The Marriage Maker

Stories of family and romance

beneath the Big Sky!

“I need something from you, Cleo.”

“Me?” Her voice sounded breathless. “What could I possibly do for you?”

“You could marry me.”

Marry him. Marry Ethan.

Cleo’s heart lurched, as if it was trying to find a way out of her chest. “Are you kidding?” she said.

“Not kidding.”

Marry Ethan? This whole episode was like something out of a fantasy, a too-familiar fantasy born the first moment she saw Ethan last winter. But the reality of Ethan was right in front of her. She could smell his delicious, sophisticated scent and see new lines of tiredness, or grief, maybe, etched around his serious mouth. His sister had died. He had a baby now.

A husband. A child. Ethan. A fantasy come to life.

“Yes, Ethan. I’ll marry you.”

CHRISTIE RIDGWAY

Native Californian Christie Ridgway started reading and writing romances in middle school. It wasn’t until she was the wife of her college sweetheart and the mother of two small sons that she submitted her work for publication. Many contemporary romances later, she is the happiest when telling her stories despite the splash of kids in the pool, the mass of cups and plates in the kitchen, and the many commitments she makes in the world beyond her desk.

Besides loving the men in her life and her dream-come-true job, she continues her longtime love affair with reading and is never without a stack of books. You can find out more about Christie or contact her at her website, www.christieridgway.com.

To my editor, Lynda Curnyn.

Thanks for everything.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Prologue

Never in her life had Cleo Kincaid Monroe schemed to get a kiss.

“But there’s a first time for everything,” she muttered to herself as she moved around the spacious kitchen of the Big Sky Bed & Break fast.

“Did you say something?” The deep voice of Ethan Redford, her evening’s date, came from the direction of the small den off the kitchen.

“Say something? Not me. Uh-uh. Nothing.” And nothing was exactly what had happened between Cleo and Ethan. Not tonight when he’d taken her to dinner at the White horn Country Club, not last week when he’d flown her in a private plane for lunch in Bozeman, not all the times they’d run into each other at the B and B where he was staying and where she lived with her mother and sister.

Cleo scooped coffee into an unbleached filter, vowing to change that nothing to something, to a kiss, because for the three weeks since Ethan had arrived in White horn, Montana, she hadn’t been able to think of anything but kissing him.

Aware that it was after midnight, she dumped another generous scoop of grounds into the filter and clicked on the coffeemaker. Drowsiness wasn’t going to get in the way of this kiss, either, by gosh.

Another woman might have thought Ethan didn’t want to kiss her, but Cleo figured it had more to do with all the interruptions that came with living at the family business. Why, after their Bozeman lunch they’d stood in this very kitchen and she’d actually seen the kiss in his eyes, even felt his warm breath rush across her mouth as he leaned toward her. But then her sister Jasmine and their mother had bustled in, wanting every detail of Cleo’s first-ever private plane ride.

She could have killed them.

But tonight, ah, tonight the B and B was blissfully quiet. Ethan was their only guest right now—early February not being the high tourist season in Montana—and Jasmine went to bed early. Cleo cast a glance down the hall that led to the family’s bedrooms and didn’t see a light under her mother’s door, either. That was good, too. Celeste hadn’t been sleeping well lately and maybe she was finally getting a chance to catch up on her rest.

Cleo loaded a tray with the coffee carafe, mugs, cream, sugar and spoons, then took one bracing breath before stepping into the den.

And there he was.

Her stomach gave that funny little hiccup it always did when she looked at Ethan. There wasn’t much call for elegant dark business suits, white shirts and ties in Montana, but Ethan wore them with the ease most of the men she knew wore down jackets and cowboy boots.

He’d thrown his suit jacket over the rocking chair in the corner, rolled up his sleeves and loosened his tie. Cleo’s tummy hiccuped again. Who’d have thought “corporate rumple” could look so delicious and complement so well that glint of gold stubble on his chin?

She let her gaze wander up to his blue eyes. Guilt pinged her. “You look tired,” she said, and here she was, ready to feed him mega doses of caffeine to satisfy her own sensual curiosity. She knew he’d been working long hours on a merger deal between the local ATI Com company and the Kyoto-based Sokia Industries.

But he smiled—grinned really, that confident Ethan grin—and stood to take the tray out of her hands. “It wears a man out, talking about himself all night.” He set the tray on the small table in front of the love seat he’d been sitting on. “Don’t think I didn’t realize you were plying me with questions.”

With her hands unoccupied, Cleo found herself suddenly nervous. The den was small and the love seat—the only sitting space avail able since Ethan’s jacket occupied the rocking chair—was even smaller. She swallowed as he sat back down, his tall frame taking up more than half of the cushions. “My questions were legitimate,” she said, trying to hide her nervousness with a smile. “I didn’t know a thing about a merger and acquisitions consulting company.”

He grimaced. “And now you probably know more than you ever wanted to…and about the man who owns one.”

Cleo remained standing, her hands clutching each other. Yes, Ethan had told her about his company, United Mergers, Inc., and about the deal he was trying to put together here in White horn. He’d told her about his penthouse condo in Houston and about the constant travel his work required. But did she know much about him? He hadn’t shared one word with her about his personal life. A little shiver of apprehension tickled her spine. Maybe kissing Ethan wasn’t such a good idea, after all.

“Are you cold?” Ethan patted the love seat beside him. “Come and sit down and let me warm you up with some…coffee.”

Was Cleo imagining that little hesitation? What about that little gleam in his eye? “Maybe…” She glanced back toward the kitchen, as if some excuse might conveniently present itself.

“Cleo.” Two of his fingers curled in her direction, more commanding than coaxing. “Come here.”

That shiver sped down her spine again, but there was no saying no to the decisive tone in Ethan’s voice. She didn’t want to, anyway, of course. Not really. Not when she’d been staring into his intense blue eyes all evening. Not when she’d been wondering for days what his crisp, dark gold hair would feel like between her fingers.

She slid onto the cushion beside him, pressing against the upholstered arm. To hide her nervousness, she busied herself arranging the soft gathers of her long, violet-colored, thermal-knit dress. Small buttons ran from the hem to the modest neckline, and Ethan reached out and touched the topmost one, right below the pulse beat at her throat.

“This dress matches your eyes,” he said quietly. “Did I tell you tonight how beautiful you look?”

Goose bumps prickled her skin and she felt her cheeks heat. She kept her gaze on her lap. “I think you mentioned it, right after you noticed the green fingerpaint in my hair.”

He leaned forward and picked up a long wavy tendril of the stuff in question. The green had been quite a startling contrast to its usual russet color. Cleo couldn’t believe she’d missed it when she’d gotten ready for their date. But even then, the idea of kissing Ethan had been distracting her.

He idly toyed with her hair, brushing the end against her cheek with a teasing flick. “Occupational hazard, right?”

“I suppose so.” As the director of Bean sprouts, Whitehorn’s only day care center, fingerpaint was merely one of life’s daily surprises. She grinned. “But I tell you, a couple of occupational-type presents made up for it. Brandon Rye brought me some fat earth worms from his family’s compost bin along with a big ol’ sloppy kiss.”

Ethan’s hand, still tickling her with her hair, froze mid stroke. “A sloppy kiss? And who is this Brandon? Should I be jealous?”

Cleo looked up at Ethan then. Her cheeks burned and her heart pounded, but she didn’t let either sensation stop her. “I don’t know if you should be jealous,” she answered. “Are you?”

He smiled, and grooves appeared in his lean cheeks. “That depends on whether you like sloppy kisses.”

Cleo liked to breathe, but it didn’t appear she’d get air soon, not with how it all seemed to be sucked away by the contrast of Ethan’s playful smile with his intense, darkening gaze. “I…like all kinds of kisses.”

Ethan’s smile died and the heat in his eyes intensified. “Is that right?” He leaned closer.

Cleo watched his face near hers, her heart pounding hard and loud. The kiss. It was coming. And the idea scared her all over again so she put her hand lightly on his chest to slow his obvious intent. “Ethan…” she said.

His gaze was trained on her lips. “Hmm?”

It was the first thought that popped into her head. “Brandon’s three years old.”

That cocky, confident Ethan grin flashed again. “Cleo?”

“Hmm?”

He cupped her face with both his big hands. “I’m not.”

Then he touched her mouth.

His lips were warm and his scent spicy and she breathed him in, her stomach hiccuping again in excitement.

He held her face firmly with his hands, his fingertips against the pulses pounding at her temples. He angled his mouth to taste her deeper, but it was a gentle, thorough taking, his lips persuasive as his tongue slid softly into her mouth.

It was Ethan making a deal, she thought fuzzily as he curled his tongue coaxingly against hers. Smooth and slow, but ruthless, too. He trailed one hand from her face down her throat and held her there, too, the pulse at her throat beating against the vee made by his thumb and index finger. Goose bumps followed his path and Cleo found herself crowding his mouth, trying to press harder.

But he refused to be hurried, instead backing off a little himself and continuing to stroke his tongue softly, slowly—too soft, too slow—into her mouth.

She made a little sound of frustration and then finally remembered she had her own ways of getting what she wanted. Her fingers flattened against his shirtfront and she let him have that slow kiss as she explored the crispness of his shirt until she slid two fingers between the buttons beneath his tie.

She stroked once. Hot skin. She stroked twice. Hot male skin.

Ethan groaned, and then he widened her mouth with his and slid his tongue fully, wildly, inside.

Another rush of heat ran through Cleo, speeding from where their mouths met to run between her aching breasts. She took her free hand and touched the back of his head, pulling him closer with her palm against his thick golden hair.

He grunted and she made him pay for those three weeks of thinking of kissing by taking what she wanted—a slow pass of her tongue against his. She felt him shudder, and then she did, too, because he took her breasts in the curved cups of his palms.

Someone broke the kiss, and they stared at each other. Ethan’s nostrils flared and there was a flush on his cheekbones. Cleo couldn’t catch her breath; it just heaved in and out, pushing her breasts against the palms of Ethan’s hands.

With slow intent, he dropped his gaze, and she watched him watch himself rub his thumbs across her beaded nipples.

Cleo jerked, startled by the sweet sensation, surprised by how, how much she craved Ethan’s touch.

He looked back up and met her eyes. “I’m going to see you,” he said, his voice full of the kind of conviction that probably made CEOs in business meetings roll over and play dead.

Cleo didn’t even have that much will. She only knew she wanted what Ethan wanted, his gaze on her, his hands on her. Please.

Never hurrying, not appearing the least bit nervous, his fingers started on the row of small buttons holding her dress together.

Cleo closed her eyes. There were too many buttons. He was taking too long. And then he peeled the dress off her shoulders.

Ethan groaned one more time. “Cleo. Hell. Cleo.”

Her eyelids lifted and she saw his body was tense. He was looking at her breasts, and so she looked, too. Between the parted violet fabric of her clingy dress showed the lace of her darker violet bra, and rising from that was the swell of her breasts, taut and trembling.

Ethan’s hands tightened on her shoulders. He leaned forward, kissed her mouth hard, ran his tongue along her bottom lip.

Cleo shivered, only aware of how badly she wanted him to touch her. “I usually don’t…” she said, feeling almost bewildered by the power of the wanting. “I’m not—”

Ethan kissed her swiftly again, then rested his forehead against hers. “I know. And I wish—”

The distant sound of glass breaking cut him off.

Cleo jerked and half rose from her seat. Another sound—a woman’s stifled cry—made her rise completely. “My mother.”

Ethan hastily stood, too, and he pulled Cleo’s dress together, trying to button it. He looked around wildly, as if searching for an intruder or some other explanation. “What could it be?”

She pushed his hands away and quickly fastened the most crucial buttons as she ran through the kitchen. “A nightmare,” she called back, now speeding down the hall. “She has terrible nightmares.”

Cleo threw open the door to her mother’s bedroom. Just as she expected, Celeste was awake. With the help of the dim hallway light, Cleo confirmed her mother had had another run-in with the terrible dream. Tears still ran down Celeste’s pretty face.

“Don’t come in!” she ordered.

Cleo grabbed the doorjamb to halt her forward momentum. “What? Why?”

Instead of answering, Celeste struck a match, her hand wavering with nightmare after shocks as she lit the candle that was always at the ready on her bedside table.

The scent of Louisiana—that was how Celeste always described the aroma of her special white candles—filled the air. In the light the flame gave off, the light that Celeste believed burned the dream’s evil from the room, Cleo saw why her mother had ordered her to stay by the door.

Somehow she’d broken the delicate glass vial that always sat on the small bedside table, as well. In the incongruous shape of a skeleton, the vial had been filled with bergamot oil. Inspired by her time on the bayou, Celeste conferred upon the oil a special power, just as she did the candles. She believed rubbing the stuff on her skin would ease the almost-arthritic cramping of her left hand that invariably followed the horrible dream.

Cleo watched her mother take a long, deep breath. “Are you all right, Mama?”

Celeste closed her eyes, opened them, and a faint smile moved the corners of her mouth. “I’m all right for now, Cleo.”

“I’ll get a broom.” Her heart heavy, she whirled around, and headed back toward the kitchen.

To find Ethan lingering by the sink with his back to her, staring out into the snowy February night.

Cleo automatically lifted her fingers toward the remaining undone buttons of her dress.

Ethan turned around, catching her.

She froze.

His gaze flicked in the direction of her breasts, flicked back to her face. He swallowed. “Is everything all right?”

Cleo self-consciously dropped her hands to her sides. “She has a recurring nightmare that is very…unsettling.”

“Ah.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “Please tell her I’m sorry.”

“I will.” Cleo backed toward the utility closet where they stored the broom. “And, um, Ethan.” Her cheeks burned. She wondered if he would want to wait for her to settle her mother back to sleep. She wondered if she had the nerve to ask him to wait. “I’m, uh, sorry, too.”

His mouth curved up but there was no smile in his eyes or his voice. “Don’t worry about it.” He took a step in the direction that would take him to the guest stairs and his second-floor bedroom. “Good night, Cleo.”

Good night, Cleo. Her courage didn’t show itself to ask him for something more than that. Biting her bottom lip, she just watched him head out of the kitchen.

“Wait!” Her voice was squeakily anxious.

Ethan halted, then slowly turned around. One dark gold eyebrow rose. “What?”

Cleo swallowed. “Before…before…” She gave up and just gestured toward the den and the love seat that she’d never look at quite the same way again. “Back there, back then, you…” Impatient with herself, she ran a hand through her hair. “You were saying something. What was it?”

Ethan’s expression didn’t give any of his thoughts away. Cleo supposed his kind of work made that an important trait, too. “Tomorrow, Cleo. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

And this time when he turned toward the stairs, Cleo let Ethan go. Tomorrow.

But when tomorrow came, Ethan Redford left the Big Sky B and B, without a word of excuse or explanation to anyone. As a matter of fact he disappeared from Montana altogether, leaving Cleo with only two imprints as a reminder of him—one of his credit card and the other of his kiss.

One

The thirty-year-old nightmare was older than Celeste Kincaid Monroe’s daughter Cleo, but it gripped Celeste ruthlessly all the same, dragging her instantly from sleep to terror.

The bayou again. Moss hanging like sticky, gray spiderwebs in the trees. The scent of wet decay.

Thunder. Once. Twice.

Then, as always, he appeared, a dark figure carrying something even darker. Fear surged like adrenaline through Celeste’s veins. It sang in her blood, an eerie, high-pitched dirge. She dug her bare toes into the mud.

Turn! Run!

But escape was impossible. The tall silhouette of her brother, Jeremiah Kincaid, kept coming toward her, the water swishing around his knees. The burden in his arms didn’t seem to trouble him. He carried it to Celeste as if it were a gift.

“No, Jeremiah,” she whispered. No, he shouldn’t be here in Louisiana. He’d never come to see her once she’d done his bidding and married Ty Monroe.

“Look,” he said, his voice commanding her, always telling her how it was, what she must do. “Look what is yours.”

“No.” She kept her gaze away from the limp body in his arms. It would be her sister Blanche, who had died after childbirth. It could only be Blanche, and Celeste refused to look at her. She couldn’t bear to see her sister’s vibrant fall of hair trailing through the stagnant, murky water. Just the thought made her heart stop, then disappear altogether.

In the cavern of her chest, only pain remained, echoing over and over.

“Look,” Jeremiah insisted.

Fear again, with its high-pitched song. No. But then she obeyed, her gaze angling down, down, toward the dead body of—

No! Celeste jerked up her head…

…and jerked right out of the nightmare’s grasp.

Lying against the soft sheets in her bedroom at Whitehorn’s Big Sky Bed & Break fast, Celeste tried to catch her breath as tears rolled down her cheeks. She wiped at them with her hands, then turned her face against the pillow. Still, the dream clutched at her.

“Montana,” she whispered to herself, sitting up and lighting the white candle beside her bed. She’d left Louisiana with her husband after only a year, coming back to White horn and buying this house on the lake that with her sister Yvette she’d turned into the Big Sky Bed & Break fast. This was where her daughters were born and lived. Montana.

Forget the dream. But despite the steady, bright flame of her candle, the emotions the dream always roiled up still lurked in the dark corners of the room. She shivered.

And the past. The past lurked, too, hovering above her bed like a dark cloying canopy.

Celeste threw off the covers. Though her clock said it was only 5:00 a.m., she wasn’t going to find any more sleep. Dressing in jeans, sweater and lambskin boots, Celeste told herself a cup of coffee would burn away any last traces of the bad dream.

She quickly made up the bed, blew out her candle, then stepped into the hall, shutting her bedroom door firmly. Just as decisively, she shoved the memory of the dream to the back of her mind.

She couldn’t help being a victim to her nights, but she refused to let her waking hours be tainted, too. Today she wouldn’t let the one emotion that always stayed with her after the nightmare—that one unnameable emotion—over shadow her every daytime hour.

Celeste took the long route to the kitchen, walking through the public rooms of the B and B as if inspecting the intricate, natural-hued woodwork of the arts-and-crafts-style house could bring her quickly and fully into the present. Through the large living room windows she could see the last of the stars reflected in the glassy surface of Blue Mirror Lake. She stared out at the water, her hands absently stroking the Native-print blanket thrown over the back of one of the room’s rattan couches.

After the years she’d spent along side the bayou in Louisiana, this house, overlooking the water of the small natural lake, had drawn her, and not just because it was a respectable distance from the controlling influence of her brother, Jeremiah Kincaid. She’d always been grateful to her late husband Tyler’s agreeing to return to Montana and to buy this property. He’d recognized that she’d needed something to call her own, especially when he travelled so often. And the house was a true gem. There were a few others scattered among the pines surrounding the lake—vacation places, all of them—and most newer than her three-story house. It had been an ideal location to raise a family, an ideal home for her and Yvette to turn into a ten-bedroom bed-and-break fast, and an ideal way to support them selves while they also raised Summer, the orphaned daughter of their sister Blanche.

Blanche.

Celeste shivered as that dream-born emotion she was trying to bury struggled to surface. She hurried away from it by hurrying out of the room, past two more rattan couches and over stuffed club chairs, through the massive dining room with its long mission-style table and heavily beamed ceiling.

Letting herself think only of coffee, she swore she could almost smell it as she pushed the swinging door that led into the kitchen.

Celeste blinked in the dazzling overhead light. The room was bright, there was coffee already brewed, and she wasn’t going to keep her insomnia a secret because it seemed another Monroe woman shared it.

“Mama!” Celeste’s twenty-seven-year-old daughter Cleo looked up from the mug she’d been frowning at.