Breaking The Rules

Carly couldn’t explain what came over her. “I’m tired of following the rules, Coop,” she whispered in a husky voice as she slipped into his arms.

She held her breath, then moaned softly when he traced his tongue over her bottom lip.

“You’re bad news,” he said roughly as he captured her mouth in a kiss so deep and wet she trembled.

His tongue slid across hers. He tasted like peppermint, and a whole lot like man. Tiny shivers of delight rippled through her. Her nipples beaded against the satin of her bra, the sensation adding to the heat Cooper so effortlessly fanned into a three-alarm blazing inferno.

He lifted his head and she looked into his eyes, feeling a wealth of pleasure ribbon through her at the heat in his gaze.

“Make love to me, Cooper,” she murmured. Another rule broken. But she was beyond caring.

“Maybe I have rules about things like that…. We’ve only known each other a short time, sweetheart.”

The smile curving her sexy, very kissable mouth was filled with sass. “Well, then we better make up for lost time!”

Dear Reader,

Have you ever wondered what you would do if you suddenly found yourself completely free? Would you break every rule you’d ever learned and establish your own laws? Most of us wouldn’t dream of doing anything quite so rash, but that’s exactly what Carly Cassidy does when she runs away from her own wedding and the man she doesn’t love.

Carly runs right into The Wilde Side, a local Chicago tavern, and Cooper Wilde, a man convinced Carly has more brass than brains—until she devises an outrageous plan to help him save the place from bankruptcy, and steals his heart in the process.

I hope you enjoy Carly and Cooper’s “rule-breaking” romance! And I hope last month you enjoyed meeting Carly’s sister Jill and her sexy hero in #793, Rules of Engagement.

Happy reading,

Jamie Denton

P.S.: You can write to me at jamie@jamiedenton.net or P.O. Box 224, Mohall, ND 58761-0224.

Books by Jamie Denton

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

748—THE SEDUCTION OF SYDNEY

767—VALENTINE FANTASY

793—RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

Breaking the Rules

Jamie Denton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For The Bunnies

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

Epilogue

1

Rule 1: A lady never cries in public.

FOR THE FIRST time in her life, Carly Cassidy broke the rules, and what had it gotten her? Nothing but trouble, she realized, sitting in her defunct Ford Escort in an unfamiliar city where she knew absolutely no one, and harboring more guilt than any mother—Jewish, Catholic or otherwise—could possibly inflict.

Knowing that she’d disappointed so many people did that to a person, she thought. Her gaze slid to the open doorway of a corner bar. If they had a pay phone, she could call a tow truck. Guilt and regret were tough enough to swallow without adding desperation to her already overloaded emotions. But then again, she had run away from her own wedding and spent hours gazing out at the sailboats on Lake Michigan. She’d bet not a single one of the occupants soaking up the warmth of the midday sun experienced one iota of the shame and disappointment she felt. By the time the sun started to set she still hadn’t found the relief that she had made the right decision.

Raucous rock music drifted from the open doorway of the neighborhood tavern, snagging her attention. The only other sign of life in the older section of Chicago came from a closed market halfway down the block with a dim light spilling onto the pavement. She turned in the seat and looked behind her toward the market for a pay phone, seeing nothing more than a stretch of pavement and darkened storefronts. She couldn’t very well sit in the car all night.

“Oh sweet Mary,” she muttered. She was an adult. She had every right to walk into that bar and use the phone, and even order a drink if she wanted. So why was she hesitating?

She let out a sigh. Because twenty-four years of following rules told her a preacher’s daughter didn’t enter a bar without a male escort. Especially if the daughter in question was wearing a wedding gown!

With a lift of her chin and a determination to break her second rule in the same day, she scooped her little white satin bag from the passenger seat and climbed out of the car, thankfully without tripping over the voluminous yards of white satin.

She tugged hard on the train she hadn’t had time to detach before her abrupt departure from her own wedding, ten feet of satin spilling from the driver’s seat onto the asphalt. Not bothering with the elastic wrist-band, she bunched the fabric in her hand, slammed the door to her uncooperative Escort sedan, and walked resolutely toward the entrance below a green, flashing neon sign.

Blaring music and the stench of stale smoke and alcohol hit her when she slipped inside the bar. All she needed was a telephone to call a tow truck, and then she’d be on her way. Where, she hadn’t decided, but she planned to stay as far away from Homer, Illinois, as possible.

She stepped up to the archway leading into the bar. Her confidence wavered. She could do this. How else was she going to learn to take care of herself, and more importantly, do things her way, if she couldn’t even walk into a bar?

The song blasting from the jukebox at damaging decibel levels she recognized from an older MTV rock video. Flea. The lead singer’s name was Flea, and in the video, most of his body had been covered in tattoos. Who would name their child Flea? she wondered.

Someone who ignored rules, that’s who. Someone who grabbed life with both hands and shucked the restrictions of convention. Someone who didn’t do everything that was expected of her without question. Someone who probably wouldn’t feel half as awful as she did for running out on her own wedding.

A wooden sign above a long mirror covering the wall behind a mahogany bar caught her attention. For the first time in days, a genuine grin tugged her lips as she read the sign: Take a walk on The Wilde Side.

She couldn’t think of anything more appropriate for a woman intent on breaking the rules.

THE WILDE SIDE was the last place Cooper Wilde expected to find a fairy princess, but damned if one hadn’t just walked through the doors. A platinum blond fairy princess with a chickie-boom body and big, round turquoise eyes filled with apprehension. That intriguing gaze darted around the smoky bar before landing on him, sending awareness rumbling through him in Richter-scale-worthy shock waves.

She stood a little straighter and headed right for him as the Red Hot Chili Peppers segued into a classic rock standard by the Hollies. There was nothing long and cool about the hot little number dressed in bridal satin and lace, and Coop seriously doubted she’d ever stepped foot in a bar. Hell, he had suspicions about her even being of the legal age. He had enough trouble without getting busted with a minor in the bar.

She lifted her chin and ignored the stares of his few customers, a blue-collar crowd for the most part, their glances ranging from mild curiosity to a few outright leers that leapt straight across the border toward rude. She tightened her grip on a little satin bag clutched in her delicate fingers and stepped up to the long mahogany bar.

Coop crossed his arms and looked down at her, into those big eyes banked with a determination that filled him with dread. He had enough to worry about in what was becoming a vain attempt to keep the bar operational without having to deal with a jilted bride who didn’t have the foresight to change clothes before traipsing around Chicago. His customers were mostly long-timers, harmless older guys he’d known practically his entire life, but there were a few rougher types who wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of a pretty little lady with busted dreams and a broken heart. As far as he was concerned, a lone woman in a wedding gown pretty much qualified under both categories.

The best thing he could do for The Wilde Side, and himself, was to send her back to fairyland as soon as possible. He didn’t need to scan the pitifully thin crowd to know she was attracting a whole lot of attention. Attention that could get her into trouble.

“What can I do for you, Princess?”

“Do you have a pay phone?” she asked in a voice loud enough to be heard over the jukebox.

“In the back,” he answered with a quick jerk of his head.

“Thank you,” she answered primly.

He braced his hands on the bar and leaned forward. “And you’re in the wrong place, Princess. St. Mike’s is a few blocks south of here.” He pushed off the bar and strolled away, hoping she’d take the hint and leave.

“I’m looking for a telephone, not a church,” she called after him.

He shrugged and opened the cooler for a fresh bottle of beer for Marty Davis, a welder who was his uncle’s closest friend, and by extension, another surrogate father to Cooper. Hayden Wilde and Marty had been the ones to convince him eleven years ago, via ultimatum, to join the navy and see the world. He’d been a rebel of the first degree and intent on living up to his name. As much as he hadn’t wanted to take their advice, the service had held a hell of a lot more appeal than jail, which was where he’d been heading fast.

He’d surprised not only himself, but his uncle as well, when he’d gone into SEAL training. The special forces team had intrigued him, and earning the nickname Wildman hadn’t been too much of a stretch. He’d figured he’d do his four-year stint, but when the end of his term drew to a close, he’d gone to see the retention officer and reenlisted for another six years. He’d been about to re-up for another six when the chaplain had come to see him, telling him his uncle needed him to come home. Taking into consideration the heart attack Hayden had suffered the previous spring, Coop decided to come back to Chicago to take care of the man who’d raised him after his mother died.

What he found was not only Hayden in perfect health, but he’d let his life’s work fall practically to ruin. And not because of any illness, as Coop had been led to believe. No, Hayden Wilde had been suffering from another unfortunate condition, one caused by faulty genetics. His obsession with the opposite sex had cost him more than his pride this time, it had almost cost him his business.

“And I want a drink,” the princess yelled over the music in a voice filled with steely determination.

That got his attention and snapped him right back into the present. Coop set the beer in front of Marty, who didn’t bother to hide his amusement, and moved back down the length of the bar toward her. “Not without some ID, Princess. I could lose my license for even allowing you in here.”

She gave him a smug look and opened her little satin bag. “As you can see,” she said, handing over her driver’s license, “I’m well over the legal drinking age.”

He took the ID from her. “Barely,” he muttered, counting backward as he examined the small plastic card, alternately comparing the police lineup quality photo to the real thing. The real thing was much more interesting. Too bad he didn’t have time for interesting, because Carly Cassidy was sassy and curvy. Throw in willing, and she’d be just the way he liked them, even if she was only three years above the legal drinking age.

Since he wasn’t breaking the law by serving her, he handed the license back. “One drink, then you leave. I don’t need your kind of trouble, Princess. What’ll it be?”

Carly hadn’t a clue. The only alcohol ever to pass her lips had been the sacramental kind. For her first drink, she wanted something interesting. One of those exotic kind the starlets in Hollywood sat around their swimming pools sipping, with colorful paper umbrellas and sweet tropical fruit perched on the side of the glass.

“We don’t do frilly and frothy,” the sexy bartender said, practically reading her mind. He braced his hands on lean hips encased in soft, faded denim. “My customers like it hard and they like it fast.”

She looked up at him, frowning when an odd tingling started to uncurl in her tummy. Hunger, she decided. Those strange tingles had nothing to do with the way the bartender’s white T-shirt with an alcoholic beverage logo splashed across the front clung to the broadest shoulders and widest chest she’d ever had the privilege of viewing. Most assuredly hunger, she reminded herself, and not caused by the way his dark chocolate eyes swept over her or the way his mouth tipped up into a breathtaking grin that belied his surly attitude. She’d been so nervous she hadn’t been able to eat breakfast, that’s all. The huge feast at the wedding reception…well, she had missed that. Yes, she decided firmly. Most definitely hunger.

“Scotch,” she finally blurted, wondering if she’d even like whiskey. Anything was better than another round of guilt. “On the rocks.”

One of his rich sable eyebrows lifted. “One finger or two?”

Fingers? Was that bar slang for ice cubes?

She shrugged. “Two should be sufficient.”

The gorgeous hunk of a bartender gave her a skeptical look, then moved down the bar to fix her drink.

Keeping her satin bag clutched firmly in her hand, she headed toward the rear of the tavern, passing between a pair of pool tables and a couple of rough-and-tumble-looking men with cue sticks in one hand and amber bottles of beer in the other. They looked at her curiously, and she couldn’t exactly blame them. Odds were that not many women actually frequented The Wilde Side dressed in a wedding gown.

Nestled at the end of a short hallway next to the ladies’ room, she found the pay phone with a tattered copy of the phone book attached to the wall by a metal cord. She made her call for the tow truck only to learn she’d be waiting for a minimum of two hours. It was, after all, Saturday night.

She hung up, deciding to wait for the tow truck driver to arrive before she called a taxi. She took a step to turn and ran smack into a brick wall of leather, denim and chains.

She looked up, tipping her head far back to stare into one of the most homely faces she’d ever had the misfortune of viewing. Biker Boy’s eyes were beady and wide set, and focused on some point south of her face. His nose was crooked, obviously it’d been broken—more than once.

He grinned, revealing a missing front tooth. “’Scuse me, miss, but my buddy and me was wondering if them were real?”

Carly’s jaw fell slack. Where she came from, strange men did not approach women and ask if their…if their breasts were real!

She snapped her mouth closed. She wasn’t in Homer. No one here expected her to murmur a polite “excuse me” then quietly step around the gentleman, pretending he hadn’t just insulted her. If she followed the rules as she’d done all her life, that’s exactly what she would do in the face of such an impropriety.

Who was she kidding? If she’d followed the rules the way she was supposed to, she wouldn’t even be having this conversation. She’d be spending her wedding night at the Village Inn in her hometown before setting off tomorrow for the Florida Keys with her groom.

Rules. She hated them, but worse, despised herself for simply following along like a good little girl. Rules had nearly ruined her life. They’d almost seen her married to a man she didn’t love and who didn’t love her. Because of them, she’d accepted a position as a music teacher at her hometown high school, when that was the last thing she wanted to do for the rest of her life.

Well, Carly Cassidy was finished following rules!

“Actually,” she said, flashing Biker Boy a blithe grin, “it’s this damn corset I’m wearing. Ridiculous contraption, don’t you think?”

Biker Boy’s beady eyes rounded, making him look almost cross-eyed. His crooked nose turned bright pink, the color slowly spreading over his wide, puffy cheeks.

He cleared his throat. “I meant your eyes, miss. They’re a real nice turquoise color, and Joe thought they was them colored contacts some women like.”

“Oh.” Heat spread over her own cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I thought…I thought you meant…Oh sweet Mary, she felt like a fool. Even if she was through following everyone else’s rules, rudeness was quite unacceptable. She felt just awful for embarrassing him. Although she had to admit, Biker Boy and blushing weren’t exactly synonymous.

His gap-toothed grin was sheepish. “It’s okay. So are they? Your eyes,” he added meaningfully.

She grinned for the second time that day. “Yes, they’re real. And I really am sorry. Uh…can I buy you a drink? You know, as an apology.”

Biker Boy took a step back and swept his beady blue gaze over her. “Don’t you have someplace to go?”

“Not until the tow truck driver shows up for my car.” Even then, she had no particular destination in mind, but she’d worry about that later. From now on, she was going to make her own rules. Carly’s Law, she thought, with a mutinous lift of her chin, would be to live life as it comes, and do it with gusto. Provided she could shelve the guilt plaguing her, she might even be able to start living by her new laws. Once she decided what they were, of course.

She stooped to gather her dress, then smiled up at Biker Boy. “Do you have a name?” she asked. She didn’t think he’d appreciate the nickname she’d given him, but the faded Harley-Davidson motorcycle T-shirt was rather telling.

“Benny,” he said, flashing her a grin again.

“Well, Benny,” she said, tossing the train over her arm. “I have a drink waiting for me at the bar, so unless you plan to join me, you’ll have to excuse me.”

She marched back inside the barroom and headed straight for the bar and the lone drink waiting for her on a paper napkin. With a little concentration and ingenuity, she managed to climb onto the bar stool despite the weight of her dress. She set her bag in front of her, reached for the glass and took her first very un-ladylike drink of straight Scotch.

The fiery brew instantly seared her throat. Her stomach roiled, then ignited into a ball of flame. What had the bartender given her? Lighter fluid?

She coughed, sputtered, then wheezed out a breath. Undaunted, she downed another fraction of whiskey. The second drink felt no better than the first.

Benny and his friend approached her, occupying a bar stool on either side of her. “This is Joe.” Benny introduced his friend with a crook of his thumb. “He thought your eyes were fake.”

Carly looked over at Joe. He wasn’t quite as homely as Benny, but someone needed to have a serious discussion with him about personal hygiene.

“Are you a mechanic by any chance?” she asked, wondering how anyone could have that much grease under his fingernails and not spend his day beneath the hood of someone’s car.

Joe grinned. Joe had all of his teeth, she noticed. “I fix lawn mowers.”

Carly nodded, then took another drink of whiskey. Too bad, she thought. Maybe she could’ve gotten him to take a look at her car and figure out why it had died.

By her fourth attempt at the Scotch, she’d started to feel just a teensy bit numb. Numb was good. Numb didn’t allow room for guilt or regrets.

Someone fired up the jukebox again, and a series of alarms sounded, followed by the mellow strum of an electric guitar. Benny signaled for the bartender, who took his sweet time. “What’ll it be boys?” she asked them, flashing Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome a grin that only made his frown deepen.

“I thought I told you one drink,” he said, his voice a heck of lot smoother than the alcohol he served. He flipped the cap off two bottles of beer and set them in front of Benny and Joe.

“Give her a break, Wilde,” Joe said. “She’s waiting for a tow truck.”

Wilde looked at her with hard eyes. “She doesn’t belong here.”

“She has a name,” Carly said before draining her glass. “And it’s Carly. And Carly wants another—” she pointed at her empty glass, trying like the devil to remember what she’d just ordered “—another one of these.”

Those dark chocolate eyes narrowed, but she ignored that and concentrated on his face. He has a nice chin, she thought. Strong and square. And those eyes. A soft sigh escaped her lips. A woman could easily get lost in all that intensity.

A series of little tingles skirted along her spine, then spread outward over her tummy, making her feel warm and cozy. If this was the way alcohol made people feel, no wonder such a large majority of the population imbibed on occasion.

Wilde braced his hands on the bar and leaned forward. She watched in fascination as his biceps strained against the fabric of his white T-shirt. The urge to trace her fingers along all that muscle was strong. Too strong, she thought, and frowned. Funny, but she’d never once considered doing that to her abandoned bridegroom.

“Don’t you have someplace else to go?” he asked, his deep voice as intoxicating as his eyes, no matter how disagreeable his attitude. Well, not exactly disagreeable, she amended, but he wasn’t the most friendly person she’d ever met.

She let out another little sigh and propped her chin in her hand and looked into eyes filled with distrust. “Not for the moment.”

“Isn’t someone wondering where you are?” he asked, looking pointedly at her wedding dress.

She ignored the reminder of her current state of shame and traced her finger along the rim of her empty glass, still wishing she could do the same to those incredible biceps and corded forearms.

“Oh, I’m sure they’re all quite curious.” Curious, concerned and disappointed in her. She’d never done anything remotely irresponsible in her life…until now.

The Rolling Stones began singing for a little sympathy for the devil. “Don’t you have any music from this century on that jukebox?” she asked him, anxious to change the subject. She didn’t want to start thinking about what she’d done or about the people she’d hurt by running off like a big fat coward.

“You want Top Forty, Princess, you’ll have to go to City Lights.” He slapped a damp towel on the bar in front of her. “I’d be more than happy to call you a cab.”

She ignored his blatant hint to leave and turned her head to the side, resting her temple against her fist. She let her gaze wander over the dozen or so patrons in The Wilde Side before looking back at Wilde. “I bet if you smiled more, you’d attract a lot more customers.”

He pushed off the bar, taking his damp rag with him, but not before giving her a look that said he didn’t appreciate her free public relations consultation. When he returned, he set the drink in front of her, and shot Benny and Joe a warning look before moving down the bar a few paces.