Saved by the Bride (Wedding Fever (Carina))

by Lowe, Fiona

  “John, she’s going to be talking about weddings,” said Melissa as she adjusted the strapless dress. “Tell Miss Callahan I can order in any number of wedding dresses.”

  “Out,” Al said firmly. “Leave the poor girl alone.”

  They scrambled across the seats and out into the sweet evening air and a minute later Al drove the vehicle through the open and imposing gates with their monogrammed K in the center, up the long drive and came to a stop halfway around the circle. As he opened the door for her, he said in his best chauffeur’s voice, “This is the Callahan’s cabin on the lake.”

  She gave him a tight smile. “Thanks, Al.”

  The property was closer to the town by boat than by car and she’d never been here before. She moistened her lips and stepped out, and as she was smoothing down her dress it hit her that not only was she a walking example of the Whitetail Chamber of Commerce, she carried the expectations of the entire town on her now bare and nervous shoulders. Her stomach spun like the spin cycle of the washing machine she couldn’t afford. Why had she let the town talk her into this?

  Jobs and the future. Your future.

  As she watched the limo pull away and disappear down the wide sweep of driveway, she took in a deep breath and turned to face the Callahans’ lakeside cabin. She instantly wondered if the rich took pleasure in irony. She supposed a small and simple fishing cabin might have existed once, but not anymore. The setting sun cast a golden glow on an imposing classic American house with a silvery-gray cedar-shake exterior, white windows and a shingled roof, and it reminded her of an era long passed. Four enormous stone chimneys rose majestically but only those with an eye for detail and some knowledge of architecture could tell they also marked the spot where the original house ended and the huge modern extension started.

  The house—Kylemore, according to its copper nameplate—loomed above her, its steeply pitched roof dwarfing her and her bravado.

  She smoothed down her dress and squared her shoulders. She could do this.

  Then she laid eyes on the headset-adorned security guard. Her stomach lurched so hard it almost tugged her sideways. Crap. Security. It hadn’t occurred to her to factor that into her plans.

  A tremble started in her toes but then, out of nowhere, part of the 4-H pledge rolled through her brain, stalling the wobble at her knees. I pledge my heart to clearer thinking. She took in a calming breath, letting the sight of the sparkling water on the lake soothe her. As steadily as one can in three-inch heels, she walked purposefully to the front door with her head held high and a smile pasted on her face. “Good eve—”

  “Name.”

  The security guard barked out the word so loudly, so unexpectedly and so very un-Wisconsin-like, that she wavered precariously on her heels as her composure fled. “Ann...Donna Wakeen.”

  Damn, damn, damn. She stifled a groan. She’d practiced over and over what she needed to say and now the first time she’d opened her mouth she’d gone and fluffed it.

  Distract with chitchat. She smiled again and this time her cheeks ached as she tried to keep the edge of anxiety out of her voice. “You must be from Chicago.”

  A grunt was all she got as he studied his clipboard and followed with, “You’re not on the list.”

  I’m not on the list!

  Don’t panic yet. She opened the ridiculously small but exquisitely beaded evening purse and pulled out a folded piece of thick, embossed paper. Paper she knew cost a fortune because a calligraphy client had once asked her to price it. “Here’s my invitation.”

  The stone-faced man stared at it impassively. “You’re not on the list which means I can’t let you in.”

  Her heart pounded against the figure-hugging bodice of the dress. It had never occurred to her that holding the invitation wouldn’t be enough to gain entry. Frantically trying to think, she crossed her fingers in the folds of her dress. Forgive this bending of the truth. It’s for a good cause. She tried to peer at his list. “Oh, dear, aren’t I? My P.A. assured me she’d telephoned and given the RSVP. Clearly there’s been a miscommunication.”

  His dark eyes showed no emotion and he turned away, speaking into the mouthpiece of his headset. Annika strained to decipher the words but his voice was a low and unintelligible rumble and all she caught was “Donna.” He turned back. “You got your cell on you?”

  She smiled brightly. “Yes.”

  He nodded and then said “yes” into his mouthpiece before looking directly at her. “Neiquest or Callahan?”

  “Pardon?” She had no clue what he was talking about.

  He spoke slowly, his expression shrewd. “Are you friends of the Neiquests or the Callahans?”

  Understanding dawned. “Oh, right, um, the bride’s father.” Well, that’s kind of close to the truth seeing the impossible-to-contact Sean Callahan is the reason I’m here.

  He tapped his clipboard. “Your phone’s not ringing.”

  “Ah, no. Should it be?”

  “If you were Donna Wakeen then, yeah, it would be.”

  He flicked some gum with his tongue, the action of a man in total control and holding all the keys to the kingdom. “The dispatcher just rang the number and got her voice mail. I don’t know who you are, lady, but no one gate-crashes a Callahan party on my shift.” His stance widened to block the doorway and his hands moved to his hips. “I’ll be asking you to leave now.”

  She could hear the animated sounds of the party and she was so very close to her goal and yet so very far away. Desperation flooded her. “This invitation was for the mayor and she couldn’t come and—”

  “Do you need me to escort you off the property?” His expression was granite.

  Her cheeks burned with mortification. “No. Thank you, I can find my own way.”

  “Good.” He continued to stare at her as if she was a June bug he could squish whenever he chose.

  With her confidence in tatters, she somehow managed to muster up her dignity, turn very slowly on her heels and stalk down the blacktop into the fast-fading light. As the pine trees enveloped her and the noise of the party became a low buzz, a smolder of fury burned inside her, slowly gaining heat. What did manners cost? If that was the caliber of the staff Callahan hired then she wondered at the type of person this billionaire was. Easy—undeniably rude!

  The balls of her feet burned and with a rough tug she pulled off her sandals and sank down into soft pine needles. Okay, so she’d tried to use another person’s invitation to gain entry but only because Callahan hadn’t responded to any of her communications. Why had she even thought he might? According to older residents, the Callahans had been coming to Whitetail for years but unlike most other vacationers, they’d kept themselves aloof from the town. Each summer they buzzed the lake with their powerboats and Jet Skis, and every Thanksgiving they cut down a Christmas tree and, without a backward glance, headed back to Chicago.

  Always taking, never giving.

  The smolder ignited into a hot flame that quickly took hold until a fire raged. Damn it all, good people were hurting and this family owed her a meeting. Owed Whitetail a meeting. She’d always been good, always done the right thing, and her dealings with AKP Industries were no different. She’d gone through all the correct channels and what had it got her? Squat. Now the town had gone to enormous length
s to get her ready for this party so she could meet Sean Callahan, and she didn’t need to imagine their reaction if she returned without meeting him—she could taste their disappointment in her already. She hated letting people down.

  She heard a band start up followed by cheering. Given the volume of noise and combining it with the fact it was a warm and balmy summer night, she knew everyone was dancing outside. She should be there. Not dancing but mingling outside in the crowd and finding the man she needed to meet.

  Outside. The thought rocked her. Most people would be in the garden, leaving the house fairly empty. With a determined pull, she strapped her dainty shoes back on her feet. There was more than one way to skin a cat so there was more than one way to get into that party.

  She just had to find it.

  * * *

  Finn Callahan downed his third Leinenkugel, and wondered how much longer he had to stay at his sister’s engagement party. After months of living and working in Mexico and becoming used to a more casual dress code, he found that his tuxedo clung to him as tight and constricting as a straitjacket. The starched collar of his shirt scratched and itched, and with an abrupt pull, he undid the offending bow tie and shoved it into his pocket.

  Why on earth had Bridey wanted a formal engagement party? The question immediately begged a bigger one—why did she even want to get married? It wasn’t like either of them had been raised to actually witness any benefits from the institution. He took another slug of his beer, wondering what was going on in his sister’s pretty head that made her insist the party be up at the lake. This meant his long-since-divorced-but-still-acrimonious parents had to spend an evening together in a house they’d once shared and his second stepmother now considered to be very much her own. Happy families didn’t come close.

  After the stiff smiles and overly bright attempts at conversation by the current and ex-wives of Sean Callahan had worn him down, he’d retreated to the library because it was the only room in the house he liked. It was the one place Sean had left untouched during the massive renovation. Quiet and tucked away in the back corner, it meant he was unlikely to be disturbed, but it also gave him a partial view of proceedings. From here he’d know when to reappear so as not to miss the toasts.

  He gazed out one of the many windows, past the live band in full swing out on the terrace, past people dancing on the floating dance floor under the stars and toward the lone twinkling light in the middle of the lake. He smiled at the faint yellow glow, loving what it represented—his island and his cabin. A real cabin, unlike this monolith that his father had built to impress and in the process lost the soul of Grandpa’s place.

  He checked his work email on his phone—nothing from Henrico so thankfully no disasters at the new plant. Still he wouldn’t mind one if it got him out of Kylemore. He ate a club sandwich from the platter that Esther—the indomitable housekeeper—had brought in for him and then he looked for something to read. A vast array of women’s magazines were scattered across the low table along with an angling magazine and a bunch of plastic toy building bricks. When he’d been a kid, his father had never allowed him in here to read, let alone play. He turned away from the toy bricks and crossed the room to the wall of bookshelves. With a practiced eye, he quickly found Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.

  He settled into the wingback chair in the far corner of the large room and the book fell open to his favorite scene, read to him so many times by his grandfather. As he reread the well-known words he could hear Grandpa’s booming voice telling the story and the noise of the party fell away.

  A soft thud made him look up. A beaded purse lay on the rug. He immediately heard a louder thump followed by a heartfelt, “Ohh, shit! Ouch.”

  He was instantly on his feet and just in time to see a long, creamy leg pointing ceiling-ward into the room with the back of the knee pressed against the windowsill. Five brightly painted red toes peeked out of a ridiculously high-heeled shoe and a pair of manicured hands gripped the sill as the leg tried to bend to find purchase. A grunt of effort reverberated as loudly as a bass drum and he glimpsed a head, saw the second leg appear and then the head vanished.

  Someone was doing an exceptionally clumsy job of trying to climb through the window. He should’ve been outraged but then again most thieves didn’t raid homes dressed in evening wear. The absurdity of it added an extra something to what so far had been a very long evening. Someone had obviously drunk far too much champagne so instead of calling security, he decided to check it out himself.

  He raised the window higher and leaned out into the shadows. He couldn’t make out much more than the outline of what he assumed was a woman’s body lying upside down against the side of the house. He couldn’t see anyone else. “Most people use the door.”

  A gasp shot through the air followed by a beat of silence. “I’m not most people.” The Midwest accent combined resignation with attitude—an intriguing combination.

  “Exactly what are you doing?”

  “Do you think we could leave the explanations until after you’ve helped me up? My head’s about to explode from too much blood.”

  “I guess that’s an option.” His gaze slid along the curve of one fully exposed leg and then snagged on the clear view of white, cotton panties. He took a second look to make sure he’d seen right. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen plain, classic briefs, and combined with evening wear, well, it was just wrong. The luxurious material of the dress demanded French lace or a skimpy thong, not utilitarian cotton. Even so, he suddenly felt hot, which was ridiculous, and he quickly pulled the dress over both legs to cover her up. Standing to one side, he gripped her wrists and pulled. Her legs moved sideways, knocking into his head.

  “Whoa, what are you doing? I’m slipping. Just pull me straight up!”

  The bossy tone, not unlike the one Bridey had used when she’d demanded he attend her party, irritated him and he started to regret his offer of help. He much preferred women who didn’t say very much. “Listen, Legs, I was trying to spare you an element of indignity.”

  A strangled sound that was half groan and half laugh floated up to him. “I left dignity behind at the last mile post. Do whatever. Just get me up.”

  He knew exactly what he had to do but he wasn’t certain she was going to like it. “Hold the windowsill with your left hand.” Keeping a firm grip on her right wrist and losing the battle not to take a second peek at the utilitarian underwear, he managed to maneuver himself so he stood between her legs. “Wrap your legs around my waist.”

  “Excuse me?” Her voice rose an octave.

  He grinned at the fact he’d made her take-charge tone waver, but she had absolutely nothing to worry about. Not only did he prefer women who didn’t readily offer up opinions, he was also very fond of breasts. Legs had never really done it for him. “Relax, it’s pure physics. We’re using my weight to counterbalance yours.”

  “Oh, God, I did say do whatever, didn’t I?” She suddenly let out a shriek. “Quick, the sprinklers just came on!”

  Her smooth, warm legs came in hard and fast against his body before she crossed her ankles behind him. His blood pounded south. Just physics, right?

  He tugged firmly on her forearms, as much to bring her straight up as to banish his body’s response to her. It had been weeks since he’d reacted like this to any woman and they’d been women he’d been able to see. Why the hell was this happening with one he couldn’t see?

  A moment later,
with her legs gripping him even harder, a flash of wet, emerald-green bodice appeared, followed by even more creamy skin. Then, framed by sodden mousy-colored hair filled with pine needles and twigs, vivid blue eyes stared straight at him. Eyes that reminded him of cornflowers and kaleidoscopes. Eyes that seemed to be having a great deal of trouble focusing. She swayed backward.

  “Don’t faint on me. Take a deep breath.” Instinctively he put his arm around her waist to steady her and the action brought her hard up against his chest. She smelled like fresh pine, summer flowers and simpler times. He leaned back, suddenly needing to keep some distance.

  She gulped in air, her chest heaving, and suddenly her eyes cleared, filling with relief. “The room’s stopped spinning.”

  “That’s a good start.” Her legs continued to grip him like a vise, draining his blood from his brain. Somehow, he managed to choke out, “You can probably put your feet on the ground now.”

  Thick, chestnut lashes blinked and droplets of water splashed against her pale cheek. He watched, fascinated, as a flush crawled up her neck, staining her skin pink.

  With lightning speed, she dropped her legs, slid off the windowsill and stood tall and dripping on the rug. Despite being soaking wet and bedraggled, “Legs” held herself with an air of composure that matched the vestiges of style and coiffure which were sharply at odds with the fact she’d entered the house in a questionable way. He couldn’t detect a single strand of guilt.

  She tugged at her dress, straightening it as if she scrambled through windows every day, and then she hit him with a clear and direct gaze. “Thank you very much, Mr., er...”

  No apology. Interesting. He decided to wait and see how she played it. “Finn.”

  “Thank you, Finn.”

  She spoke clearly and with no sign of a slur, which immediately ruled out drunkenness as the reason she’d attempted to climb through the window in such an inept way.