by Miranda Lee
Would he have laughed? Or would he have opened his arms to her? She’d never know. It was too late. She’d finally told him the truth, that Sam was his and that she loved him, but it didn’t matter.
He wanted Sam, not her. And she couldn’t blame him for that. Her lies had destroyed everything.
Too late, the beat of her heart said, too late, too late, too—
What was that?
Tally sat up, head cocked. Bells? Yes. Bells, chiming sweetly through the night. Why would bells be …
Of course.
It was Christmas. Christmas! The bells were heralding the start of the holiday, singing of joy, of wonder …
Of miracles.
Tears streamed down Tally’s face. She’d had her own miracle. A man. Proud. Strong. Protective and, yes, loving. And she’d let that miracle slip through her fingers out of cowardice. She’d been afraid to tell him about Sam.
And terrified to tell him about herself, that she loved him, that she’d always love him, until it was too late.
Almost too late, she thought, and drew a ragged breath.
Tally threw back the covers and rose from the bed. Her footsteps were hesitant at first but they quickened as she ran from room to room.
“Dante,” she said brokenly, “my beloved, where are you?”
The bells rang out again, just as she hurried into the sitting room. A beam of ivory moonlight illuminated the French doors that led to the beach. Tally flung them open—
And saw Dante, just as he turned toward the house.
“Dante,” she said, and she began to run across the sand, “Dante …”
Moonlight touched his face. She saw love, understanding, the same hope that burned in her heart, and she flew into his embrace and clung to him.
“I heard the bells,” she said, crying and laughing at the same time, kissing his mouth as she rose to him, luxuriating in the racing beat of his heart. “I heard them calling and I thought, I can’t lose him again, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—”
“I love you,” Dante said fiercely, cupping her face in his hands. “I’ve always loved you, inamorata, but I was too proud—and too afraid of needing you—to admit it.”
“And I love you,” Tally said, “I always have. It’s why I left you three years ago. The thought of having you end things between us was more than I could bear.”
“I was a fool, cara,” he said, tightening his arms around her. “How could a man end what is destined to last through eternity?”
Tally laughed through her tears. “Is that all?”
He smiled, too. And then his mouth was on hers, the taste of her tears was on his lips, and as he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the house, the bells rang out, telling the world that miracles are always possible.
All you have to do is believe.
SOMETIMES, HAVING WEALTH and power and all the right connections really did pay off.
They flew back to New York early in the morning the next day, Tally wearing the diamond solitaire Dante had bought for her in the Caribbean.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, when he slipped the ring on her finger.
“Not as beautiful as you,” he said, and kissed her.
All the municipal offices were closed, but such details weren’t enough to put a crimp in the plans of Dante Russo.
“I know someone who knows someone who knows someone,” he said, laughing when Tally rolled her eyes.
“Such arrogance,” she said, but her smile, her voice, her eyes shone with love.
By noon, they had a wedding license and a judge who said he’d be happy to marry them in Dante’s penthouse.
By one, the penthouse was filled with Christmas garlands. Mistletoe hung from every doorway. Dante loved catching Tally under the mistletoe, whirling her in a circle and kissing her.
The enormous sitting room was filled with baskets of crimson and white poinsettias. Holly leaves, bright with berries, lay draped over the top of the fireplace mantel. But the room’s centerpiece was a blue spruce so tall its branches reached the ceiling.
The tree was beautiful.
It filled the air with its fragrance; it glowed with what Tally was sure were a thousand white fairy lights. The flames on the hearth in the wall-long fireplace danced on the gleaming surfaces of the gold and silver balls that hung from the tree. Gaily wrapped packages spilled from under the branches, though Sam, squealing with delight, had already opened most of hers.
Champagne was chilling in silver buckets; caviar sat in a silver dish. Everything was perfect … and a little before two, the doorman brought up an enormous white box. Inside was a magnificent gown of lace and seed pearls, straight from the atelier of a world-famous designer.
It was the sort of gown princesses wear in the fairy tales little girls read.
Except, Tally thought when she finally stood beside her gorgeous groom and looked up into his eyes, except, this was no fairy tale.
This was real. It was true love, and it would last forever.
“Do you take this woman,” the judge intoned, and Dante short-circuited things by saying “Yes.”
The perfect P.A., who was one of the guests, laughed. So did Mrs. Tipton and so did Samantha, who she held against her bosom.
Dante brought his bride’s hand to his lips. They smiled into each other’s eyes. Then they gave the judge all their attention. Slowly, and with deep meaning, they took the vows that would forever unite them.
Moments later, they were husband and wife. Dante gathered his bride to him and kissed her again.
“I will love you forever, inamorata,” he said softly.
Tally smiled through tears of happiness. “As I will love you,” she whispered.
“Me, too,” Sam said.
Everyone laughed as the baby made her pronouncement.
“Down,” she told Mrs. Tipton, with all the imperiousness of a two-year-old. She toddled to her parents and held up her arms. “Up,” she commanded.
Dante, a man who never took orders from anyone, happily took this one and settled his daughter into the curve of his arm.
“Mama,” Sam said, touching a chubby hand to Tally’s cheek.
She looked at Dante, who smiled and waited for her to call him Da-Tay.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she put a little hand on each side of his face and said, “Dada.”
Dante’s eyes filled. He looked at his wife, and Tally smiled.
“Merry Christmas, beloved,” she whispered.
“Buon natale, inamorata,” he said softly.
Their daughter laughed, and flung her arms around them both.
Laying Down
the Law
Susan Stephens
About the Author
SUSAN STEPHENS was a professional singer before meeting her husband on the tiny Mediterranean island of Malta. In true Modern™ Romance style they met on Monday, became engaged on Friday and were married three months after that. Almost thirty years and three children later, they are still in love. (Susan does not advise her children to return home one day with a similar story, as she may not take the news with the same fortitude as her own mother!)
Susan had written several non-fiction books when fate took a hand. At a charity costume ball there was an after-dinner auction. One of the lots, ‘Spend a Day with an Author’, had been donated by Mills & Boon® author Penny Jordan. Susan’s husband bought this lot and Penny was to become not just a great friend but a wonderful mentor, who encouraged Susan to write romance.
Susan loves her family, her pets, her friends and her writing. She enjoys entertaining, travel and going to the theatre. She reads, cooks and plays the piano to relax, and can occasionally be found throwing herself off mountains on a pair of skis or galloping through the countryside. Visit Susan’s website: www.susanstephens.net—she loves to hear from her readers all around the world!
Dear Reader,
Christmas is such an emotionally warm time of year for me as I contact much
-loved friends and family across the globe, and I want to share that sense of warmth and love and friendship with you.
I want you to know that every day, when I sit down at my desk to write, I’m thinking about you, the reader, and how best to share my thoughts and dreams with you. I feel as if I’m reaching out with this Christmas book just as I do with all those other messages at this time of year and I hope that, as you read, you will smile and escape into another world for an hour or so.
This book is based on some quite hair-raising and amusing stories brought home by my elder daughter when she first became a barrister, so it’s good to know the legal profession isn’t quite as stuffy as we sometimes think—though I hasten to add that your friend the author has taken considerable liberties with the truth!
With my warmest good wishes to you at this special time of year,
Susan
Www.susanstephens.com
For Wiggy
PROLOGUE
PARTIES BORED HIM. Office parties bored him most of all. But he’d been too busy to meet anyone in the hectic city chambers since he’d arrived in the country to head up an exchange programme between promising young lawyers in the UK and the US, and this was an opportunity to show his face, as well as to weigh up the raw material.
He paused in the entrance to the room. The reception was being held in honour of the latest judge on the local circuit to be elevated to the House of Lords. An uneasy silence had fallen and he knew immediately that something was wrong. The room was packed with the local legal aristocracy, together with a swarm of pupil barristers all hoping to be noticed. His gaze was drawn to the podium where a red-faced girl was struggling to make an introduction, while next to her stood the guest of honour, Judge Deadfast of Dearing. His Lordship appeared less than amused by the fact the girl appeared to have forgotten his name.
He held his breath as she tried again. Judge Dredd? It was time for him to step in….
The elderly man at Carly’s side shifted impatiently as she tried again. ‘And it is my great pleasure this evening to introduce Judge …’ Why had her mind chosen now to blank? Was it because the most incredible looking man she had ever seen in her life had just entered the room? Tall and fierce, with dark flashing eyes, he took in everything at a glance, including her red face, no doubt. With his tan, athletic build and thick, chocolate-brown hair, he was the quintessential Latin lover made flesh. While she was the quintessential fat girl battling to introduce a geriatric judge with eyebrows that badly needed shearing.
No wonder she’d lost her audience! Who wouldn’t prefer to look at that gorgeous man?
Would she be defeated? Sucking in a deep breath, she tried again. ‘Ladies and gentlemen—’
Response: nil. Humiliation: a bottomless pit.
She was a back-room girl, not an MC. But if she hoped to pursue her career at the bar and become an effective advocate she had to get over her stage fright fast. But now it was too late! The cavalry had arrived in the form of the man with more testosterone flying off him than sparks off a Catherine wheel.
A path formed in front of him as he strode across the room. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, smiling confidently at his audience as he rescued the microphone. ‘My apologies for being late …’ He wasn’t late of course, but no one knew that, did they?
He turned his charm on the judge next, keeping the microphone close to his lips. He could feel the rustle of interest in the room, the shower of pheromones in the air. He could also feel the abject misery of the girl who had failed, but he’d see to her later.
‘Your Lordship, what an honour …’ He continued in this vein until the apoplectic look on His Lordship’s face had paled into his usual sepulchral pallor.
He stood back well pleased with his performance as the grimly smiling judge left the podium to be toadied by his colleagues. Courting judges was his area of expertise; courting women, his passion. His spirited Italian mother had taught him that keeping women happy was fundamental to life. He had since learned that it was fundamental to his sanity. The red-faced girl was next in line for some TLC, but not before he’d won back her audience.
‘My Lords, ladies and gentlemen … Some appreciation, if you please, for my learned colleague.’ As he spoke he laid a protective arm over the culprit’s shoulders and drew her forward. ‘Who amongst us would have made the connection between our honoured guest Judge Deadfast of Dearing and that legendary comic-strip character Judge Joe Dredd, law enforcement par excellence?’ He paused to allow the mood against the young woman under his protection to change. He had His Lordship’s interest now. ‘And let us not forget,’ he added, raising his hands to silence the oohs and aahs of understanding rippling through his audience, ‘that Judge Joe Dredd has the power to arrest, sentence, and even execute criminals on the spot. So I advise prudence tonight …’ As His Lordship led the laughter, he relaxed, job done. ‘Enjoy the rest of your evening, everyone!’
He turned to rescue his charge and found her gone. His mouth firmed when he spotted her at the bar.
She knocked back a second glass of wine, but nothing helped. She was over; finished. She wasn’t a natural party animal, or speech-giver. Perhaps that was why her fellow pupil barristers had set her up by making her the compere …
As she picked up the wine bottle to pour herself some more, he made his move. Realising he was coming over she fired red and turned away, but not before he’d had a chance to assess the voluptuous figure. It appealed to his Latin soul, like the tilt of her chin and the abundance of Titian hair. Those were the points in her favour. On the reverse side of the coin she had the fashion sense of a—
Of an Englishwoman, he reminded himself as she glanced around to see how close he was.
She gasped to find him right behind her. ‘I’m really, really grateful,’ she blurted, drawing his attention to her wine-dampened lips. ‘I don’t know what came over me …’
She gulped as he took the wineglass out of her hand. ‘Thanks for rescuing the situation. Can’t imagine why you did it,’ she finished awkwardly.
Chivalry would sound outdated to her, and he’d moved on in any case to urges and fantasies that had yet to be explored. His body, like his mind, was meant to be used. Years of study hadn’t robbed him of the need to express himself physically, hence the workouts, tarmac, the gym, the sparring he indulged in twice a week. ‘Think nothing of it,’ he said, pouring her a glass of water. ‘Here, drink this—you’ll feel better in a minute.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, sipping demurely.
Dio! She was a contradiction. In unguarded moments her green eyes flashed fire, which gave him a hint of the busy thoughts beneath her frumpy exterior, and now he was close enough he could see her skin had the translucency of delicate porcelain. She might be considered gauche and awkward compared to the polish of the other girls in the room, but she had his attention. Taking the wine bottle she thought she had so cleverly hidden behind the punch bowl, he replaced it in the ice bucket where it belonged. ‘I think you’ve had enough. It doesn’t do to blunt the senses …’
His gravelly voice made her toes curl. He was so gorgeous. She had no coping strategies for a man with the body of a kick boxer dressed by Savile Row. Which hardly mattered. With his stubble-darkened face and commanding manner he could have any woman in the room. He would pour himself a drink, give her one of those dangerous half smiles, and walk away.
How did she know this? Because she had dressed carefully so as not to draw attention to herself, just as every other woman present had dressed to impress, and now she should get out of his way and spare herself the indignity of being asked to move. Unfortunately her feet refused to agree with this proposition and remained where they were. Glaring at them, she noticed his feet: shoe size large. She blanked out the obvious correlation to other parts of his anatomy.
As he flipped back his jacket to slip a hand in his pocket, he raised the line of one trouser leg enough to display the most extraordinary socks. A man in a traditional thre
e-piece suit wearing crazy-coloured socks? Which said what about the workings in his head?
‘Feeling better now?’ Dark eyes probed deep, and the voice that went with them was intriguingly foreign: mid-Atlantic with a dash of chilli. He was waiting for her to say something, but her quickness of mind—the only worthwhile attribute she possessed—deserted her. All she could think was, You don’t normally look at teeth and think, Bite me. But this man’s teeth were very white, and very strong, and something in his mocking expression promised a very pleasurable nip indeed. He had the sexiest lips on earth, and his eyes … were expressive pools of wicked thoughts and sardonic humour; perfect.
But who was he? She was a pupil barrister in this busy city chambers, a freckle-faced country bumpkin with a lively interior mind, but the man towering over her was film-star perfect. ‘Are you Italian?’ It was the best she could come up with going on nothing more than his looks.
‘Italian American,’ he said, staring at her empty wineglass. ‘I don’t think you like parties any more than I do. Am I right?’ He didn’t wait for her answer. Taking hold of her arm, he drew her across the room, guiding her in and out of the alcohol-fuelled mayhem with an arm outstretched in front of her face.
To protect her?
No one had ever done that before. Everyone assumed she could look after herself. As they should; she was big and capable, but this was nice for a change.
As they walked she worked out that, as a stranger in town, he must want her to point him in the direction of the nearest taxi rank. But then he tested this assumption, taking her past the elevators and heading for the offices. She ran out of feasible alternatives as to what would happen next. And okay, maybe she would regret this in the morning, but tomorrow was another day …
‘This office is being used as a cloakroom, I believe.’ Trying the door, he held it open for her.
She stared at him blankly.
‘You do have a coat, don’t you? It’s cold outside …’