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

Taking Care of Business

Stephanie Bond

Play It Again, Elvis

Jo Leigh

Good Luck Charm

Joanne Rock

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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.

H.D.’s forceful bark broke their kiss like a sledgehammer against glass. She started and swung her gaze down, then realized that H.D. wasn’t barking at them, but rather at the black-robed woman who stood in the doorway looking, well…shocked.

Under her boss’s gaze, mortification bled through Gracie. Stepping back, she murmured, “Cordelia…hi. This is, um…um—”

“Steve Mulcahy, the new photographer,” he supplied.

Beneath the pouf of fire engine-red hair, Cordelia’s expression changed, and she studied Steve intently. Gracie was surprised to see something akin to disapproval in the woman’s kohl-lined eyes before Cordelia schooled her well-preserved features into a smile. “Ah, yes. Welcome to TCB, Steve.”

He nodded politely, but looked uncomfortable. If he knew that pink lipstick smeared his mouth, he would probably feel even worse, Gracie decided. He gestured to the air between them. “Gracie was just…showing me the ropes.”

Cordelia lifted one drawn-on eyebrow. “Gracie keeps this place running—I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to her.”

Gracie blinked. She’d never felt unappreciated, but Cordelia had never gushed about her to a relative stranger. Then in a flash of comprehension, she realized that her protective boss might have thought Steve was taking liberties with her—little did Cordelia know that Gracie was the one guilty of setting a record for sexually harassing a new hire.

“I can see that,” Steve said smoothly.

Cordelia nodded toward the white jumpsuit and pushed her cheek out with her tongue. “I see she wasted no time in showing you the wardrobe.”

His mouth twitched downward. “Yes, I’m surprised you didn’t mention that aspect of the job when we…talked.”

Cordelia’s expression turned innocent. “I didn’t?”

“Er, no.”

“Oh, well, you two seem to have worked out the details.”

“We have,” Gracie said quickly, her mouth still warm from the imprint of his. “And the costumes will have to do for now, but I’ll make the necessary alterations.” She was babbling, like a teenager caught necking in the living room.

Cordelia hesitated, then nodded. “Is Lincoln performing the ceremonies this evening?”

“Yes. He should be here soon.”

Cordelia glanced at Steve, and Gracie once again detected a wariness in her boss. “I’m going to take a smoke break. Gracie, will you let me know if you hear the drive-through bell?”

Despite her own recent transgression, Gracie straightened. “I thought you quit smoking.”

“I did,” her boss said. “And now I’m starting again.” Cordelia leveled her no-nonsense gaze on Steve. “When you’re finished here, Mr. Mulcahy, please see me so that we can discuss…your duties.”

“I will.”

But Cordelia was already gone, her black robe billowing behind her as she strode down the hall. H.D. trotted after her, loping as fast as his low-hanging belly would allow.

Gracie turned to Steve slowly, her skin zinging with embarrassment. “I’m…sorry about…the kiss. I don’t know what came over me.”

Before the words left her mouth, she realized how lame they sounded. To save him from having to respond, she hung the white jumpsuit on a rack and removed a tissue from a nearby container. She stepped forward and reached up to wipe his mouth. He stood still, but his eyes narrowed cautiously as she dabbed at the shimmering pink gloss.

Gracie focused on removing traces of their kiss, still reeling over her behavior. “But don’t worry—this kind of thing doesn’t bother Cordelia.”

He looked amused. “So you do this kind of thing often?”

Her face flamed. “No. What I meant is that Cordelia wasn’t upset about…what we were doing.” She cleared her throat. “About what I did. Which, by the way, won’t happen again. It was just…curiosity.” She was babbling again.

One dark eyebrow rose. “I wasn’t complaining.”

Ignoring the barb of pleasure in her chest, she pushed ahead. “Cordelia hasn’t been herself for the past several days.” And whatever her boss had, apparently it was catching, Gracie decided, since she herself had just kissed a virtual stranger. “She’s usually very easygoing. I don’t know what…has her on edge.”

His eyes darkened. “It’s probably nothing serious.”

Gracie nodded thoughtfully and averted her gaze, tearing her mind away from their off-the-cuff kiss and toward more important matters. She knew that business had fallen sharply over the past few months and suspected that Cordelia—and the chapel—were in serious financial trouble. Panic gripped Gracie’s chest—Cordelia, Lincoln, Roach and H.D. were all the family she had. Yet lately, in the wee hours of the morning, lying on the sleeper-sofa in her cramped apartment, she had felt unsettled. For the past ten years, the wedding chapel had been a refuge from the unbearable family situation she had left behind in Oklahoma, and Cordelia had been the mother she’d never had.

But suddenly everything seemed to be in flux.

“Hey,” Steve said gently, breaking into her thoughts. “Don’t look so worried—whatever is bothering your boss will probably work itself out soon.”

She looked up and was struck anew by his dark, sexy looks. That restless place in her seemed to call out to him, and it made her uneasy. It was a good thing that Steve Mulcahy had already expressed his vehement opposition to marriage, else she might be tempted to see just where a full-body kiss would lead them. But another glance at his high cheekbones, flaring nose, square jaw and overall rugged good looks made her sigh inwardly. Someone as delectably masculine as Steve Mulcahy would definitely already be involved with a woman…or two.

His cell phone beeped. He glanced at the display, then back up, slightly flushed. “Um, where can I take this in private?”

Gracie gave him a tight smile—just as she suspected. It was the reminder she needed. “Take it here. I have work to do.” She tossed the tissue into a trash can, then vamoosed. As she walked out, she heard him say, “Hi, Karen. What’s up?”

Gracie puffed out her cheeks as she walked down the hallway, then slid into her spot behind the counter. Waves of shame washed over her—what must he think of her, kissing him like that? She closed her eyes and groaned, burying her face in her hands. Why didn’t life come with a rewind button?

She lifted her head and gave herself a mental shake. One thing was certain: Although her mind said, “Hold out for a stable guy and a long-term commitment,” her body obviously wasn’t on the same page. Still…Steve had to accept some of the blame. How could a man go around looking that good and not expect to be kissed on impulse?

Gracie practiced a few deep breathing exercises—she had to get past her gaffe if they were going to work together. But she was antsy…as if a switch inside her had been flipped to “on.”

She straightened the postcards and other souvenirs in the spinner racks, then dusted the counter and the shelves, trying to tamp down the sudden surge of adrenaline. Steve Mulcahy had affected her like no man had in…ever. Working at close quarters was going to be difficult in her sex-deprived state, but would be a good test of her endurance because this was exactly the kind of situation she was trying to avoid: a dead-end relationship. At least he was more forthcoming than most men—he had let her know right away that marriage wasn’t in his cards.

So who was Karen?

She tried to push the man and his love life from her mind as she looked for the file for the upcoming ceremony. But she was suddenly distracted by the hundreds of photos collaged onto the bulletin boards all around the counter. Hugging the file to her chest, she surveyed the couples’ beaming faces as they clutched each other, poised to begin their lives together. All shapes and sizes, beautiful and not, all races, all ages—proof that over and over again in the big, wide world, people managed to find each other and fall in love.

Gracie angled her head, studying their eyes, their body language. How did love work, and if it worked for so many people so often, why didn’t it work for her? She sank her teeth into her lower lip, then shook off her self-indulgent mood—she had a wedding to prepare for and she owed it to the couple to make sure it was as perfect as could be.

But when she walked back to the counter where she stood most of the day, Gracie suddenly noticed the black, worn spot in the red carpet. She stopped abruptly in her rhinestone flip-flops and her stomach hitched. She remembered vividly that new carpet had been installed the first week she had started working at TCB. And since that time, she had literally stood in one spot until the rug beneath her feet was threadbare.

The analogy wasn’t lost on her, and the timing was perfect. If she was going to get on with her life—do something with the degree in public relations she’d managed to finish, meet a nice, stable guy and settle down—she was going to have to…move her feet.

The phone rang and Gracie snapped back into business mode.

“Taking Care of Business Wedding Chapel, where Elvis lives in your heart. How can I help you?” She answered the man’s nervous questions by rote as she referred to the appointment book. “Yes, we have some openings this evening. When would you like to schedule a ceremony?”

“The earlier the better,” the man said, his baritone voice bursting with love and enthusiasm.

Gracie’s heart swelled and with great restraint she fought a crazy impulse to ask questions of her own, such as how he’d met the woman he’d fallen in love with, how long it had taken before he’d known she was the one and what had been the turning point? What exactly had made him sure she was the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with?

How ironic that she’d witnessed thousands of weddings, yet still was clueless about lasting love.

“How about seven-thirty, sir?”

“Great. But this has to be really special. My fiancée is a huge Elvis fan. Does your Elvis look like the real thing?”

Steve’s chiseled features and blue, blue eyes came to mind with startling clarity. “As a matter of fact, he does. Does your fiancée have a favorite Elvis song?”

“‘Love Me Tender’ gets her every time.”

“Then we’ll include it in the package.”

“Does your Elvis sing, or lip-synch?”

Neither, she thought, but didn’t say so. “Our Elvis is having a bout with laryngitis at the moment, sir. But if he’s not feeling well enough to sing, we’ll play a beautiful digitally mastered recording in stereo. You’ll feel like you’re at an Elvis concert.” She winced at her own words, but they needed the business.

The man made a doubtful noise. “I don’t know…the Elvis over at the Fools Rush In chapel sings.”

At a noise, she glanced up to see Lincoln Nebraska, their florist and spare minister, walk through the door carrying two bouquets of mixed white flowers. She smiled a greeting, then resumed her sales pitch to the customer on the phone. “I promise you, sir, that you won’t find another wedding Elvis in Vegas as good as ours. I’ll even throw in a complimentary bouquet for your bride and a boutonniere for you.”

Lincoln frowned, but she ignored him.

“Okay,” the man finally said.

“Great.” She took down his name and contact information. “We’ll see you and your lovely bride at seven-thirty.” She hung up the phone and grinned at Lincoln, who was bald and tanned and wearing funky horn-rimmed glasses. “Hi, there.”

“Who is he?” Lincoln said without preamble.

“Who?” Gracie asked as nonchalantly as possible.

“You know who—the hunk of burning love who was talking on the cell phone when I walked past the closet.”

“Oh. Him.”

Lincoln smirked. “Yes—him. Tell me he’s our new Elvis.”

She hesitated. “Yes. But he thinks he’s the photographer.”

Lincoln scoffed. “H.D. could run the camera equipment if someone lifted him high enough.”

“I know,” she said. “But Cordelia hired the guy and didn’t tell him the full story.”

“Ah, the old bait and switch. Well, she probably took one look at him and knew he’d be perfect.” He sighed. “At least what I could see of him from the back looked perfect.”

She laughed. “He’s also perfectly taken. Or at least, I assume so, since he needed privacy for the call.”

“Man or woman?”

“Woman,” she said emphatically. “Sorry.”

He looked distressed for all of two seconds, then wagged his thick eyebrows. “If he won’t take me away from all this, maybe he’ll rescue you.”

Since Cordelia had caught them kissing, the news was bound to get out. “We, um, did have a…moment…earlier.” She held up her forefinger and thumb pinched together. “Just a little…kiss.”

He gasped. “I was only gone for a few minutes—how…?”

“It was nothing big, and it won’t happen again.” She made a note on the calendar for the seven-thirty wedding. When she looked up, Lincoln was gaping at her.

“Are you kidding me? You kissed the man already? Was ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ playing?”

She nodded, feeling like a fool.

He sighed. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, sweetheart. No one can fight those lyrics. Besides, the man screams ‘affair.’”

She held up both hands. “No way. I’ve sworn off affairs, remember?”

“Oh, right. Well, maybe he’s the settling down type.”

Grace shook her head. “He went to great lengths to explain that he was not interested in marriage—now or in the future.”

He frowned. “Kind of presumptuous of him, wasn’t it?”

“It was in the context of business, but I got the point.” At least her brain had understood.

Lincoln scrutinized a rose in one of the bouquets he held. “What’s his name?”

“Steve Mulcahy.”

“Nice name.” He frowned. “What’s his story?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, why would someone who looks like him be working in a place like this?”

Gracie frowned. “Thanks a lot.”

“You know what I mean. I love TCB, but wedding chapels aren’t exactly a magnet for straight, great-looking guys. What kind of photographer aspires to this job?”

Admittedly, the same thoughts had crossed her mind. She shrugged. “Maybe he’s between jobs, or is down on his luck.”

“Right. Maybe he’s a gambler,” Lincoln said. “Maybe he lost his real job, and he’s desperate.”

Gracie somehow couldn’t reconcile the description of a quasi-loser to Steve, even if she had only just met the man. Something about him radiated power and authority, but Lincoln had a point. For some reason, though, she wanted to think the best of Steve Mulcahy, and that alone troubled her.

Gracie made a rueful noise. “Desperate is what I’m banking on. No offense to Roach, but without a good Elvis, our bookings are way down. Somehow I’ve got to talk the man into singing and swiveling his hips.”

Lincoln grinned.

“Don’t say it,” Gracie said, giving him a stern look.

“Okay,” Lincoln said in an innocent voice. “I won’t say it. But I can think it.”

Gracie sighed. So could she.

CHAPTER THREE

STEVE’S PULSE ratcheted higher as he listened to his partner on the phone.

“So,” Karen said, “our informant thinks that Lundy could show up sooner than we’d planned—maybe the day after tomorrow. The good news is she was able to give me a few more details about the wedding that Lundy’s bride booked.”

Steve removed a small notebook from his pocket. “Go ahead.”

Karen cleared her throat. “Apparently, they booked the Aloha—” She stopped and giggled, then recovered. “The Aloha Teddy Bear package.” Then she laughed out loud.

Steve pursed his mouth, waiting for her to continue.

Her laughter petered to a cough. “Sorry, Steve, but you have to admit that this Elvis stuff is hysterical. I’ll bet the impersonator there is a real hoot, isn’t he?”

Steve closed his eyes and decided to withhold the full extent of his undercover duties for now. “See if our informant can find out any other details about the Lundy wedding—what kind of car they’ll be arriving in, how big the wedding party will be, that kind of thing. And of course, a name would be great.”

“Will do. So, have you met all the players over there? We need a description of all the employees so we’ll know who’s who when the arrest goes down.”

“You have the owner’s picture on file, right?”

“Right.”

Steve hesitated as Gracie’s pixie face rose in his mind’s eye…along with the sensory details of her shocking kiss. Just the memory of her pink mouth on his elicited a response from his body. He set his jaw, then said, “The only other person I’ve met is the wedding director. Gracie Sergeant, female, thirtyish, short platinum-blond hair, violet-colored eyes.” He bit the end of his tongue as soon as the words left his mouth.

“Violet-colored, huh?” Karen made a thoughtful noise. “With little golden flecks?”

He frowned, disgusted with himself. “I’ll call you later.” He cut off her laughter by disconnecting the call.

Steve pulled his hand down his face and forced himself to concentrate. Karen’s information meant that he might have even less time to prepare for Lundy’s arrest than he’d thought. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by Gracie Sergeant’s eyes. Or legs. Or mouth.

Or tattoo.

Turning in the direction Cordelia Conroy had gone, Steve walked down the hall past an office and what appeared to be the drive-through window, to a set of double doors that opened onto a covered concrete patio at the rear of the chapel. Cordelia Conroy stood next to a birdbath that had been filled with sand to serve as an ashtray. The behemoth basset hound sat near her feet. In a corner of the lot, the rear fins of a pink Cadillac peeked out from under a cloth cover.

When Cordelia saw him coming, she took a last drag on a short butt, then snubbed it out. After a few seconds’ hesitation, she withdrew another cigarette from a pack and offered him one. His throat itched, but he shook his head. He’d quit smoking six times and this time he meant it.

While he watched, Cordelia lit her second—or third?—cigarette and took a deep drag. Well into her sixties, she was still an attractive woman, albeit a little rough around the edges. Street smart, he realized. And wary.

He stopped a few feet away and leaned against a column that held up the metal roof over the sparse patio. The hound dog moseyed over and sniffed at his boots.

“Is Mulcahy your real name?” she asked finally, on an exhale.

“As far as you’re concerned,” he said.

“You’re not what I expected.”

He kept his expression noncommittal. “What did you expect?”

She leveled her gaze on him. “Not some good-looking buck who hits on my wedding director.”

He blinked. “She kissed me.”

The woman flicked ash. “I didn’t see you putting up a fight.”

Steve squirmed, feeling like a naughty teenager instead of an undercover agent. “I was simply going along.”

Cordelia looked all around, as if she were afraid they would be overheard. “This situation is dangerous enough without you getting involved with my employees.”

“I understand. But I have to interact with them for things to appear normal.”

She took another drag, then nodded. “I know, but don’t overstep your bounds. Especially where Gracie is concerned. She’s…susceptible.”

He pressed his lips together and nodded curtly, hoping to end the awkward conversation. Wasn’t it enough punishment that he couldn’t get his mind off the abbreviated kiss? “I just received more details from our informant, who says that the wedding might take place sooner than we expected, and that the bride booked a—” he pulled out his notebook “—an Aloha Teddy Bear package?”

Cordelia frowned. “We have an Aloha Las Vegas package and a Teddy Bear package, but not an Aloha Teddy Bear package.”

He scratched his temple. “So it could be either one. Do you keep a record of what the customers request?”

“Of course—that’s Gracie’s job.”

“I’ll need to see the reservations for the upcoming week.”

Cordelia nodded. “I’ll get Gracie’s book.”

“I’d like photocopies.”

“We have a copier in the office.” She exhaled and ground out the half-smoked cigarette. “Mitch Lundy’s been operating on the wrong side for years—why the sudden resolve to bring him in?”

“In the nineties the Bureau cut him some slack for testifying against an associate and putting him away—as long as Lundy stayed legit. But a few years ago, he slipped back into his old businesses—prostitution, drugs, money laundering. He’s ordered at least eight hits. He’s more arrogant and dangerous than ever.” Steve frowned. “To Lundy, eluding the FBI is just a game, and I want to put an end to it.”

Cordelia pressed her lips together. “So what exactly is going to happen?”

Steve was momentarily distracted when H.D. sat down solidly on his boot. He tried to maneuver his foot out, but the dog was a block of panting dead weight.

“Best-case scenario,” he said, “we’ll be able to figure out which reservation is Lundy’s and alert our agents to stand by. He’ll be apprehended after he leaves your property.”

“And the worst-case scenario?” Cordelia asked.

“Worst case is that he sneaks in and I don’t have enough time to call for backup.”

Her eyes narrowed. “But you’ll still wait to arrest him until after he’s off my property.”

“That’s the plan,” he said. “But I have to be honest with you, Ms. Conroy—Mitchell Lundy is a dangerous criminal who’s played cat and mouse with the Bureau for years. If something goes wrong, we’ll still seize the opportunity to arrest him.”

“Even if it puts my employees in danger?”

“Civilian safety is always our first concern,” he said, and stubbornly, a civilian with white-blond hair came to mind.

“Are you sure you’ll recognize this Lundy fellow?”

“If I see his eyes—he sustained a wound to one eye that left a permanent and recognizable scar.”

“What if he recognizes you?”

“We’re operating under the assumption that he or his people have a file on all the agents in the state.” He frowned. “That’s why I agreed to wear the costume—I doubt if Lundy will suspect Elvis. I understand there’s a wig and sunglasses?”

“That’s right.” The shadow of a smile played on her lips, then disappeared. “Are you carrying a gun?”

“Bureau policy, ma’am.”

She nodded, then straightened. “Well, Mr. Mulcahy, you have a job to do, but so do we. If you want to fit in here at TCB, I suggest that you do whatever Gracie tells you to do.” She frowned. “In regards to work, that is. Until you make the arrest, we need for you to be a convincing performer for our customers.”

He nodded, but his stomach felt tangled. And he wasn’t sure what bothered him most—the thought of impersonating the King, or working closely with Gracie Sergeant.

“Come along, H.D.,” Cordelia said, and the hound lifted his fat rump from Steve’s instep. Steve shifted his weight to send blood back to his foot, then glanced at the pink Caddy. “Ms. Conroy?”

She turned back. “Yes?”

“Does the Caddy run?”

“Not for a year now.”

“Care if I take a look under the hood?”

“Be my guest,” she said, then withdrew a thick ring of keys from her robe pocket. She removed two keys on a separate ring, tossed them to him, then reentered the chapel.

Steve strode toward the old car, burning with curiosity. As he rolled back the cloth tarp, his pulse spiked in appreciation of the four-door Cadillac, rust spots and all. The paint was faded, revealing lots of body filler along the side panels, but the chrome was intact and the white hardtop and interior were in amazingly good condition. All four tires were flat and probably ruined, but it should have whitewalls anyway. He lifted the hood and stared down at the corroded engine, registering in one glance that two hoses were disconnected and the carburetor lid was missing.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

Steve looked up to see Gracie walking toward him, his pulse spiking again but for a different reason. Did she know that in the sunlight her white eyelet dress was transparent? She wore a lacy strapless bra and high-cut bikini panties. The silhouette of her opposing curves—breasts, waist and hips—stamped into his brain in the same place, he suspected, that songs embedded themselves to emerge as torture at the most inconvenient times.

His sex hardened, straining at his zipper, preventing him from straightening to greet her. “Yeah,” he murmured. “She’s something.” The fact that they were talking about two different things didn’t matter.

Gracie ran her hand along the top of the car. “It’s a 1955 model, just like the one Elvis bought for his mother. The real one is on display at Graceland.”

He smiled. “Have you been to Graceland?”

She shook her head. “I…haven’t seen much of the country.”

“Did you grow up here?”

“Um…no. Do you know something about cars?”

He filed away the fact that she had sidestepped his question, but let it pass. “A little.”

Her eyes went round. “Do you think you could get it running again?”

“I don’t know—I can give it a try.”

She grinned. “That would be wonderful—it would be a boon to our business if we could offer couples a ride in a pink Caddy.”

“Has anyone tried to fix it?”

She shook her head. “Just between us, Cordelia hasn’t had the money.”

He frowned. “Is business bad?”

“Well, the wedding chapel business isn’t what it used to be—the competition is fierce, and taxes are astronomical. I think Cordelia would like to retire, but she doesn’t want to put the rest of us out of a job.” Then she wet her lips. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t be telling you Cordelia’s business. I came out to get you—we need to prepare for the four o’clock wedding.”

“Right,” he said, lowering the hood and replacing the tarp. “The suit.”

“Yes, the suit. And I have a favor to ask,” she said, turning back toward the chapel.

When he lifted his head, he saw that she was wearing a thong, and all rational thought fled. “Anything,” he murmured, hurrying to catch up with her.

“How do you feel about…singing?”

He blinked. “Singing?”

“It’s just like karaoke,” she said hurriedly. “The music will play, and the words will scroll across a screen.”

“I don’t sing,” he said, shaking his head, his feet feeling heavier with every step. “I’ll wear the suit, but I don’t sing.”

She bit into her pink lower lip. “I have to be honest with you, Steve. We really need the business, and we need a good Elvis to keep our customers happy.”

“But I don’t sing,” he insisted.

She pshawed. “Everybody sings.”

“Not me.”

She crossed her arms under her breasts—an unfair and distracting maneuver, in his opinion. “Cordelia just told me that you said you’d do whatever we needed for you to do.”

A sick feeling settled into his stomach. “I did say that, yes.”

Her smile was brilliant, pushing her cheeks up, highlighting the little brown mole. “Good.” She turned back toward the chapel, practically skipping. “We have just enough time for a practice run. Do you know the words to ‘All Shook Up’?”

Steve closed his eyes and smothered a groan—what had he gotten himself into?

CHAPTER FOUR

GRACIE GLANCED at Lincoln, then back to the closed dressing room door. “We’re waiting,” she called pleasantly, although she was tapping her foot.

“Maybe I should go in and give him a hand,” Lincoln offered with a grin.

Gracie gave him a withering look, then rapped on the door of the dressing room. “Come on out, Steve.”

There was no response for several seconds, then, “I’d rather not.”

Gracie rolled her eyes. “Steve, stop messing around—we’re running out of time here.”

Shuffling noises sounded, then the door swung open slowly. Gracie gasped.

“Oh…my…gawd,” Lincoln murmured.

Excerpt for the surly look on his face and the bagginess of the oversize bejeweled white jumpsuit, Gracie would swear she was looking at the King of rock ’n’ roll himself. From the lofty wig and long sideburns to the large gold-tone sunglasses with dark lenses, he looked every inch the beloved performer. Her heartbeat actually accelerated. “You look…wow.”

His mouth tightened. “I look like an idiot.”

“You look like a cash cow,” Lincoln declared, then clapped his hands. “Chop, chop—you’ve got twenty minutes to learn to moo.”

Gracie could feel Steve’s panic, and her heart went out to him. To keep him from losing his nerve completely, she put her hand on his arm. “Relax. It’s like being in a play.”

“More like a musical,” Lincoln said over his shoulder, walking ahead.

“It’ll be fun,” she said quickly. “Everyone will love you.” At his surprised glance, she swallowed hard. “The customers, I mean. The customers will love you.” She smiled. “And I appreciate you being such a good sport.”

She guided him toward the chapel, chattering to distract him. “You’ll greet the customers in the lobby, then we’ll reconvene in the chapel.”

They walked into the smaller chapel and with a practiced eye, she glanced around to make sure the chairs, flowers and equipment were in the proper place. Gracie pointed to the tripod in the back. “You’ll position the video camera and make sure it’s on. At the front, Lincoln will start the ceremony and when the wedding march begins, you’ll walk the bride down the aisle and give her away.”

“Um, this is all new to me,” Steve said.

“I know, but we’ll get through it.”

“No. I mean I’ve never seen a wedding before.”

Her eyebrows went up. “Never?”

“Just on TV, and I try to avoid that whenever possible.”

She pursed her lips—the guy was a bona fide wedding-phobe. Suddenly, the opening strains of the wedding march sounded over the speakers. Gracie jerked her head around to see Lincoln working the audio controls and wearing a mischievous grin.

“Show him,” he said, moving his arm in a rolling motion. “Walk down the aisle together.”

Gracie narrowed her eyes at him, but conceded the wisdom in a practice run. Suddenly nervous for no good reason, she smiled up at Steve. “Okay—pretend I’m the bride.”

One of his dark eyebrows shot up, inadvertently making him look even more like the King. She walked to the back of the chapel and stared down the white cloth runner spread over the red carpet leading to the white arch at the front. It really was rather ominous what a simple trip down the aisle represented in Western culture—a journey to a new place. With her heart thumping, she tucked her hand into the crook of Steve’s elbow.

“Walk slowly and let the bride set the pace,” she murmured, then began walking, pausing with the completion of each step. His stride was longer and he stumbled a bit to stay abreast. She, meanwhile, was ultraconscious of the muscles in his arm beneath her fingers, and the occasional brushing of their hips until they found a rhythm.

“You’ve done this before,” Steve said, breaking into her thoughts.

“Many times,” she admitted.

“For real?” he asked.

A couple of seconds passed before she realized what he was asking, and she was the one who stumbled this time. “Oh—no, never for real. I mean…I’ve never been married.”

He didn’t respond and by that time, thank heavens, they were at the end of the aisle.

Lincoln shot her a triumphant smile before cutting the music. “Then I’ll begin the ceremony, talk about the sanctity of marriage, blah, bah, blah. Then I’ll ask who gives this bride, and Steve, you’ll say in your best Elvis voice, “It’s now or never. I give this woman in marriage.” Lincoln spoke in his own impersonator voice, which was bad.

Next to her, Steve shifted from foot to foot and looked up at the ceiling.

“Well, let’s hear it,” Lincoln prompted.

Gracie glanced sideways, holding her breath.

Steve cleared his throat and thrust his head forward like a rooster, and cleared his throat again. “It’s now—” He stopped, then sighed and started again, ducking his head in an attempt to inject more bass into his voice. “It’s now…or never.”

Gracie winced inwardly. He was worse than Lincoln.

“You need to add a warble,” Lincoln said flatly, then demonstrated. “It’s n-o-o-w or n-e-e-ver. Try again.”

She could feel the resistance rolling off Steve in waves—this exercise went against his every instinct, which she thought was odd for a creative person like a photographer. Maybe Lincoln was right—maybe Steve Mulcahy was on the skids and desperate for a job.

“Just try to have fun,” she whispered.

“It’s n-now or n-never,” he murmured.

“That’s not warbling,” Lincoln said. “That’s stuttering.”

“It’s fine,” Gracie said quickly. “Just don’t forget to add ‘I give this bride in marriage.’At that point you can return to the camera.”

“Then I’ll finish the ceremony,” Lincoln continued. “Yada, yada, yada, then I pronounce the couple man and wife, and you sing them out.”

Gracie led him to the back of the chapel and pointed to a small television screen. “The words will scroll across. Lincoln, will you cue up the song?”

Steve wanted to fall through the floor. For the first time in his law enforcement career, he was tempted to blow his own cover—there were some things that a man simply should not have to endure. As “I’m All Shook Up” began to play, perspiration broke on his brow beneath the ridiculous wig. It was bad enough that he looked like a fool, but that he looked like a fool in front of Gracie Sergeant….

It shouldn’t matter, he told himself. This was just a job, and singing karaoke was no different than assuming an accent to hide his identity, as he had many times. He would never see these people again—why should he care what they thought?

But inexplicably, he did. At least he cared what Gracie thought of him. Within a few hours of meeting her, she had gotten under his thick skin.

It was that darned kiss, he thought. And the transparent dress. And the tattoo. And the mole. The woman was a tight little package of sex appeal.

And he was dressed like Elvis.

He took the microphone she handed to him and held it to his dry mouth—he was all shook up, all right. He was shaking.

“Just follow the words on the screen,” Gracie urged.

He did. Somehow. With his face flaming, he talked and hummed his way through the song, thinking the one saving grace was that his partner Karen wasn’t there to watch the humiliating spectacle. Halfway through, howling reverberated through the room. H.D. sat in the doorway, his nose in the air, his eyes closed as he wailed at the offense to his ears.

Steve was in a sweat of degradation. “Forget it,” he snapped, and extended the microphone back to Gracie. A man had his limits.

“Try again, Mr. Mulcahy.”

He looked up and saw Cordelia Conroy crouching in the doorway with her hand clamped around H.D.’s muzzle. Her smile was part mocking, part challenging. “I suspect even Elvis didn’t get it right in the first take.” She walked away and the insolent hound, thank goodness, waddled after her.

Steve felt helpless—the woman had been clear that she expected him to hold up his end of the agreement.

To do whatever Gracie Sergeant told him to do.

He swung his gaze to the platinum-blond pixie and he nearly groaned in frustration—she must think he was a complete loser.

“Shall we try again?” she murmured.

He sighed and nodded, and Lincoln recued the song. Steve wiped the sweat from his forehead and, realizing that he had no pride left to salvage, sang the song again.

When it was over, there was dead silence in the chapel. Lincoln looked as if he’d just witnessed a human sacrifice. Gracie’s eyes were rounded and she looked as if she were trying to think of something to say.

Finally, her mouth curved into a wide, forced smile. “All righty then.” She turned to the front. “Lincoln, cue up the full track—we’ll say he has laryngitis and let him lip-synch. Would you show Steve the break room in case he wants a drink of water before we get started?”

She flashed him another smile, but Steve could see the alarm in her eyes as she turned to leave. She was thinking that right now, a dwarf Korean Elvis was looking pretty darn good.

Lincoln walked up, his mouth pulled back in a wry frown. “Man, you’re really bad.”

Steve glared. “I don’t sing. I’ve been trying to tell everyone.”

Lincoln clapped him on the back. “Well, now we believe you.”

Steve followed him into the hall. “Lincoln Nebraska can’t be your real name.”

Lincoln gave a dramatic sigh. “It is. My parents have a cruel streak.”

Gracie’s light floral scent lingered on the air. Involuntarily, Steve glanced toward the front of the building and caught sight of her silhouetted by the afternoon sun just before she disappeared around the corner.

“She’s something, isn’t she?” Lincoln asked.

Steve jerked his head back so quickly, he dislodged his wig. “Who?”

Lincoln laughed. “Yeah. Listen, man, you have six weddings to get through tonight. You can’t afford to be distracted.”

Steve frowned. Then someone should tell Gracie Sergeant to wear civilized underwear. He turned away, marveling over how he’d gotten himself into this bizarre situation. He, of all people, who was allergic to weddings. This had been the longest day of his life, and it wasn’t even close to being over.

Lincoln led him into a room with a table, chairs and a small kitchen connected to the office he’d seen earlier. “Thirsty?”

Steve shrugged, past caring. “Sure.”

Lincoln opened a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses.

Steve straightened. “Should we be doing this?”

“Absolutely,” Lincoln said, pouring the shots, then handing one to Steve. “This should loosen you up a little. Unless you want to perform six weddings stone cold sober.”

Steve hesitated a split second, then downed the fiery liquid. Surely the King would forgive him.

“So, Steve—what brings you to TCB?” Lincoln asked casually.

A warning flag went up in Steve’s brain. He set down the glass and gave a little laugh. “I was under the obviously false impression that I was hired to take photographs. I wasn’t aware of the full job description.”

“So quit,” the man said mildly.

FBI agents were taught to exhibit honor and dignity in their personal lives, but when put on the spot undercover, they were expected to be pathological liars. Steve decided the best way to get the man off his back was to enlist him as an ally. “I need this job, man. That’s why I’m trying so hard.” He scoffed and gestured to his costume. “Look at me—why would I do this unless I had to?”

Lincoln pursed his mouth, then made a rueful noise. “Good point.” Then his eyes narrowed. “But if you’re in some kind of trouble, don’t drag Gracie into it. That girl is looking for happily ever after. Capiche?”

Steve nodded. “Don’t worry—I’m not a happily ever after kind of guy.”

“Good,” Lincoln said. “Then we understand each other.”

Steve bristled, but before he could respond, a chime sounded overhead.

Lincoln smiled. “That must be the happy couple. Let’s go have a wedding.”

Steve touched his hand to his roiling stomach. Just the words made him feel queasy…or was it the news that sexy Gracie Sergeant was off-limits?

CHAPTER FIVE

GRACIE RESISTED the urge to park her green Volkswagen Rabbit next to Steve Mulcahy’s dark SUV and instead wheeled into a space a few feet away in the pay parking lot across from TCB and cut the engine. She hated being late, but that’s what she got for staying up until 2:00 a.m. listening to “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” on continuous play on her phonograph and trying to pinpoint what exactly about Steve Mulcahy made her want to marinate in the music of old 45s?

It wasn’t his impersonation skills, although she had to admit that he’d performed much better than she’d expected. What he lacked in lip-synching skills, he made up for in easygoing charm—the customers loved him, and he appeared eager to interact with them, asking questions and feigning interest, all in a southern bass that he seemed to have pulled out of thin air. Without prompting, he’d stayed “in character” until the clients left and he’d changed back into his regular clothes. Then it was as if a mask had been lowered back into place. He’d been cordial, had even walked Gracie to her car, but she could sense his distance—had he been afraid she was going to kiss him again?

The bad thing was that his fears would have been well founded—their too-short kiss had dominated her thoughts for most of the day, reinforced each time the couples had kissed when pronounced husband and wife. There had been a few seconds last night standing next to her car when she’d thought he was remembering the kiss, too. But his cell phone had rung and he had said an abrupt good-night.

“Karen” had impeccable timing.

Gracie swung out of her car and jogged across the street. A rental car sat in the chapel drive-through, which meant Cordelia was busy at this early hour. A pang of guilt struck Gracie—Cordelia worked such long hours. It wasn’t fair for her to arrive late, no matter what the excuse. Worse, she’d asked Steve to come in early today so she could pin the costumes for alterations—except she hadn’t expected him to arrive this early.

Chastising herself, she opened the front door, enjoying the few minutes of humming quiet before the stereo and door chimes were activated. The scent of coffee called to her. Looking forward to a jolt of caffeine, she walked down the hall toward the kitchen, fighting a yawn. But at the sound of the photocopier running, she frowned. If Cordelia was working the drive-through, who was in the office?

When the office window came into view, she saw Steve standing with his back to the door, watching as the light of the photocopier flashed. He wore jeans and a baggy shirt, like yesterday. He craned his neck to look out the window where she knew he could see the drive-through. Frowning at his suspicious body language, she remained out of sight and watched incredulously as he removed her appointment book, turned the page and returned it facedown on the copier. Smothering a gasp, she flattened against the wall, her heart pounding. Why would he be interested in her appointment book? Was he some kind of saboteur from a competitor?

She stood, frozen. One part of her wanted to charge into the office and demand to know what he was doing, but another part of her railed against the idea that Steve could be involved in something illicit. True, she’d only just met him, but she’d gotten the feeling that he was an honest man.

She bit down on the inside of her cheek—she knew too many women who turned a blind eye to the obvious because they projected their own wants and desires onto a situation, and she wasn’t going to be one of them. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door to the office, making as much noise as possible. “Good morning.”

Steve jerked around, his eyes wide. “Good morning.”

“What are you doing?” she asked cheerfully, nodding toward the edge of her appointment book that stuck out from under the lid of the photocopier.

A flash of guilt darkened his eyes, but he recovered quickly. “I thought I might be better able to prepare if I knew in advance what packages are booked…at least until I get the hang of things.”

His story seemed plausible enough—maybe she had imagined his guilty reaction.

He gave her a little smile. “Cordelia said it would be okay to photocopy your appointment book—I hope you don’t mind.”

God, the man was so handsome—which only confused her further. Earlier she didn’t want to think badly of him, but was she now looking for a reason to distrust him? If Cordelia had given him permission, then who was she to argue? “Sure, that’s fine.” But she studied him intently, and Lincoln’s words from the previous day about why someone like Steve would be working at TCB came back to her.

He shifted uncomfortably. “I made some coffee,” he said, jerking his head toward the kitchen.

“Thanks,” she said, shaking her critical thoughts. Steve Mulcahy didn’t deserve to be interrogated by her, not when her own life wasn’t exactly on the fast track to success.

She went into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee, spooked by her strong reactions to the man. Sure he was gorgeous, but there was something else…something about him made her feel as if her life were very small. Maybe because, for him, TCB was probably only a pit stop yet she had spent most of her adulthood within these walls. She frowned as she filled H.D.’s food bowl with kibble.

“Here you go,” Steve said from the doorway, extending her appointment book.

Gracie straightened and took the book. Their hands brushed, and she had a fleeting thought that he held on longer than necessary. Her next thought was that she was reading too much into every little movement and she needed to keep the focus on business. “Thank you, Steve. Are you ready for the costume fitting?”

That uncomfortable look came over his face again. “I suppose.”

She sipped from her cup, then winced when the liquid hit the back of her throat. “Oh, my.”

“Did I make it too strong? Sorry.”

“No, it’s…fine,” she squeaked. “Just what I need, actually.”

“Late night?”

“You could say that,” she mumbled as she began walking. Fantasizing about you.

He grinned. “Which casino?”

She frowned. “None. I don’t gamble.”

“No?”

She shook her head. “I don’t have anything against gambling—I’m just not a very lucky person.”

“I find that hard to believe. Especially since you have a four-leaf clover tattooed on your shoulder.”

He’d noticed. She glanced down at the tiny image revealed by the thin strap of her yellow tank top. “That’s precisely why I got the tattoo—I hoped it would change my luck.”

“Did it?”

She shook her head wistfully. “Not yet.”

He laughed. “But you’re optimistic.”

“Of course.” She met his gaze and something electric passed between them. Her smile melted as the light in his eyes changed…to desire? A shiver skated over her shoulders as her body reacted to the thought. Her breasts hardened, her nipples beaded and the restlessness that had been plaguing her body seemed to coalesce in her midsection. Afraid that her lust was evident, she cast about for a safe topic. Recalling Lincoln’s speculation that Steve was a gambler down on his luck, she asked, “What about you? Do you play the tables?”

“A little blackjack, a little craps.”

The casual reply of a person with a problem? She couldn’t tell. “Have you always been a photographer?”

“Um, no.”

When he didn’t expand, she pressed. “What then?”

Another laugh and shrug. “A little of everything, really. I guess you could say I’m a drifter.”

Mostly physical work, she surmised from his athletic build, although his fingernails were clean and well kept. He had nice hands with long, tanned fingers.

She swallowed hard. “Where did you drift from?”

“Oh, all over,” he said vaguely. “I was an army brat.”

“Where is your family now?”

“Here and there. Yours?”

“Um, same,” she lied, realizing he had turned the tables. Neither one of them wanted to divulge details of their lives. Fair enough. Keep it light and breezy, she told herself as she walked into the closet, trying not to remember it was there she had kissed him. She moved back to the clothing rack and removed the costumes, then handed them to him. “Why don’t you take these into the dressing room and come out when you’re ready?”

Steve drank in Gracie’s luminous face and fought the overwhelming urge to take her into the dressing room. He had hoped that when he saw her this morning that his attraction to her would have diminished, but it hadn’t. If anything, he was even hotter for her today in her little yellow tank top and swingy black skirt and black-and-white polka dot shoes. A black headband in her short spiky hair made her look even more kittenish and the violet dangling glass earrings perfectly mirrored her incredible eyes. He had a vision of those eyes slitted in passion, her creamy-skinned body beneath his.

“Steve?”

He blinked. “Hmm? Oh…right.” He took the armful of colorful clothes and walked into the dressing room, telling himself he had to get a grip. This assignment was the result of Mitch Lundy eluding the FBI for years—he couldn’t allow himself to be distracted by an inconvenient hard-on for this woman.

On the other hand, he had to stay on her good side. She was already suspicious of his motivation for being there.

He hung the costumes on hooks, growing more glum as he studied each one in turn—a gold lamé suit, a black vinyl suit, a loud Hawaiian shirt and white shiny pants, the perennial white jumpsuit and a black-and-white striped jail inmate outfit. He began to undress, frowning at the waist holster and revolver—what should he do with it? Knowing he was violating several policies about weapon handling while on duty, he tucked it under the jeans he’d discarded on a chair and, deciding to get the worst over with first, stepped into the gold suit that looked five sizes too big. His reflection made him wince.

“How’s it going in there?” Gracie called.

Maybe it would at least dampen his libido, Steve thought as he opened the door and stepped out.

Gracie grinned. “Not bad.”

He frowned. “Will this take long?”

“Not at all,” she sang, holding up a pincushion. “Just let me mark a few adjustments.” She pointed to a sewing machine in the corner. “It shouldn’t take me too long to make the alterations. Hold up your arms, please.”

Feeling guilty that she would no sooner get the alterations made than he would be gone, he said, “If this position has as much turnover as you say, I suppose you do this a lot.”

She made a thoughtful noise while she reached inside the jacket and gave him what resembled a thorough pat down, running her hands over his chest and stomach. “It depends. We have some of the suits in different sizes, so sometimes we get lucky.” Then she looked up suspiciously. “Are you already planning to leave?”

“No,” he said quickly, then decided he could be realistic without blowing his cover. “Well…eventually, I suppose.”

She nodded. “Right…that’s what drifters do, I suppose—they drift.”

The timbre of disappointment in her voice made his gut clench. “It’s nothing personal. This just isn’t the kind of job I see myself doing forever.”

“Too bad,” she murmured. “Everyone really likes you.”

“Everyone?” The word spilled from his tongue before he could swallow it.

She glanced up sharply and wet her lips. “The customers, I mean. You’re very good with them, getting them to talk about themselves.”

Little did she know, he was simply quizzing everyone to make sure that Mitch Lundy wasn’t sneaking in under his nose, disguised as Larry from Peoria. In fact, Gracie would freak out if she knew that her Elvis carried a .38 revolver on his waist, a .25 automatic in his boot and that his cell phone was equipped with a stun gun.

“But, if you’re determined to leave,” she said merrily, “I’ll use Velcro.”

Instead of pacifying him, her cheerful acceptance of his eventual absence rankled him further. And her hands all over his body were making him crazy—not to mention rock-hard. He dropped his arms in an effort to hide his raging erection.

“Stand still or I’ll poke you.”

Steve closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He was thinking the same thing, although not quite in the same way. He tried to will away his reaction to her roaming touch, but it proved impossible when she bent over and he got a tantalizing view of her cleavage…and yet another lacy bra—this one black. Worse, he could guess that she wore a matching thong beneath her skirt.

“There,” she said with a final pat to his chest. “Watch the pins when you take it off.”

His relief in regaining control over his erection was short-lived when he had to repeat the process four more times. His cock hadn’t gotten this kind of workout since high school.

By the time she finished pinning the black-and-white striped inmate outfit, he was sweating bullets—and his pride was in the gutter. “Thank God that prisoners don’t have to dress like this anymore.”

She, on the other hand, seemed unaffected as she giggled. “Our Jailhouse Wedding package is popular, although I don’t quite understand why.”

“Maybe they see marriage as a life sentence,” he offered, then laughed at his own joke.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s not funny.” But a smile played on her lips as she started to turn away.

Before he could think through the ramifications, he reached out and closed his hand around her wrist. “Gracie.”

She turned back, seemingly startled by his touch, then inquisitive. “Yes?”

He pulled her close to him, slowly—in case she resisted…he almost hoped she would. But she didn’t resist—only stared up at him with impossibly beautiful eyes, her mouth plump and inviting.

“We were interrupted yesterday,” he said on an exhale as he lowered his mouth to hers. She opened to him, and her arms went around his neck. He sucked in a sharp breath as pins dug into his skin, but shoved aside the quick bite of pain. The floral scent she wore filled his lungs and the feel of her breasts pressed against his chest obliterated all other sensation. Their kiss went from exploratory to promising to preparatory as he slid his hands down her back and pulled her hips against his. Their moans mingled as he experienced a few seconds of blessed relief to connect with her body. Nearly out of his mind with wanting her, he pulled her toward the dressing room…and she went with him, devouring his mouth, her hands pushing at the costume. He grunted as more pins found their way home, but he didn’t care.

The door to the dressing room closed behind them just as his shirt fell to the floor. He broke their kiss long enough to lift her tank top over her head and reveal the lacy bra. His sex jerked in anticipation of what lay beneath. “My God, you’re beautiful.” He pulled her close and lifted her skirt, sliding his hands down to her buttocks, finding them almost bare, spanned by a slip of a lacy thong. He groaned in pure ecstasy, and pushed the wisp of a garment over her hips and down her legs to her ankles. Heaven.

She stepped out of her shoes and the thong, standing before him in the bra and flirty skirt. Her violet eyes sparkled like jewels—she was almost too beautiful, too perfect to touch. Desire pinkened her cheeks. She wanted him as much as he wanted her, and the realization made him slow down long enough for rational thought to work its way into his head.

He couldn’t do this.

When she closed in for another kiss, he put out his hands and held her at arm’s length in the tiny space. “Gracie, we have to stop.”

She blinked, then glanced around, as if suddenly realizing where they were. “Oh.” She crossed her hands over her bra. “Oh. Of course we do.”

“Gracie, I’m sorry.” He retrieved her yellow shirt and handed it to her.

She looked a little out of sorts and stumbled back, falling into the chair. From the sudden look of pain on her face, he realized she’d connected with something hard beneath his jeans—his gun.

“Ow!” She sprang back up. “What is that?”

Panic shot through his chest. “Sorry,” he said quickly, moving to stop her from looking. “It’s my cell phone.”

She rubbed her hip. “It didn’t feel like a cell phone.”

“I think I left my camera there,” he improvised, positioning himself between the chair and the door, forcing her to back up.

“Could I get dressed first?” she hissed, putting her arms through the sleeves of her shirt.

He felt like a cad…he was a cad. What was he thinking? If she’d found his gun…had been hurt…“I’m sorry, Gracie.”

“You said that already.”

“I can’t get involved with you,” he said.

“Does this have something to do with Karen, the woman who keeps calling?”

He looked surprised, then defeated. “Yes.”

She nodded. “Well, for the record, I’m sorry, too.” She yanked her shirt down and crossed her arms. “Okay—we both know there’s an attraction here, so why don’t we just agree to be adults about this and keep our hands off each other?”

He set his jaw and nodded.

A noise sounded outside the dressing room. “Gracie? Mr. Mulcahy?”

He winced—Cordelia was looking for them. Gracie closed her eyes briefly, then whispered. “I’ll go out first. Stay here.”

Before he could argue, she slipped her feet into her shoes, scooped up the pinned costumes within reach, opened the door just enough to slide out, and was gone. Steve pulled his hand down his face, thinking if he wasn’t careful, he was going to botch this assignment. And if word got back that he was playing hanky-panky while on duty, his job would be on the line. He fisted his hands in frustration—he’d never let a woman get to him to the point of foolhardiness.

Somehow, some way, until this assignment was over, he was going to have to keep his distance from Gracie. He looked down at the floor and grimaced.

Right after he returned her thong.

CHAPTER SIX

WITH HER ARMS FULL OF COSTUMES and her heart clicking like mad, Gracie manufactured the best smile possible under the scrutiny of her boss. “Hi, Cordelia. Did you need something?”

Cordelia wore a bemused expression. “Just checking on you two.”

Gracie walked over an air conditioner floor vent and realized with a frosty jolt that she wasn’t wearing underwear. A hot flush began to make its way up her neck. “We were just having a fitting.”

“Ah.” Cordelia pursed her mouth. “And did everything…fit?”

“Not exactly,” Gracie murmured.

“But you’re getting there?” Cordelia prompted.

Gracie’s skin tingled in embarrassment.

Cordelia sighed. “Gracie, you know I don’t like to butt in to your life, but I don’t like standing by and watching you get hurt, either. Don’t fall for this guy.”

Gracie’s heart jerked sideways. Cordelia cared more about her happiness than anyone in the world. “Do you know something about him that I should know?”

A frustrated look came over her boss’s face. “Only that Steve Mulcahy isn’t the type who’s going to stick around.”

Gracie pressed her lips together. Hadn’t Steve just reiterated that he didn’t like staying in one place for long? Had he been warning her? Don’t fall for me—I’ll leave.

Cordelia’s expression softened. “Gracie, you told me you were going to hold out for a guy who would be there for the long haul. Do you still feel that way?”

A lump formed in Gracie’s throat and she nodded.

“Then stay away from Steve Mulcahy. Trust me—he will break your heart.”

Moisture gathered in Gracie’s eyes. Cordelia was right. She’d made a pact with herself to wait for love and a ring before she gave herself and her heart to another man. Yet she’d met Steve Mulcahy only yesterday and here she stood with her bare privates being subjected to an arctic blast. Shame rolled over her. “I understand what you’re saying,” she said carefully. “And I appreciate your concern, Cordelia. But you have nothing to worry about—Steve and I aren’t involved.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Cordelia said, although she didn’t look completely convinced. Then she straightened, all business. “What time is our first wedding?”

Relieved at the subject change, Gracie inhaled deeply. “Four-thirty. Between answering the phones, I should have time to do these alterations by then.”

Cordelia nodded. “And what will Mr. Mulcahy be doing?”

“I thought I’d take a few pictures of the chapel,” he said, walking up behind Gracie. He was fully dressed and looked completely collected, the strap of his camera over his shoulder. But the memory of him without his shirt made her pulse skyrocket.

“Your shift doesn’t start until four,” Cordelia said to him. “You don’t have to be here until the weddings begin if you’d like to leave and come back.”

Guilt prodded Gracie because she knew the veiled antagonism Cordelia directed toward Steve was because of Cordelia’s concern for her.

But he seemed to brush aside his new boss’s slight. “I also brought a toolbox and thought I’d take a look at the Caddy, if that’s all right, Ms. Conroy.”

Cordelia hesitated, then nodded briefly. “If you wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on H.D.—he needs to be outdoors more.” On cue, the fat dog waddled into view, his tongue hanging almost to the floor.

Gracie smothered a smile at Steve’s wry frown. “Okay,” he said finally, then excused himself and walked out into the hall. He snapped his fingers at H.D. The hound turned as quickly as his thick body would allow and followed him, his collar jingling.

Cordelia went back to work and Gracie, after scouring the dressing room for her thong and coming up empty, was forced to look for Steve. She found him outside in front of the chapel with the camera to his eye. H.D. sat nearby, panting but with rapt attention focused on Steve.

She watched quietly as Steve shot the front of the chapel, then the road, even the parking lot across from them. To her untrained eye, he didn’t seem to be taking time to frame interesting shots, yet the photos he’d taken after the ceremonies had shown a keen sense of composition. And the midday sun didn’t strike her as the best light for taking photos, but for all she knew he could be using a lens filter.

It was a scorching hot day, rendered just short of miserable by the breeze. The wind ruffled Steve’s dark, shiny hair and the sun silhouetted his broad shoulders and lean build. He moved more like an athlete than a photographer—his long muscular limbs sure and steady, with no movement wasted. How could a man who controlled his body with such unconscious resolve be a transient? Then she chided herself—there she went ignoring the obvious and projecting her needs onto the situation. Next, she’d be trying to convince herself that Karen wasn’t his lover.

He slid the camera strap over his shoulder just as H.D. caught sight of her and barked hoarsely.

“Hi,” she ventured casually, walking closer.

Steve raised the camera and pointed it at her. The whir of the shutter closing sounded several times.

She bristled self-consciously. “What are the pictures for?”

He shrugged. “Just practice.”

“From what I saw of the photos you took yesterday, you don’t need the practice.”

“Thanks. I’m glad you’re happy with my work.” One side of his mouth slid back. “At least some of my work. I don’t know that I’ll ever get the hang of the lip-synching.”

“You’re doing fine. By the way, our other minister Roach will be performing this evening’s ceremonies.”

He pressed his lips together then asked, “Did Cordelia give you a hard time about…us?”

“Not really. She’s just concerned about me, that’s all.”

“She seems very protective.”

Gracie nodded, then cleared her throat. “Speaking of which, I’m, um, missing an article of clothing and I wondered if you’d seen it.”

“Got it right here,” he said, reaching into his jeans pockets and withdrawing a handful of black lace. His face reddened as he handed it to her. “I wasn’t going to keep them or anything—I just didn’t want someone else to find them.”

“Right,” she said, not sure whether she believed him, but wanting to. She palmed the filmy thong, feeling like a complete idiot. “Thanks.”

She wheeled to go and the movement lifted the hem of her skirt slightly—just enough for a sudden gust to catch hold and send it straight up, baring her behind—and her befront—to the world. Gracie gasped in mortification and fought with her skirt while horns from passing cars honked in appreciation. In the process, she managed to let go of the thong, which promptly sailed airborne. She cried out and Steve, heretofore frozen, yelled, “I’ll get it.”

At last she got her skirt under control, holding the hem in her fist lest it get away from her again. Abject humiliation flooded her in waves as she imagined the spectacle she had presented. Worse, Steve had abandoned his camera and was chasing her underwear, which, being as light as a piece of paper, tumbled and rolled through the air and on the ground, always inches out of reach. H.D. lumbered behind, barking as if they were on the trail of wild game.

“This can’t be happening,” Gracie murmured to herself.

Oh, but it was.

Finally, the thong caught on a fence, allowing Steve to catch up. He plucked it like a flower and turned to hurry back to her, fighting an enormous grin and losing. By the time he reached her, he was struggling not to laugh. Between two fingers, he held out the thong, now dusty and peppered with bits of dry grass.

“Thank you,” she said, snatching the underwear and wishing the ground would open up to swallow her whole.

“It was my pleasure,” he said, then clamped down his jaw. His eyes, however, were dancing with laughter.

Gracie turned on her heel and, maintaining a firm grip on her skirt, marched back into the chapel with as much dignity as she could muster.

When H.D. started to follow Gracie, Steve snapped his fingers and called him back. “I know how you feel, buddy,” he murmured as he stared after her receding figure. The belly laugh he wanted to release was tempered by the rigid erection pressing against his fly at having witnessed what was undoubtedly the most erotic vision he’d ever seen.

If he lived to be one hundred, he would never forget the sight of Gracie Sergeant fighting her wayward skirt, her long, slender legs and curvy rear end perfectly outlined in the sun. And, if he’d had any doubts, the lovely woman was not a natural blonde—another gut-clutching sight. He closed his eyes and groaned. If only he weren’t on assignment. If only Gracie was willing to indulge in a quick fling, with no attachments. But he’d already been warned by Cordelia and by Lincoln that Gracie was looking for something he couldn’t give: commitment, longevity, happily ever after.

A dull pain radiated out from his breastbone. If only—

The ring of his cell phone split the air. He unhooked it from his belt and glanced at the screen—Karen. He pushed the connect button. “Yeah?”

“Just checking in, partner. Any developments?”

“Uh, no.” He rubbed stubbornly at the strange sensation in his chest. At least no developments relating to the case.

“Got those descriptions of everyone who works there?”

“I’m taking photographs. I’ll have them to you in the morning.”

“Great. I can’t wait to see this woman with the amazing eyes.”

He chose to ignore her. “Any more news from the informant?”

“No.” Karen sighed. “She hasn’t returned any of my calls—I’m starting to worry that maybe she’s in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“If someone close to Lundy found out that she’s a snitch, she could be in danger. If she told them what she told us, Lundy could decide not to show.”

“Or show up with firepower,” Steve said, his adrenaline kicking in. A sudden pain in his foot distracted him momentarily—H.D. had once again decided to park his fat butt.

“That’s not Lundy’s M.O.,” Karen said. “He’s more likely just to lie low. The last thing he needs is civilian casualties at a Vegas wedding chapel—if he did something to scare off tourists, the city’s business leaders would form their own posse.”

“You’re probably right,” Steve said, yet he pivoted his head to look all around—up and down the street, in the parking lot across the road—searching for anything suspicious, anything out of the ordinary.

A wry frown worked his mouth. Such as a man and a hound running down the street chasing a woman’s thong?

“Still, I wanted to let you know,” Karen said. “Let’s not panic—our informant might simply be out of reach for a while. For now, we stick to the original plan. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Okay.” He disconnected the call with disturbing what-if scenarios tumbling through his head—all of them involving Gracie getting hurt. He winced. The discomfort around his breastbone was back. With much effort, he dislodged his foot from underneath H.D.’s behind and limped toward the chapel, rubbing his chest.

CHAPTER SEVEN

GRACIE PASSED the next couple of hours working on the costumes in between answering the phone, although her preoccupation earned her several pricks with the needle. She relived the degrading Marilyn-Monroe-standing-over-a-grate-gone-wrong incident over and over, until she was sure her face would be permanently flushed. To prevent an encore, she’d sewn curtain weights into the hem of her skirt. And she’d washed the bothersome black thong in the bathroom and used a hairdryer to dry it enough to put it on.

From now on, she would wear nothing but tidy whities.

“Oh. My. Gawd.”

Gracie looked up to see Lincoln in the doorway. His arms were full of flowers and today his sunglasses were pink. She angled her head. “What?”

His jaw dropped. “Steve is outside working on the Caddy.”

“I know.”

“Shirtless.”

She smiled. “Oh.”

“Gracie, the man is simply too gorgeous for words. You simply have to have sex with him.”

She gave a choked little laugh. “I do not.” Besides, she’d tried.

“You’re killing me,” he said. “If I were you, I’d wait to start looking for Mr. Right until after this guy left.”

She laughed and helped him to arrange the flowers in the chapels and store the bouquets and boutonnieres in the refrigerator.

When they were finished, he said, “I’ll see you tonight when I relieve Cordelia at the drive-through.” He grinned. “Want to follow me out to take a looky-loo?”

She smirked. “No. And stop trying to get me into trouble. He has a girlfriend.”

“Oh? You asked?”

“It…came up.”

“Still—no ring, will fling.”

“Goodbye, Lincoln.”

He left shaking his head. For her part, Gracie tried to tamp down the image of Steve, bare-chested, and get back to work. After a particularly frustrating bout with the sewing machine, she sighed and held up the black-and-white striped shirt of the inmate costume—so many pins had been dislodged during their frantic groping episode that she wasn’t sure she’d made the right adjustments. She checked her Betty Boop watch and stretched her arms overhead in a yawn.

A break sounded good, so why not check on Steve and ask him to try on the shirt? She had to face him sooner or later. Besides, she was dying to see if he’d made progress on the Caddy.

On the way, she stopped by the kitchen to grab two bottles of water in case he was thirsty. Her heart beat double time as she pushed open one of the doors leading to the back lot. Her breath caught in her chest.

Steve was indeed shirtless, leaning into the engine beneath the raised hood, working either to loosen or to tighten something, considering the way the muscles in his arms bulged with exertion. His back was slick with perspiration. He stood and wiped his hand across his brow.

If she lived to be one hundred, she would never forget the sight of Steve Mulcahy standing half-naked in the blistering sun, his developed pecs and six-pack abs glistening with sweat. He was simply the sexiest man she’d ever seen.

H.D., on the other hand, lay in the shade holding a wrench in his mouth, which he happily discarded when he saw Gracie, and lurched to his feet to greet her.

She smiled at Steve and lifted a bottle of water. “I thought you might be thirsty.”

He nodded and reached for it. “Thanks.” He opened the bottle, lifted it to his mouth, and proceeded to down it in one long drink, the column of his throat convulsing as he drained the bottle. She was mesmerized—more so when he grabbed a towel and wiped his chest and neck. “Wow, it’s hot.”

She couldn’t have agreed more. To derail her wicked train of thought, she opened her water bottle and poured half of it into a bowl for H.D. She resisted the temptation to douse herself with the rest of it.

“Have you ever thought of getting a real watchdog around here?” Steve asked.

Gracie pouted. “H.D. is perfect just the way he is.”

“Tell me something—what does ‘H.D.’ stand for?”

She grinned. “Hound dog, of course. What else?”

“Oh. I get it.” He looked mildly amused. “Is he yours?”

“He belongs to Cordelia, really, although we’ve all adopted him.”

“He needs to lose some weight. I’ll bet this morning’s run is the most exercise he’s had in a while.” His mouth twitched with humor.

She lifted her chin. “Let’s forget this morning happened, shall we?”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Were they salvageable?”

“Yes,” she chirped.

“Good.” Laughter rumbled deep in his throat.

Flustered, Gracie gestured to the car. “How’s it going?”

He sobered and shook his head. “Slow. I replaced the battery and all the hoses, but there’s a lot more to do.”

“But she’s fixable?”

“Sure—eventually. But it’s going to take a lot of time.”

And he wouldn’t be around that long. The unspoken words hung in the air between them.

“I need for you to try this on again,” she said, holding up the striped shirt she had folded over her arm. “When you have time.”

“Sure, give me a couple of minutes and I’ll wipe my hands.” He leaned back into the engine and applied a wrench to a thingamabob. “By the way, would you mind if I took a shower here instead of going home?”

“No, that’s fine,” Gracie said, then wet her lips. “Where’s home?”

“Hmm?”

“Where do you live?”

He swung his head around, then looked back to his handiwork. “In an apartment a few miles from here. Nothing special. How about you?”

“Same,” she said. “How did you learn to work on cars?”

“My dad,” he said. “He always had a fixer-upper in the garage. There were five of us boys, so he said that the only way he was going to afford for all of us to have a car was if we all knew how to fix them ourselves.”

Her eyes widened. “You have four brothers?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are they?”

After a few seconds’ hesitation, he said, “All over.”

A sliver of disappointment sliced through her heart—secretly she had been hoping that Steve came from a big, boisterous, tight-knit family.

But there she went again—projecting.

Then a thought slid into her brain, one so shocking, she inhaled sharply: What if Steve Mulcahy was a criminal? An ex-con. That would explain why Cordelia was so worried about her getting involved with him, why she was so sure he would be moving on soon. Cordelia didn’t talk about her past much, but Lincoln had said once that he’d heard that Cordelia had been on the wrong side of the law when she was young. Maybe she was trying to repay her debt by giving an ex-con a chance.

Which would explain some other things—like why he would be willing to take the low-prestige job in the first place. And him being in the office this morning, behaving suspiciously. And the fact that he wouldn’t talk about his family or where he’d lived or what he’d done for a living. And that question he’d asked about the chapel having a guard dog—did he plan to rob them? That would explain why he’d been taking so many pictures!

Er, excluding the ones he’d taken of her.

“Gracie.”

At the sound of her name, she jumped and looked at Steve suspiciously. “What?”

He lowered the hood of the car, sending the muscles in his back playing beneath smooth skin. “I said I can’t do anything more here without a few parts. I think I’ll take that shower now.”

“Okay,” she said vaguely, wondering if he planned to steal the Caddy, and if she should share her theories with Cordelia. “What about…clothes?”

“I have a change of clothes in the SUV.”

Then again, Cordelia had hired Steve, so she would have performed a background check and would have known his past. If Cordelia had decided to hire him despite—or because of—a checkered past, then it was her business.

“Gracie, are you okay?” He was frowning at her.

“I’m fine,” she murmured, backing away. “It’s the heat. I need to get back to work.”

“Hand me the shirt,” he said, gesturing. “I’m dry enough to try it on.”

She looked down at the striped inmate shirt and handed it to him, her heart in her throat.

He pushed his arms into the sleeves of the loose garment and made sure it met across the front. “Feels good to me. What do you think?”

What did she think? At the sight of the cartoonish prison garb, Gracie thought she should see a therapist about her projection problem. She smiled, feeling foolish for the thoughts she’d been entertaining. “It’s great. When you finish cleaning up, come to the lobby and we’ll go over tonight’s bookings.”

She called for H.D. and reentered the chapel, cursing herself for her active imagination. Her life wasn’t nearly interesting enough to include a criminal—all the more reason why she needed to move on and expand her horizons. But as usual, when she thought about having that conversation with Cordelia, she balked. She owed the woman everything…how could she walk out on her, especially with business being so iffy?

Fighting a headache, Gracie put on her favorite Elvis CD—his 1968 comeback performance. Oh, sure it was nice to hear all the number one songs, but when she was feeling blue, she especially loved to hear the gospel medley featuring “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child.”

Someday she would return to Oklahoma to visit her mother’s grave and let the rest of her family know she was still alive…if they even cared. Going down that road of memories was torturous so she looked for something to keep her mind and hands busy.

Of course, Steve was just down the hall taking a hot, soapy shower.

She closed her eyes and sighed in frustration, wondering how one man could make her feel so many things at the same time—lust, annoyance, suspicion, hope. She laughed—Elvis had a song for each of those emotions: “All Shook Up,” “Don’t Be Cruel,” “Suspicious Minds” and “The Wonder of You.”

Elvis…now there was one romantic guy.

She laughed at her musings and threw herself into unpacking a box of souvenirs—Elvis Teddy Bears and T-shirts.

“Do you ever wonder what the King would think of all this?”

Gracie looked up when Steve entered the lobby. He wore jeans and his standard baggy button-up shirt. His hair wasn’t completely dry, and his cheeks had the glow of a mild sunburn. His eyes…oh, those blue eyes. “Hmm?”

He gestured to the souvenir racks and picked up a deck of Elvis playing cards. “Do you ever wonder what the King would think of all this? Do you think he’d feel exploited?”

She squeezed a teddy bear to her chest. “I used to wonder. But honestly, very few people come here as a joke. Almost everyone comes because they love Elvis and his music, or because they’re looking for a little magic touch for their wedding.” She stood and gestured to the bulletin board. “All of these people can’t be wrong.”

He joined her and surveyed the photo collage. Some of the pictures were yellowed, some curled, some featuring people with hopelessly outdated clothing and hair. “But how many of these people do you think are still married?”

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