?”
“Oh. That.” Grinning, she flapped a hand. “I’m a Yank, like you. Born and raised in Des Plaines, Illinois. I did most of my undergraduate and master’s program at Northwestern, but got a scholarship to work on a doctorate here at Trinity. Two years in Dublin have given me a wee bit of the brogue, doncha know?”
His blue eyes narrowing, he skimmed a glance over her well-worn red jumper and beer-stained apron.
“You say you’re on scholarship?”
“I am.”
“Doesn’t it provide living expenses?”
“It does, but … well … there are bills. You know how it is.”
His eyes held hers. “Tell me.”
Sophie bit her lip. She rarely talked about her personal circumstances. She considered them no one’s business but her own. Yet this man’s steady gaze drew a reluctant response from her.
“I was raised by my grandmother. Gran didn’t have a lot, only a widow’s pension, but she gave me so much love I never realized we were poor as church mice. She died during her hip-replacement surgery three years ago.”
Pain splintered through Sophie. Three years, and the loss of her only living relative still sent a lance straight into her heart.