My Favorite Mistake

“I want you in my bed tonight, but the choice is entirely yours.”

Desire flooded my body, rushing through my veins, awakening every nerve ending. The silence stretched between us for long seconds while my mind raced with uncertainty. “I…” I swallowed and tried again, not entirely sure what words might tumble out of my mouth. “I…excuse me.”

I escaped to the bathroom, closed the door behind me and leaned against it. I stared at myself in the mirror, touched my skin, my hair, concrete things that defined me. But what about the things I couldn’t see…those deep, dark desires that lurked in my heart? Those things defined me, too, whether I liked it or not.

I didn’t like it, knowing that my body could override my reason. But I couldn’t help but acknowledge how much I wanted Redford, how much I wanted to share his bed tonight. Worse, how much I needed to share his bed.

So with shaking hands I slipped my engagement ring from my finger and set it on the vanity. Then I opened the door, inhaled deeply and walked out into the bedroom…to my husband.

Dear Reader,

We all slip up sometime—we stumble, then recover and, hopefully, learn something in the process. But what if you can’t get over the biggest mistake of your life?

Denise Cooke married U.S. Marine Redford DeMoss three years ago in a quickie Vegas wedding after a whirlwind courtship. Their honeymoon was mind-boggling, but when Redford returned to his overseas duty and Denise returned to NYC, reality set in, and she had the marriage annulled. Except now she’s being reunited with her biggest mistake to resolve a tax issue and Redford looks better than ever…can she keep from making the same mistake twice?

Continuing with the characters I first introduced in “The Truth about Shoes and Men” on www.eHarlequin.com and in the Harlequin Temptation novel Cover Me, My Favorite Mistakeis a sexy romp about two mismatched lovers who begin to suspect that that the only thing worse than living with each other is living without each other. I hope you enjoy this book as much as I enjoyed writing it! Visit me at my Web site, www.stephaniebond.com. And please tell your friends about the wonderful love stories within the pages of Harlequin romance novels!

Much love and laughter,

Stephanie Bond

Stephanie Bond

My Favorite Mistake

Dear Reader,

An Evening To Remember… Those words evoke all kinds of emotions and memories. How do you plan a romantic evening with your guy that will help you get in touch with each other on every level?

Start with a great dinner that you cook together. Be sure to light several candles and put fresh flowers on the table. Enjoy a few glasses of wine and pick out your favorite music to set the mood. After dinner take the time to really talk to each other. Hold hands and snuggle on the sofa in front of the fireplace. And maybe take a few minutes to read aloud selected sexy scenes from your favorite Harlequin Blaze novel. After that, anything can happen….

That’s just one way to have an evening to remember. There are so many more. Write and tell us how you keep the spark in your relationship. And don’t forget to check out our Web site at www.eHarlequin.com.

Sincerely,

Birgit Davis-Todd

Executive Editor

This book is dedicated to the memory of

Cheryl Anne Porter, a sister Harlequin writer

who could light up a room with her smile

and leave your ribs aching from laughing.

You will be missed, Cheryl.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

1

“THIS IS A MISTAKE,” I said, suddenly panicked by the horde of women pushing at me from all sides. In the minutes just prior to Filene’s Basement “running of the brides,” the crowd was getting hostile, all elbows and bared teeth.

Next to me, my friend Cindy turned her head and scowled. “Denise Cooke, you can’t back out now—I’m counting on you!” The normally demure Cindy Hamilton shoved a woman standing next to her to make room to reach into her shoulder bag. “Here, put on this headband so we can spot each other once we get in there.”

I sighed and reached for the neon pink headband. It wasn’t as if I could look more ridiculous—I was already freezing and humiliated standing there in my yoga leotard (the Web-site-recommended uniform for trying on bridal gowns in the aisles). February in New York did not lend itself to leotards—I was numb from my V-neck down. “This is a lot of trouble for a discounted wedding gown when you’re not even engaged,” I grumbled.

“This was your idea, Miss Penny Pincher,” Cindy reminded me.

That was true. I was helping Cindy with her Positive Thinking 101 class, and her assignment was to prepare for an event with the idea being that it would then become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Since Cindy wanted to be married more than anything else in the world, she’d decided to buy a wedding gown. Cheapskate that I am (an investment broker-slash-financial planner, actually), I had suggested Filene’s biannual bridal event for a good deal.

So here we were at seven-thirty on a cold Saturday morning, poised with oh, about eight or nine hundred other freezing leotard-clad women, waiting for the doors of Filene’s to be hurled open. There were a few identifiable teams with members wearing identical hats or T-shirts. Like me, they were friends who had been commandeered to grab as many dresses as possible from the clearance racks, thereby increasing the odds of the bride-to-be getting a gown she wanted.

“Remember,” Cindy said, her eyes as serious as an NFL coach dispensing plays, “strapless or spaghetti straps, with a princess waistline—white is my first choice, but I’m willing to go as far left as light taupe. I need a size ten, but I can work with a twelve.”

I nodded curtly. “Got it.”

“If you find a gown that might work, put it on so no one can grab it out of your hands.”

I swallowed and nodded again, suddenly apprehensive.

“And who knows,” Cindy added with a grin. “You might find a dress that you’ll want to keep for yourself.”

I frowned. “Barry and I haven’t even talked about getting married.”

“Good grief, you’ve been dating for two years—he’s going to propose someday, and then you’ll already have a dress. It’s practical.”

I started to say it was presumptuous, then remembered why Cindy was there and clamped my mouth shut. Barry was…great, but I couldn’t see myself getting married…again.

Like every time I remembered my last-minute and short-lived Las Vegas marriage to Sergeant Redford DeMoss, I got a sick feeling in my stomach. My first marriage was one of those events in my life that I wanted to expunge from my memory, like a stupid teenage stunt…except I hadn’t been a stupid teenager—I had been a stupid adult. In the three years since my marriage to and subsequent annulment from Redford, I had managed to block the incident from my mind for the most part. But since two of my best friends, Jacki and Kenzie, had recently gotten married and my last single friend, Cindy, seemed hell-bent on doing the same, the memories of my incredible wedding night had been popping into my head at the strangest moments—I couldn’t seem to outrun them.

Someone behind me stepped on my heel, scraping it raw. I winced, not sure how I was going to outrun this dogged bunch, either.

“They’re opening the doors,” Cindy announced excitedly.

A cheer rose from the crowd and everyone lurched forward collectively. The two security guards unlocking the doors looked as frightened as I felt. When the doors were flung open, self-preservation kicked in—I had to match the pace of the crowd or be trampled. I squeezed through the double doors and ran for the escalator, my heart pounding in my chest. The escalator was instantly jammed, and everyone still clambered upward, some screaming as if we were all vying for front row seats at a rock concert. At the top of the escalator, we spilled onto the second floor where several freestanding racks bulged with pouf dresses. I had no idea where Cindy was and I hesitated, not sure where to begin.

Women stampeded by me in a blur and began yanking dresses by the armfuls from the rack. It was a locust swarm. I realized I was going to miss out if I didn’t move quickly. Cindy’s order of “strapless or spaghetti straps” vanished in the wake of the disappearing gowns. I grabbed whatever I could get my hands on, draping the gowns over my shoulders until I could barely see or hear past the mounds of rustling fabric.

Within one minute, the racks had been picked clean. As if on cue, everyone began trying on dresses where they stood, stripping to their underwear and in some cases, even further, heedless of the male salesclerks and security guards milling about. Keeping an eye out for a neon pink headband, I sorted through my spoils like a lion protecting its kill.

I had managed to snare a white satin gown with cap sleeves, size fourteen; an off-white long-sleeved lacy number with a straight skirt, size twenty; a pinkish Gibson-girl design with bishop sleeves, size twelve; a dark beige high-neck gown with an embroidered bodice, size four; and a creamy halter-style gown with a pearl-studded skirt, size ten. My shoulders fell in disappointment—I had struck out for Cindy.

Although…the halter-style gown was actually quite nice. I peered at the designer label and my eyebrows shot up—really nice. Then I peered at the price tag and my eyebrows practically flew off my head—a $2000 gown reduced to $249? Cindy would be crazy not to buy this dress, even if it wasn’t exactly what she was looking for. While juggling the other gowns, I stepped into the halter dress and twisted to zip it up in the back, then smoothed a hand over the skirt, reveling in the nubby texture of the seed pearls. Longing welled in my heart, surprising me, because I was the most no-nonsense person I knew—a dress couldn’t possibly have any power over me.

“That’s perfect on you,” said a salesclerk next to me.

“Oh, I’m helping a friend of mine,” I replied quickly.

“Pity,” the woman said, nodding toward a mirrored column a few feet away.

I glanced around, looking for Cindy in the frenzied mob, then reasoned I might as well walk past the mirror on my way to find her. I moseyed over and stopped dead in my tracks.

Even over the leotard the dress was dazzling, and for a few seconds, I felt dazzling—my makeup-free face and dark blond, disheveled ponytail notwithstanding. For my quickie Vegas wedding, I’d worn a “What Happens Here, Stays Here” T-shirt, which in hindsight, had been a big red flag to my state of mind. I’d told myself a hundred times that it wouldn’t have mattered if Redford and I had been married in a lavish church ceremony with all the trimmings; but now, looking at myself in the mirror wearing this glorious gown, I had to admit that the right wardrobe would have lent a touch of sophistication to the surreal occasion.

If I ever married again, I would wear this dress…or something like it.

“Do you have any size sixteens?” a girl yelled in my face. “I need a size sixteen!”

I shook my head, then realized that all around me, women were bartering unwanted gowns, some hoisting signs heralding their size. I relinquished the size four to a peanut-sized woman, and during the hand-off, the rest of my bounty was ripped from my arms by circling gown-vultures. I was still reeling when Cindy skidded to a stop in front of me.

“There you are!” she shrieked over the melee. “I found my dress!”

Indeed, over her leotard she wore a sweet, strapless white satin gown with a princess waistline. Laughing like a child, she twirled, sending the full skirt billowing around her.

“It’s perfect,” I agreed. The dress was perfect for Cindy’s cherubic beauty, but I felt a pang of sadness as I glanced down at the halter dress I wore…it would have to be sacrificed to the vortex of bargain-hunting brides, which had, if anything, increased in intensity as latecomers descended on the leftovers and another round of frantic stealing and swapping ensued.

Cindy stopped twirling and stared at me. “Wow, that dress looks awesome on you.”

I flushed. “I was just trying it on…for you. It was the closest thing I could find.”

Cindy’s blue eyes bugged. “You should keep it, Denise. If Barry got a look at you in that dress, he’d fall on his knees and beg you to marry him.”

I laughed. “Right.” Barry had never been on his knees in my presence—to propose or do anything else—but I had to admit, I was tempted.

A flushed, middle-aged woman stopped and looked me up and down. “Are you going to keep that dress?” Without waiting for an answer, she proceeded to pick up the fabric of the skirt to scrutinize the pearls.

A proprietary feeling came over and I firmly removed her hand from my—er, the dress. “I haven’t decided.”

The woman glared at my bare left hand. “My daughter Sylvie already has a wedding date.”

I frowned. “So?”

“So,” the woman snapped, “what good will that dress do you hanging in your closet?”

She was testy, but she had a very good point, especially considering the fact that I’d been lamenting only yesterday how small my closet was. Still, what business was it of hers if the dress hung in my cramped closet until it dry-rotted? (A distinct possibility.)

Cindy stepped up and crossed her arms. “My friend is going to get married again someday.” Cindy still harbored lingering guilt over my impromptu marriage—she blamed herself for getting the flu and leaving me to spend Christmas and New Year’s Eve in Las Vegas by myself. Otherwise, I might not have fallen under Redford’s illicit spell.

“Again? Someday?” The lady snorted and her body language clearly said that women who didn’t get it right the first time around didn’t deserve a production the second time around. Another good point. I had blown it the first time I’d walked down the aisle—well, okay, to be morbidly honest I hadn’t “walked down the aisle.” I was married in a chapel drive-through, which, in my defense, had seemed the most economical route at the time.

My groom, who I barely knew, was a gorgeous officer on leave. And the spontaneous marriage had been prompted by intense physical chemistry (Redford was rather spectacularly endowed), and perhaps a bit of misplaced patriotism that I had mistaken for love. It was one of the oldest clichés in the book—an observation which, I realized ruefully, was also a cliché. The biggest mistake of my life was redundant. Ridiculously, tears pooled in my eyes.

Cindy gaped at me. I never cried…ever.

“There, there,” the older woman said, and actually patted my arm. “You’ll feel better once you take off that dress.”

Cindy drew herself up. “Keep moving, lady—the dress is ours.”

The woman huffed and stalked away, head pivoting, presumably looking for other women she could provoke to tears.

Mortified, I blinked like mad to rid my eyes of the moisture. “I don’t know…what happened.”

“Never mind,” Cindy said in her best-friend voice. “Let’s go pay for our dresses.”

I shook my head. “I can’t buy a wedding dress, Cindy.”

“Of course you can…everyone knows you have a fortune squirreled away from clipped coupons and rebates.”

I had a reputation among my friends for being, shall I say, “thrifty.” “I don’t mean I can’t afford it. I mean I…I don’t think I’ll ever get married…again.” But if that were true, why hadn’t I simply handed over the dress to the pushy woman?

Cindy shrugged. “Fine. If you still feel that way in six months, sell the dress on eBay. Knowing you, you’ll probably make money on it.”

I bit my lower lip. Cindy was right—even if I took the dress home, no one was going to stick a gun to my head and make me get married. Barry seemed to be as leery of walking down the aisle as I was. Although if one day Barry got the urge…

I almost laughed out loud—Barry wasn’t the “urge getting” kind of guy. He was just as methodical and nonsensical as I was, which explained how we had contentedly dated off and on for the past two years without the drama that most couples endure. I was lucky. Luck-eee.

“It’s a great deal,” Cindy urged in a singsongy voice.

I looked at the price tag and wavered at the sight of the red slash through the original price of $2000 and replaced with the hastily-scrawled $249. I loved red slashes. It’s a great deal. And I probably could turn around and sell the dress on eBay for a profit. In fact, I might make enough to surprise Barry with plane tickets for a vacation. He’d been wanting to go to Vegas, and I’d been resistant, for reasons that now seem childish…

As childish as me standing here obsessing about buying a gown simply because it resurrected too many memories…? Memories a wedding dress might exorcise…?

“Okay,” I said impulsively. “I’ll take it.”

Cindy clapped her hands, then stopped, as if she were afraid that her celebrating would change my mind, and herded me toward the checkout counter.

Only later, when a gushing salesclerk handed me the gown, bagged and paid for, was I seized by a sudden, unnerving thought:

What if Cindy’s “self-fulfilling prophecy” experiment rubbed off on me?

2

THE WHOLE “self-fulfilling prophecy” thing was still nagging at me when I got home and I realized I would have to get rid of something in order to make room for my impulsive purchase. Buyer’s remorse struck me hard and I cursed my weakness for a good buy. To punish myself, I laid out the brown suede fringed coat I had splurged on last spring but rarely wore, plus a pair of rivet-studded jeans and a white embroidered shirt that had seemed exotic in the store, but smacked of a costume when I stood before the full-length mirror in my bathroom. I had never worked up the nerve to wear the outfit. As much as I loved the pieces, it seemed unlikely that the urban Western look was going to come back in style anytime soon, and if it did, I obviously couldn’t carry it off. But my friend Kenzie could, and since she now lived part-time on a farm in upstate New York, she would probably find a way to wear them and look smashing.

Looking for other things that Kenzie might wear, I unearthed a sweater with running horses on it that Redford had given me and, after a moment of sentimental indecision, added it to the giveaway bag, as well. Then I hung the wedding gown in the front of the closet because it was the only place the skirt could hang unimpeded by bulging shoe racks.

The phone rang, and I snatched up the handset, wondering who it could be on Saturday afternoon. (I was too cheap to pay for caller ID on my landline phone.) “Hello.”

“Hey,” Barry said, his voice low and casual. “What are you doing?”

I dropped onto my queen-size bed whose headboard still smelled faintly of woodsmoke two years after the fire sale at which I’d bought it. “Just cleaning out my closet.”

“I have good news,” he said in a way that made me think that if I’d said, “I just bought a wedding gown,” he wouldn’t even have noticed.

I worked my mouth from side to side. “What?”

“I just passed Ellen in the hall—you really bowled her over at lunch yesterday.”

I sat up, interested. Barry was a producer for one of New York City’s local TV stations, and Ellen Brant was the station manager. Barry had referred her to me for financial advice on her divorce. Over lunch I had listened while she had told me the entire sordid story about her cheating husband, while she downed four eighteen-dollar martinis. “But he was a rich son of a-bitch,” she’d slurred. “And now I have an effing—” (I’m paraphrasing) “—boatload of money to invest.”

When she’d told me the amount of money she was talking about, it was more like an effing yacht- load (although at the end of the evening she hadn’t made a move to pay the slightly obscene bar bill). Grey Goose vodka had bowled her over. I honestly didn’t think she’d remember my name…or even my sex, for that matter.

I wet my lips carefully, trying to keep my excitement at bay. “Do you think she’ll open an account at Trayser Brothers?”

“I’m almost sure of it. You’re still coming to the honors dinner tonight, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am. I wouldn’t miss seeing you get your award.”

“I might not win,” he chided.

I pshawed, supportive girlfriend that I was.

“Ellen will be there. I’ll try to pull her aside and feel her out,” he promised.

I was flattered—Barry had never been keenly interested in my profession, but then most people were vaguely suspicious of investment-types, as if we hoarded all the moneymaking secrets for ourselves, while collectively laughing at everyone who trusted us. (Not true—I was currently poor and working toward precisely what I advised all my clients to do: buy your apartment sooner rather than later.) But, Ellen’s boatload of money notwithstanding, I felt obligated to point out the potential pitfalls of advising my boyfriend’s boss on financial matters. “Barry, you know I appreciate the referral, but…”

“But what?”

“Well, Ellen is your boss. I don’t want this to be a conflict of interest for you.”

He gave a little laugh. “Gee, Denise, it’s not as if you and I are married.”

Ouch. I glanced at the wedding gown, barely contained by the closet, and my face flamed. “I know, but we’re…involved.”

“Trust me—it won’t be an issue. In fact, Ellen will be indebted to me for introducing her to you. This could turn out great for both of us.”

“Okay,” I said cheerfully, pushing aside my reservations.

So help me, dollar signs were dancing behind my eyelids. I could picture the look on old Mr. Trayser’s face when I announced in the Monday morning staff meeting that I’d just landed an eight-figure account. “Partner” didn’t seem as far-fetched as it had last week…or at least an office with a window.

“What’s the dress code for this evening?”

He made a rueful noise. “Dressy. And Ellen is a bit of a clotheshorse. I’m not saying it’ll make a difference…”

“But it might,” I finished, my cheeks warming when I remembered the woman’s critical glance over my aged navy suit and serviceable pumps yesterday. I wasn’t exactly famous for my style—my most trendy clothes were season-old steals from designer outlets. I was more of an off-the-rack kind of girl, and I didn’t relish running up my credit card for a one-night outfit. But drastic times called for plastic measures. “I’ll find something nice,” I promised.

“I know you’ll make me look good.”

I blinked—Barry considered me a reflection on him? That was serious couple-stuff…wasn’t it? I straightened with pride at his compliment.

“I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“Great,” I said. “Oh, and thanks…Barry…for the recommendation.” We had never quite graduated to pet names and as tempted as I was to say “sweetie” or “hon,” I decided that while he was hooking me up with a revenue stream with his boss, this might not be the best time to start getting gushy.