Love So Tender: Taking Care of Business / Play It Again, Elvis / Good Luck Charm

PRAISE FOR THESE AUTHORS

Stephanie Bond

“Stephanie Bond’s Two Sexy! will ‘Blaze’ a hot trail right through you!”

—TheBestReviews.com

“Stephanie Bond never fails to entertain and deserves to be an auto-buy.”

—Romance Reviews Today on “Diamond Mine” in Behind the Red Doors

Jo Leigh

“Jo Leigh knows how to blend heartwarming romance and witty dialogue into sheer joy.”

—Romantic Times

“Jo Leigh delivers lots of laughs.”

—Romantic Times

Joanne Rock

“For frolicking, sexy fun, Joanne Rock always delivers!”

—Julie Elizabeth Leto

“Sensual stories, sexy heroes and sassy heroines—fabulous Joanne Rock delivers keeper-shelf reads!”

—RITA® Award winner Catherine Mann

Dear Reader,

The editors at Harlequin and Silhouette are thrilled to be able to bring you a brand-new featured author program for 2005! Signature Select aims to single out outstanding stories, contemporary themes and oft-requested classics by some of your favorite series authors and present them to you in a variety of formats bound by truly striking covers.

We want to provide several different types of reading experiences in the new Signature Select program. The Spotlight books offer a single “big read” by a talented series author, the Collections present three novellas on a selected theme in one volume, the Sagas contain sprawling, sometimes multi-generational family tales (often related to a favorite family first introduced in series) and the Miniseries feature requested previously published books, with two or, occasionally, three complete stories in one volume. The Signature Select program offers one book in each of these categories per month, and fans of limited continuity series will also find these continuing stories under the Signature Select umbrella.

In addition, these volumes bring you bonus features…different in every single book! You may learn more about the author in an extended interview, more about the setting or inspiration for the book, more about subjects related to the theme and, often, a bonus short read will be included. Authors and editors have been outdoing themselves in originating creative material for our bonus features—we’re sure you’ll be surprised and pleased with the results!

The Signature Select program strives to bring you a variety of reading experiences by authors you’ve come to love, as well as by rising stars you’ll be glad you’ve discovered. Watch for new stories from Janelle Denison, Donna Kauffman, Leslie Kelly, Marie Ferrarella, Suzanne Forster, Stephanie Bond, Christine Rimmer and scores more of the brightest talents in romance fiction!

The excitement continues!

Warm wishes for happy reading,

Marsha Zinberg

Executive Editor

The Signature Select Program

CONTENTS

Taking Care of Business Stephanie Bond

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Play It Again, Elvis Jo Leigh

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Good Luck Charm Joanne Rock

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

Taking Care of Business

Stephanie Bond

CHAPTER ONE

FBI SPECIAL AGENT Steve Berringer sat in a loaner SUV studying the Taking Care of Business wedding chapel, a fireball of apprehension in his stomach. He’d walked into some of the most seedy bars, basements, betting parlors and brothels in Las Vegas with his weapon drawn and expecting the worst, but none of those places had put a sweat on the back of his neck like this innocent-looking little white building across the parking lot with pink and yellow flowers on either side of its covered entrance.

Maybe it was the August heat, he reasoned, glancing up through the windshield at the afternoon sun from behind his polarized shades. But a cool breeze was blowing today, making the cute little trees in front of the chapel sway in the most depressingly precious way. Plus he had the air conditioner on full blast.

Steve rubbed his hand over his painful midsection. In thirty-four years, this was the closest he’d ever come to the whole marriage process. He’d never even seen a wedding. He had ducked countless requests to be a groomsman, had RSVP’d with regrets to every invitation he’d received, had sidestepped requests from girlfriends to attend weddings as an escort. To a commitment-phobic guy like him, a wedding chapel was the ultimate nightmare. Churches, after all, could be used for other things: religious services, christenings, funerals. But a wedding chapel—man, that was hard core.

The phone on his belt rang and he checked it. Karen, his partner. He flipped up the receiver with a grunt. “What’s up?”

“Just calling to give you a pep talk.”

He frowned. “That’s not necessary.”

“I saw you pop an antacid before you left—are you sure you’re up to this undercover assignment? I mean, I know how you get when someone mentions the ‘M’ word.”

He poked his tongue into his cheek. “You know I’d do anything to nab Lundy. This time he’s not getting away.”

“But our informant said it could be a week before Lundy shows up there with his child-bride-to-be. It’s hard to say how many weddings you’ll have to video, how many vows you’ll have to witness, how many garters you might accidentally catch.”

“Are you through being funny?”

She laughed, then sighed. “Actually, I wish I was with you, partner—hanging out at an Elvis wedding parlor sounds like more fun than pulling desk duty.”

“That’s what you get for being pregnant.” Karen was expecting her first child with her husband Daniel, and the last few weeks were wearing on her. To be honest, Steve was relieved to have her tucked away where it was safe. He expected this undercover operation to end smoothly, with Mitch Lundy being apprehended quietly after he exited the chapel as an unsuspecting married man, but the fewer people—especially pregnant ones—on the scene, the better.

“I know,” Karen said. “But I’d give anything to watch you squirm being around all those men saying ‘I do.’”

“Did you need something?” he snapped.

“Not as badly as you do,” she sang.

“I’m hanging up.”

“Bye.”

Steve closed the phone and clipped it back onto his belt, then dabbed his neck with his handkerchief. God deliver him from smart-alecky females. He’d rather deal with a hard-nosed criminal any day—they were more predictable.

Heaving a sigh, he turned off the engine and lifted his camera bag from the passenger seat. Who knew that his long-neglected hobby would come in handy on a work assignment? And taking photos of the chapel would be the perfect foil for making sure Lundy was covered from every angle.

As he strode toward the chapel, he noticed the abundance of neon on the sign and the building itself—in the daylight, the little white chapel looked out of place on the garish Las Vegas strip, but after sundown, this place would probably outshine its flashy neighbors.

It was a one-story building, narrow along the street front, but deep. Cordelia Conroy was the owner of the place, early sixties, a former showgirl who once had ties to the mob. She owed the FBI a favor for helping her out of a jam years ago, so she’d agreed to let Steve come in undercover as an employee to keep an eye out for Lundy, on condition that the arrest wouldn’t take place at the chapel and that her employees wouldn’t be in danger. In return, the FBI had demanded confidentiality—none of the regular employees could know Steve’s real identity or why he was there.

So, dressed in casual clothes, having purposefully missed his regular haircut last week and sporting two days’ worth of beard, he would be Steve Mulcahy, scruffy photographer. If the undercover position were in any other place, he might actually be happy for some downtime, but being surrounded by flowers and music and gushing couples—damn. Not counting the oddballs he’d likely be working with in an Elvis wedding chapel. Steve tucked his sunglasses into his shirt pocket, then inhaled and opened the front door. He was looking forward to cuffing Lundy, but this would definitely go down as his worst assignment ever.

He stepped inside a foyer of sorts, immediately enveloped by the strains of “Love Me Tender” floating from mounted speakers. Spin-racks of postcards and Elvis Presley memorabilia occupied every available space, leaving a narrow path to a counter surrounded by poster-sized menus of wedding packages and bulletin boards full of photos of happy couples.

The willowy woman standing behind the counter glanced up, her violet-colored eyes wide, her pink lips open in a welcoming smile. Her hair was platinum-blond and short, sticking up at spiky angles. Her unusual pixie beauty hit him like a punch to the chest, and he suddenly was feeling a little better about the um…the um…

Oh yeah—the assignment.

Steve took a step forward, tripped over something solid and went down hard. The hidden gun in his waist holster stabbed into his diaphragm, driving all the air from his lungs.

The blonde gasped and ran around the counter to where he fell. “H.D., are you okay?”

Steve rolled over onto his back and panted for air. “My…name…isn’t…H.D.”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

She knelt and pulled the wrinkly face of the world’s fattest basset hound close to hers until their noses touched. “Are you okay, H.D.? Are you okay, sweetheart? You were sleeping in a dangerous place—you might have been hurt.” She scratched the dog’s elephantine ears, murmuring mommy-to-dog nonsense, then seemed to remember he was in the room and turned toward him. “Are you okay, mister?”

Having dragged air back into his collapsed lungs and determining that nothing was broken, Steve sat up, then pushed himself to his feet and retrieved his camera bag, embarrassed as hell. He looked down at the woman crouched on the floor and pointed to the droopy blob of spotted hound that seemed to have melted into the red carpet. “That dog is like an anvil.”

The woman frowned, then stood and crossed slender arms over surprisingly full breasts. “May I help you?”

Momentarily distracted, he glanced up to find her eyes piercing him like a laser. Getting off on the wrong foot wouldn’t help matters, he realized. He extended his hand. “I’m Steve Mulcahy, the new photographer.”

Her pink mouth rounded in surprise. “Oh…yes, Cordelia said that she’d filled the position. I just didn’t expect…” She straightened and put her hand in his. “I mean, welcome to TCB, Steve. I’m Gracie Sergeant, the wedding director.”

He noted her white eyelet sundress, rhinestone flipflops, blue nail polish, black velvet choker and the tiny mole on the crest of one fine cheekbone. She looked…eccentric…and oddly appealing. He shook her hand, wondering idly if all of her was as soft as her long, slender fingers. His chest expanded with satisfaction as he noticed her assessing his build as well.

She abruptly withdrew her hand and looked at her Betty Boop watch. “You’re just in time. We have a 4:00 p.m. booking—they’ll be here in an hour. That will give us just enough time for me to show you the ropes.”

Since she was already walking away and talking over her shoulder, he trotted to keep up with her. He looked over and saw that, to his chagrin, the basset hound was also scampering behind her. Steve glared at the dog and swore the squatty beast glared back. Despite the pleasing view of Gracie’s backside swishing the white dress back and forth, Steve stepped up the pace and caught up to her as she walked through a door behind the counter and down a hallway.

“So, Steve, what do you know about Elvis?”

The question caught him off guard. “I don’t know. The usual stuff I guess—he sang, he made movies.”

She stopped so suddenly, he almost passed her up. Her brow wrinkled. “He sang? He made movies?”

Steve glanced from side to side. “Didn’t he?”

Her chin went up. “The man is an icon.”

Steve started to smile, then swallowed it when he realized she was dead serious. “Right,” he said solemnly.

She gave him a suspicious look, then continued down the hallway, her sandals flapping against her heels. “The Burning Love chapel is on the right,” she said, pointing to a set of white double doors. “It seats fifty. The Graceland chapel is on the left—it’s smaller and our most popular venue, the one we’ll be using this afternoon.” She tilted her head. “You do know how to take photographs?”

He gave a little laugh. “Yeah—that’s the job, right?”

“And you can operate a video camera?”

He nodded—he’d certainly filmed enough crime scenes. A wedding couldn’t be too different, he thought wryly.

She looked relieved. “Good—that’s one less thing I’ll have to do. It’s been just me, Cordelia, Roach, Lincoln and H.D. for a couple of months now, and everyone’s been filling in wherever they could.”

“Roach?”

“He’s one of our ministers.”

“Ah. And Lincoln?”

“Another minister—they swap shifts with Cordelia. Oh, and Lincoln’s also our florist—he’ll be here soon. I’ll take you back to meet Cordelia in a few minutes—she’s working the drive-through.”

“Drive-through?”

She nodded. “It’s our most popular feature, open twenty-four/seven. That’s why we need three ministers to pull shifts.”

Steve pursed his mouth—hmm. He wasn’t keen on marriage, but if a couple were hell-bent on doing it, a drive-through sounded less expensive and less painful even than a justice of the peace. With a fifty percent chance of failure, why not at least go the cheap route?

“We offer full-service packages in the chapels from 4:00 p.m. until midnight.” She smiled. “As the evening progresses, we tend to get drop-ins.”

As people became more inebriated, he thought. “How long do the ceremonies last?” He needed to get a handle on day-to-day operations as quickly as possible.

She shrugged. “It depends. The Love Me Tender package is our most basic, and usually takes about twenty minutes. The Aloha Las Vegas package is our most comprehensive, and takes about forty minutes—forty-five if they order a hula dancer.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Hula dancer?”

She looked sheepish. “I, um, wear a grass skirt.”

At the thought of her in a grass skirt, his sex stirred. He shifted and cleared his throat. “What happened to your photographer?”

“He met someone during a wedding, got married and moved to Alabama.”

“Oh.”

She shrugged. “It happens a lot. The turnover rate here is pretty high—a lot of people wind up getting married and moving on. I guess it comes with the territory.” She seemed a little sad, then suddenly looked hopeful. “You wouldn’t happen to be married already, would you?”

“No,” he said, more emphatically than he meant to. At her worried frown, he held up his hand. “But don’t worry—I have no intention of getting married, in the near or distant future.”

One delicately arched dark eyebrow raised. “Oh? Confirmed bachelor?”

Her eyes were smiling—mocking? Her lips were as plump and pink as fruit, and he unwittingly moistened his own mouth. “Yeah.”

She looked relieved. “Good. I’m tired of training people for this job—which happens to be the most important as far as the customers are concerned.”

She resumed walking, and he followed, working his mouth from side to side. He assuaged the slight pang of guilt that Gracie Sergeant might be burdened with more work when he left, with the knowledge that she would be safer on the streets of Las Vegas with a slippery thug like Mitch Lundy behind bars. Then a question popped into his head—was the fetching Gracie herself already married?

He decided not to ask. It was none of his business, and it was best not to become involved with the employees. When it came time to finally take Lundy into custody, he didn’t want to be distracted.

He glanced at her slender tanned legs and again felt a tightening in his groin. It didn’t mean, however, that he couldn’t enjoy the view.

She opened a door, revealing a deep closet with shelves on either side lined with dated camera equipment, shabby background cloths and a mind-boggling array of tacky props. He picked up a dusty pink lei and had a flicker of panic about his tolerance. “So what kinds of pictures do most couples expect?”

At his feet, H.D. sneezed violently, then shuffled toward Gracie, who was in the back of the closet, flipping through a clothing rack.

“Don’t worry,” she said, her voice muffled. “The cameras and tripods are already in the chapels and they’re top of the line.” She looked back with a grin. “If I can take decent pictures with them, then they’re almost foolproof.”

“So you don’t need a great photographer.”

“Well, the video camera is a little more tricky,” she offered over her right shoulder, drawing attention to the tattoo of a four-leaf clover there. He’d never been fond of tattoos, but against Gracie’s smooth skin, it seemed more like…jewelry. Nice. And a bit eerie, considering he carried a four-leaf-clover key chain.

“Of course, the most important thing is the suit.”

He nodded, and it was a few seconds before her words sank in. “Pardon me?”

“The suit,” she said, turning and holding in front of her a large white jumpsuit with a wide pointed collar and jeweled studs down the rather low-cut front. She sighed. “It’s going to be a little big for you—Roach has been filling in since our last guy left—but it’ll do until I can take it in.”

Steve stared at the jumpsuit, realization dawning with horror. “Me…wear that getup?” He laughed. “No way.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

He backed up, shaking his head. “I mean I’m not wearing that.”

“But the customers want the Vegas Elvis package, and this is the suit.”

He waved his hands. “Oh, no. I’m not dressing up.”

She frowned harder. “Cordelia said you understood that this was part of the job. In fact—” she stepped over the dog and extended the vile suit toward him “—it is the job. You’re our Elvis.”

CHAPTER TWO

GRACIE SERGEANT watched emotions play over Steve Mulcahy’s handsome face: shock gave way to denial, and denial gave way to controlled annoyance. His cobalt-blue eyes went from icy to molten in a blink as he straightened.

“I’m not an Elvis impersonator.”

Gracie inspected his lean physique again—broad shoulders, narrow hips, long legs…the man was perfect—er, for the job. Top that with his blue-black hair, piercing eyes and—she swallowed—sensuous mouth, and she had a feeling she was experiencing a little of what women must have felt when standing next to the real Elvis. The man was knee-weakening gorgeous.

It was a good thing she’d recently sworn off sex…not that Steve Mulcahy, confirmed bachelor, would be interested, but still. She’d had enough of fly-by-night affairs with transients who lost their mind and promised the moon (and their heart) in the crazy Vegas environment. The next time she fell in love, she wanted forever and a ring. When she’d said as much to Cordelia, who had never married, her boss had looked sad and declared that Gracie had listened to “Can’t Help Falling in Love” one too many times.

Ignoring the sexy vibes rolling off the man in front of her, Gracie tried to appeal to his ego. “You’re the closest thing we’ve had to Elvis in the ten years I’ve been working here. We’ve had a Korean Elvis, a dwarf Elvis, two black Elvises, several obese versions, one bone-rack, one guy who was eighty-nine years old—even a female Elvis for a while.”

He was still shaking his head. “I came to take pictures—and that’s all.”

Worried that she’d lose their best prospect in ages, Gracie decided to turn on the charm—and lie. She gave him a coy smile. “All you have to do is wear the suit, and if you’re afraid someone will recognize you, we have sunglasses and a wig.”

He opened his mouth, then stopped and seemed to mull her words.

“It’s really easy,” she added quickly. “You greet the customers, walk the bride down the aisle and give her away, then run the video camera for the rest of the ceremony. The pictures come afterward.”

He squinted, apparently considering it. “I’d walk the bride down the aisle? Every bride?”

Gracie tried not to frown—obviously her womanly charms weren’t as persuasive as the idea of mixing with every female who came through the door. “Sure—it’s part of the wedding package.”

He covered his mouth with his hand, then nodded curtly. “Okay.”

She grinned, her disappointment about his motivation vanishing in the wake of his agreeing to be their Elvis. If he were good, word would spread quickly. She stepped closer to him, holding the extra large suit against his shoulders. The movement displaced the air between them, sending the male scent of him into her nostrils, igniting little firestorms all over her celibate body. Shocked at her reaction, she lifted her gaze to his—a mistake, she realized instantly, because a woman could fall headlong into those deep baby blues with their long, black lashes. But when his eyes became hooded, she saw a flash of danger there—danger to her resolution to hold out for commitment.

Worse, her nearness seemed to have affected him as well. Beneath her fingers, his chest rose and fell more rapidly, then his mouth parted slightly. She had the surreal sensation that he might kiss her and felt her lips part, her breath whisk over her tongue. He wet his lips and she unwittingly mimicked him. “Can’t Help Falling in Love” played over the central stereo—her weakness.

“Some things…are meant to be…”

Her throat tightened with the desire to swallow, but she was afraid to move a muscle, afraid she would rise on her toes and press her mouth to his just to knock him as off balance as she felt. But when she felt his warm lips against hers, she realized that in her mind, she might have restrained herself, but in reality, she had gone for the gold.

And while Steve Mulcahy might have been as surprised as she for a split second, he seemed to warm up to the idea of kissing her rather quickly. He opened his mouth and slanted his lips over hers, flicking his tongue over her teeth. He tasted like mint and coffee, and smelled like grass and sandalwood. While Gracie’s breasts and shoulders tingled, a small part of her panicked, driven to keep the kiss going so she wouldn’t have to face him when it ended. She’d never done anything like this in her life.