“You’re flirting with me,” Brian said

Janet didn’t know whether to be pleased or angry. She started to speak, then drew back and collected her thoughts. She put her food down and firmed her chin.

He prepared himself for her reaction.

“Okay, you want to be straight with each other?”

Not necessarily. He just wanted her to understand—

“I’m attracted to you,” she said, interrupting his conversation with himself. “You’re kind, smart, funny and comfortingly sane…when you’re not being weird about embarrassing the family.”

“But you’re a poor judge of character, remember?” he said brutally. “You were left at the altar—”

“Would you do that to me?” she asked ingenuously.

“No, I wouldn’t, because you’d never get me anywhere near an altar.”

She took another clam and studied it, then looked up at him.

“Are you a betting man?”

Dear Reader,

With this fourth book in THE ABBOTTS series, the family has become very real to me. I’ve explored their minds and hearts and know them as well as I know my own family. I fully expect to round a corner in Astoria and bump into the whole crowd, vacationing here for the Lewis and Clark Bicentennial.

While they’re here, I’d love to be in Losthampton, sunning on the deck at Shepherd’s Knoll, or having coffee on the porch at Brian’s General Store and Boat Rental. Join me there one last time to witness the solution to the mystery of Abby’s kidnapping, and to be on hand as Brian discovers love at last.

Best wishes,

Muriel

P.O. Box 1168

Astoria, Oregon 97103

THE ABBOTTS

His Wedding

Muriel Jensen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To the gang at Jarvis, Redwine and Chaloux:

Steven, Mark, Alice, Toni, Trish and Walt.

Thank you for the pleasure of your company.

Work shouldn’t be this much fun.

Books by Muriel Jensen

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

866—FATHER FOUND

882—DADDY TO BE DETERMINED

953—JACKPOT BABY*

965—THAT SUMMER IN MAINE

1020—HIS BABY**

1030—HIS WIFE**

1066—HIS FAMILY**

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

“He’ll listen to you. You’re the one who should talk Brian into being Campbell’s best man,” Killian cajoled.

Janet Grant Abbott was sitting across from her brother Killian at the breakfast table on the deck off their family mansion, the August-morning breeze fluttering the linen tablecloth. Their brothers, Sawyer and Campbell, sat at opposite ends. All the women in the house were sleeping in after a family party celebrating Janet’s permanent move to Losthampton had continued to the wee hours. Janet, though, had just rediscovered her brothers after a lifetime apart from them and was still fascinated that they had one another. She’d heard them talk last night about having breakfast together and had gotten up to join them.

As the eldest Abbott son, Killian was CEO of Abbott Mills, a conglomerate of corporations encompassing the production, manufacture and sale of their and other designs. He’d also acquired several unrelated holdings in an experimental foray into other areas.

Janet looked from one brother to another in confusion. “Why should Brian have to be talked into it? He’s our brother…sort of.”

Campbell, the youngest of the three men, shook his head. “I like to think of him that way, but technically, he’s not. He’s their half brother,” he said, pointing to Killian and Sawyer, “but no real relation to you and me.”

There was a visible difference in the coloring of the Abbott progeny. Killian and Sawyer were fair haired and blue eyed, an inheritance from their mother’s Scottish heritage. Campbell and Janet had their French mother’s dark hair and eyes. Otherwise, they had emotional characteristics in common, and a stubbornness that marked all four.

“Well, sure. Technically,” she allowed. “But I’ve noticed that doesn’t seem to matter around here. And he’s your good friend, anyway. That should…”

Campbell was already shaking his head. He was responsible for managing the estate and the apple orchard, and was as quarrelsome as he could be charming. “I asked him while you and China were in L.A., and he made some excuse about this being the busiest time at the store and he had to be there because he was getting estimates to add on a coffee shop, or something. But I don’t think that’s really it.”

Sawyer pushed away his empty plate. “We’ve invited him into the family, but apparently, he prefers to stay carefully on the fringe. Maybe he’s afraid of intruding.” Sawyer headed the Abbott Mills Foundation, the philanthropic arm of the family’s many holdings. He was a daredevil by nature and conducted every phase of his life like an extreme sport. At thirty-five, he was four years older than Campbell and two years younger than Killian.

Janet had come to adore her brothers in the five weeks since she’d rediscovered them, but she did not want to have to talk Brian Girard into anything. She found him interesting and attractive, but he seemed to have little use for her. It was embarrassing.

They saw each other at family get-togethers, and while she managed to be polite, there was always a certain testiness to his behavior that had started the day she’d first arrived at Shepherd’s Knoll, looking for China. She had accidentally run him over with a Vespa, though she’d apologized for that.

“Why can’t Mom talk to him?” she’d asked with a pleading look around the table. “She and Brian are crazy about each other.”

“She stays out of disagreements among her children.” Killian smilingly shot down that suggestion. “If he really were her son, maybe she could bully him into doing it. But she can’t. It’s up to you, Janby. We’re counting on you to make him change his mind.”

He would have to call her Janby. It was what the family had created out of Janet, the name her adopted family had given her, and Abby, the name given her at birth. For the first few days after the DNA test had proven she was the Abbotts’ daughter, kidnapped from her bedroom at fourteen months, everyone had stumbled over her name. She’d arrived as Janet Grant, but she’d become Abigail Abbott. The composite name charmed her.

“He likes to talk to you,” Sawyer added.

“No, he doesn’t,” she denied. “It only seems that way to you because you can’t hear what we’re talking about. Usually, we’re disagreeing about something, or he’s pointing out my mistakes. He doesn’t like me.”

And that was the real source of their antagonism—at least, on her part. She liked Brian, had been attracted to him from the first time she’d seen him. Unfortunately, that was after she’d run him over with the Vespa.

She’d hoped that had been the cause of his antagonism and that he’d get over it. But they’d been in each other’s company half-a-dozen times since then, at one family function or another, and he showed absolutely no interest in her except to take the opposite position on whatever she talked about, or to illustrate how wrong she was about everything whenever he could.

“That’s ridiculous,” Campbell said, disputing her. “Everyone likes you.”

“Come on,” Killian coaxed. “Cordie and I are standing up for Sawyer and Sophie. If you and Brian are witnesses for Campbell and China, it’ll be the perfect family thing. And though Mom’s staying out of it, we know she’d love it, too. Help us do this.”

Even Janet knew she was defeated. Killian, Sawyer and Campbell were the world’s most perfect brothers. They’d welcomed her home, done everything they could to make her comfortable, protected her from the press, explained to her with the clinical detachment of people accustomed to wealth that Killian had opened various bank accounts in her name—checking, savings, a healthy IRA, a trust fund, all of which amounted to a sum so staggering to the simple woman she’d been so far that she’d been unable to speak. And their father had put a block of Abbott Mills stock in her name when she was born, as he’d done for each of her brothers. Killian had added to it over the years as he’d added to their own—in faith that she’d be returned to them one day.

And here she was. She loved them for their faith, not their wealth, and she didn’t see that she could deny them anything.

“Fine,” she said, afraid she might fail but determined to try. “I’ll see what I can do.”

She made her way to the estate’s vast garage and climbed astride the Vespa, determined to get Brian into a tuxedo for the wedding—whatever it took. As she sped down the lane and up the road that bordered the orchard, leaving the fanciful yellow Victorian mansion behind, the air was sweet with the promise of apples and tangy with the ever-present bite of the salty ocean that encompassed Long Island, New York, on this late-summer morning.

The sun warm on her back, she turned onto the road that led to Brian’s General Store and Boat Rental, knowing he’d be open, since it was almost nine o’clock. She enjoyed the smooth ride, going over in her mind various ways to approach Brian about taking part in the wedding.

She considered making an effort to charm him, but she usually did that and he failed to notice.

She could attempt to approach him with subtlety, but he was a very direct man and probably wouldn’t even get the point.

Heaping guilt on him seemed like her only option when she caught sight of a battered blue Trans Am turning off a side road and falling in line behind her. She recognized the car immediately. Souped-up and poorly kept, it belonged to Buzz Merriman, reporter-photographer for the Meteor, a tabloid determined to make something unsavory out of her return to Losthampton.

Killian had explained to her that the Abbott policy toward the press was to treat them respectfully without revealing family secrets. He insisted the reporters were just doing their jobs and could be useful to the foundation’s efforts if the family had their goodwill.

That might work with the reporter from the Lost-hampton Leader, with the one who’d been sent from the New York Mirror and the many radio and television reporters who’d been following her since she’d first come to Shepherd’s Knoll five weeks ago. But she was sure that didn’t hold for Merriman. For one thing, he had no goodwill to cultivate. His stories on Janet always focused on where she’d been and what she’d done in the least flattering way possible rather than on the facts behind her restoration to the family.

His last piece suggested that she and China, though raised by an adoptive family as sisters, would now be at odds because Janet had been discovered to be little Abigail returned when everyone had first thought China was the long-missing heiress. China’s engagement to Campbell, the reporter wrote, was a creative way for China to get the Abbott name.

Janet might have forgiven him for hurting her, but causing her sister pain was unpardonable.

If the Vespa had been any match for the Trans Am, she’d have done a quick turn and taken Merriman on in a game of chicken then and there, but she saw evasion as the wiser move.

She sped down another side road, knowing that the narrow strip ended at the high bank of sand at the back of a waterfront inn, and was pleased to see him follow. Just before the expanse of beach, she took a left through a thin grove of trees. The Vespa swerved in and out of the spindly trunks as she heard the Trans Am’s brakes screechingly applied.

She chanced a glance over her shoulder just to see the car rock from the force of Merriman’s abrupt stop. She enjoyed her success a moment too long, though, and turned back in time to get a pine bough in the face, a pine cone down her shirt and a vicious bump to her backside as she rode over the exposed roots of several trees.

She braked breathlessly at the edge of the grove, the back of Brian’s shop visible just ahead of her. It was a beautiful scene, with the rustic little shop in the foreground, a pier jutting out into the water, all his small rental boats tied to it.

But she wasn’t in the mood to enjoy it. This was a fool’s errand and she was arriving to fulfill it in a bad mood from evading Buzz and taking a beating on her ride through the woods.

She caught sight of Brian, tall and loose limbed, striding along the pier, his blond hair catching the sun. There was a natural arrogance in his bearing that was both appealing and annoying. She just didn’t understand him.

She decided that if charm and subtlety were out in dealing with him, attitude would have to do.

BRIAN SAT on the top step on the porch at the front of his shop, drinking a cup of coffee while reading the Losthampton Leader. He growled to himself over the front-page article about Janet’s move to Losthampton.

Long-lost Heiress Home Again, the caption read under a photo of Janet that must have been taken on her return from Los Angeles two days ago, after she and China had gone back to close up their apartments and make the permanent move to Shepherd’s Knoll.

From the small plane visible some distance behind her, the setting was obviously the airport. Her hair was short and fluffy, her bright eyes squinting against the sun. Her face claimed most of the frame; China was relegated to one small corner of the shot.

At a glance, she looked like any other young woman on a casual afternoon. It was the second look that made the reader realize she was someone special. Then her good breeding showed in the tilt of her head and the set of her shoulders. The wit and intellect in her eyes exalted a simple prettiness to fascinating beauty, and the strength in the line of her mouth made one want to root for her without even knowing if she needed support.

The article revealed all the known details of her kidnap, the family’s position in the world of business, her brothers’ accomplishments, then her own history as a successful stockbroker. She was quoted as saying she hadn’t known where her interest in business and the stockmarket had come from in a family of cheerful, middle-class Americans who never had anything to invest, until she discovered she was an Abbott.

He read with interest one of her friends’ remarks about Janet’s broken engagement three years earlier to a minor-league rock star, a month before the wedding.

It went on to reveal that her adopted sister had come to Losthampton—thinking she might be the missing Abigail, but that a DNA test had proved she wasn’t. And that had brought Janet onto the scene.

He was just about to give the reporter credit for a job not too badly done, when he got to the part about himself:

“Brian Girard, the illegitimate son of Susannah Stewart Abbott, Nathan Abbott’s first wife and mother of the two oldest Abbott sons, and Corbin Girard, the Abbotts’ neighbor and longtime business rival, has been welcomed into the bosom of the family.” It continued in praise of the family’s generosity, considering that Corbin Girard was responsible for setting a fire to their home and vandalizing Brian’s business. It explained in detail that Brian had been legally disowned for defecting to the Abbott camp by giving them information that stopped them from making a business deal they would have regretted. He had no idea how they’d gotten that information, unless one of the family had told them.

Brian threw the paper into the trash and strode, coffee cup in hand, down his dock. The two dozen boats he’d worked so hard to repair and refresh bobbed at the ends of their lines, a testament to his determination to start over at something he enjoyed.

The repainted and refinished shop was stocked with the old standbys people came in for day after day, as well as a few new gourmet products, a line of sophisticated souvenirs, and shirts and hats with his logo on them—a rowboat with a grocery bag in the bow, visible proof of his spirit to survive in the face of his father’s continued hatred.

He could fight all the roadblocks in his path, he thought, looking out at the sun rising to embroider the water with light, but how could he fight the truth? No matter what he did, he would always be the son of a woman who’d thrown away her husband and her two other sons like outdated material, and of a man who’d rejected him since the day he was born and who had no concept of purpose but to make more money than the next man and prevent him from catching up by whatever means it took.

The sorry fact was that Brian couldn’t fight it. He could do his best to be honest and honorable, but that would never inspire a newspaper article. Every time his name came up, it would be as the son of his reprehensible parents.

He didn’t know what to do about it.

“You’re an idiot,” he told himself firmly, “if you allow yourself to be hurt by what you can’t change and by what you had no control over in the first place.”

Right. He got that part. But what about all the other people connected to him—like the Abbotts—who would have to hear or listen to the old scandal dragged up again as the true meat of the story whenever they did something newsworthy?

He’d been giving that a lot of thought and hoping for a solution other than the obvious: move out of their light. He was a smart man; it would come to him.

Meanwhile, the brief lull between his early-rising customers and the late-stirring sack rats would be over soon and he had things to do. As he walked along the dock, checking his little fleet, he noticed a loose knot on the line securing a square-stern canoe. He’d just gotten down to tighten it when a movement to his left made him turn. Janet was standing nearby, in a white shirt knotted at her waist and white shorts. She smelled of something floral that permeated even the smell of salt water and diesel. She was slightly disheveled, and that seemed at odds with the royal bearing of her squared shoulders.

He caught a glimpse of tanned and shapely limbs before he concentrated on making sure the line was fast.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Hi,” she replied in a purposeful tone. “Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

Finally certain the line was secure, he straightened and saw uncharacteristic confusion in her eyes, backed by a small spark of anger.

“Yes, I do.” He put his hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts, wondering what was going on. “What do you want to talk about?”

She studied him a moment, as though reluctant to bring up whatever she’d come to discuss. Then she made an impatient gesture with one hand that widened the space between the bottom of her shirt and the top of her shorts, distracting him again.

“My sister’s wedding,” she finally blurted.

Oh, no. She was an emissary from Campbell. Or China. He refocused on her face.

“You’re here to talk me into being best man,” he guessed, starting back toward the shop.

She fell into step beside him. “Yes. I know your decision is none of my business, but Campbell and China are very disappointed, and that is my concern. You have to reconsider.”

“Campbell has dozens of friends.”

“He wants you.”

Yeah. Brian liked him, too, but here was that ugly truth again that would only darken an otherwise beautiful day.

“Did you see yourself in the paper this morning?” he asked, taking her arm to steer her around a forgotten bait bucket as she watched a seagull soar overhead.

“Thank you. No. Why? What did it say?” She gently disengaged her arm and said grimly, “I doubt the readership finds me as interesting as all those overeager reporters think I am.”

Brian took issue with that. “I’m sure the locals find you very interesting. Many of them remember when you were kidnapped, and they grieved with your family. Everyone around here loves the Abbotts. And here you are, back in their lives, beautiful and smart. They consider it’s good justice that you’re home again.”

“Good justice,” she repeated. They’d reached the store and she stopped to lean an arm on the newel post. “I do know I’m very lucky. But that’s not the same as being special. I’m thrilled to be home among such wonderful people, but I hate this living-in-a-fishbowl stuff. That tabloid reporter from the Meteor even followed me here this morning! I’m sure the front page of the next issue will have a photo of the back of me on the Vespa, with the headline Heiress Runs Away.”

Brian couldn’t imagine what would be bad about a photo of the back of her—whatever the headline. His guess was that her good looks and lively personality were going to keep her in the public eye for a long time.

“So…I’m sorry, I got distracted by my dislike of press coverage,” she said. “Did you have a point to make about the article?”

“Yes.” He leaned an elbow on the opposite post. “It talked about your broken engagement a month before your wedding, and I was mentioned in the ending paragraphs. Happy news always seems to require dredging up every bad moment in the past.”

“True.” She shrugged philosophically. She wasn’t getting the point.

“Well, the press will surely give the Abbotts’ double wedding front-page coverage. All that happy news. “‘The grooms were handsome,’” he pretended to quote, “‘the brides were radiant, the mother-of-the-grooms was so happy to have her daughter back serving as her brother and adopted sister’s maid of honor,’ yada yada. If I’m best man, it’ll end with ‘Brian Girard, best man, is the son of the first Mrs. Abbott, who ran off with the chauffeur after being impregnated by the neighbor and Nathan Abbott’s arch ene—’”

“I know, I know.” She nodded to cut him off.

“Then you can see why I don’t want to do that to them.”

“Forgive me,” she said, “but I can’t. That’ll probably end the story whether you’re at the wedding or not. And your refusal to be with them hurts them far more than any old sticks-and-stones reporting ever would.”

“Easy for you to say,” he argued. “It’s not your wedding.”

That accusation seemed to inflate her bad mood. “It’s my sister’s wedding. And it’s as important to me as mine would be. You said they brought up my broken engagement and the very newsworthy way it happened. Well, you don’t see me going into a decline over it.”

“Whoa!” He got a little indignant himself. “I’d hardly describe my reaction as a decline. And you’ve been cranky since you got here, over the photographer who followed you. So don’t go casting aspersions on me. My reasons for wanting to stay away are in consideration of the Abbotts!”

“Well, they want you there,” she said, then started off toward the Vespa she’d run him over with when she’d first arrived in Losthampton. It leaned against the No Vehicles Allowed sign. She stopped to turn to him and add, “At this point, I have little purpose at Shepherd’s Knoll but to try to contribute to the well-being of my family, who suffered so much while I was gone. And considering the way they’ve welcomed you into the bosom of the family, I’d think you’d feel the same. So I’m going to tell them you’ve changed your mind, and that you’ll be happy to be best man.” With a toss of her head, she strode off toward the bike.

He hurried to intercept her. “You may be able to order people around in L.A., Miss Grant Abbott, but this is my place. You don’t dictate what happens here.”

“We’re talking about my only sister’s wedding,” she retorted, yanking back out of his reach. “And you’re not going to…aagh!”

Whatever he was not going to do was drowned in salt water when she fell backward into the inlet.

Chapter Two

Her and her big mouth. The shriek Janet had been in the middle of when she felt herself falling had caused her to swallow water. As she sank into the cold Atlantic, she felt as though she’d also ingested one of the small boats—or at least, an oar.

The moment she got over the shock of her fall, she struggled upward, choking. She collided with the bottom of a boat and pulled herself around it, spotting sunlight. The light disappeared when the next boat bobbed against the first one. She groped her way back as she spotted sunlight in that direction. Her lungs were bursting as the shaft of sunlight disappeared again when the first boat now swung the other way.

Resisting panic, she followed it to its stern, but it drifted out with her to the end of its line.

Panic fought back. Had all this turmoil in her life, all this discovery, been intended simply to bring her to this point where she would…die?

It didn’t seem possible, and yet here she was, unable to find the surface, unable to—

Something grabbed the back of her shirt and she was thrust upward until her head and shoulders cleared the surface. She gasped for air, choking painfully, spewing water.

A hand swiped her clinging hair out of her face. “Janet? Are you all right?” Brian asked.

She tried to open her eyes, but all she could do was cough.

Brian swam a small distance, his arm hooked around her middle, taking her with him. Then he put one of her hands on something solid, his legs tucked under her like the seat of a chair to keep her in place.

“You have a hold of the ladder,” he said, placing her other hand beside the first. Just two rungs and you’ll be sitting on the pier. Come on. Up.”

She couldn’t coordinate the movement, then his hand, under her backside, pushed her up. Her feet found an underwater rung and she propelled herself over the top. She was on her hands and knees and beginning to drag in air.

Brian swung up beside her, putting a hand to her back as he squatted to look into her face. “Janet?”

“Yes.” She was embarrassed, but somehow her annoyance with him had fled. Nothing like immersion in cold water to stabilize a mood. “Yes, I’m still Janet. Did you think I couldn’t come up because I was having my name changed?”

He barked a laugh. “Your sense of humor has survived.” Then he lifted her up into his arms. “I’ve got a shower in the back of the shop.”

She held on to his neck as he strode up the steps. “I couldn’t find my way between the boats,” she said, unable to believe that had been so difficult. “Every time I went for the sunlight, the boats bumped together again.”

“My fault,” he replied, walking through the shop and into a small area in the rear. “I was pushing them apart, looking for you from the pier, so when your opening disappeared, it was probably me, shoving from the other side.”

“Nice guy.”

“What do you want from the son of Susannah Abbott and Corbin Gir—”

She put a hand over his mouth. “If you bring that up again,” she threatened, “I’ll have to bite your ear.” Her position in his arms made his ear an easy target.

He stopped in front of a half-open door. She glimpsed a shower stall and a medicine cabinet, but what really caught her attention were the lively depths of Brian’s blue eyes a mere inch from hers. Usually, they were so steady on her that they made her feel defensive. But today they made her feel…odd?

“And that would discourage me?” he asked with a half smile.

Her mouth fell open. Was he more interested in her than it appeared?

Before she could analyze that, he set her on her feet in the doorway and pointed to a small wicker rack of towels. “There’re soap and shampoo in the shower.”

“And…you can dry my clothes?”

“No, but I can give you something to change into. I’ve got matching T-shirts and shorts with the store name on them. Pink, green or yellow?”

“Yellow.”

He studied her. “Small? Medium?”

She folded her arms to hide a little shudder of that same sensation. “Medium.”

“I’ll leave them on the doorknob.”

“Thank you.”

She stepped into the bathroom, locked the door behind her and took the first good breath she’d had since he’d looked into her eyes and suggested that he wouldn’t mind if she bit his ear.

The bathroom was small and utilitarian, all in white tile with the same checkered curtains the shop windows sported.

She peeled off her wet things and climbed into the cubicle. The showerhead was powerful, with a pulsing adjustment that went a long way toward relaxing the tense muscles in her neck and back.

He had shampoo but no conditioner. And no blow-dryer. Her hair would dry flat, but at least it would be clean.

She stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around her head and opened the door just enough to see if he’d placed the shorts and T-shirt on the doorknob. He had.

She grabbed them and locked the door again. She noticed in pleased surprise that he’d thought to include a three-pack of panties and a sports bra. Remarkably, everything fit. The shorts were a classic boy cut, with his logo on a hip pocket. The T-shirt had the logo across the chest.

She was staring in the mirror at her alarmingly natural face, free of makeup, and her wet hair, into which she’d tried to fluff a little volume, when there was a knock on the door.

She opened it.

Brian stood there, a pair of floral flip-flops in one hand and simple white tennies in the other. He held them up for her to make a decision.

“Ah. Perfect.” She chose the tennies.

“Come out when you’re ready,” he said. “I’ve poured you a cup of coffee.”

She had already slipped on the shoes and took only a moment to fluff her hair again, then concluded any effort to look fashionable was hopeless.

She found Brian tearing at a package of oatmeal cookies. He’d pulled open the curtain between the front and the back of the store, probably so that he could watch for customers.

A battered coffee table next to an old red sofa held two diner-style mugs of coffee and an empty plate. He dumped the open pack of cookies unceremoniously onto the plate.

“Good thing about owning a general store,” he said, gesturing her to sit down. “You can entertain at a moment’s notice.”

She sank onto a sofa cushion. “And provide clothing for people who fall into the drink.” She grinned in self-deprecation. “Certainly was a conversation stopper, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was. But it doesn’t have to be the end of the argument if you have more to say.” He sat beside her and thought back. “As I recall, you said, ‘We’re talking about my sister’s wedding and you’re not going to—’ And then you screamed.”

She took a cookie, dunked it in her coffee and popped it into her mouth. “Actually, now that I’ve been immersed in cold water, I see your arguments more clearly.”

“Really. You agree with me?”

“No,” she denied firmly, “but your feelings aren’t that different from mine.”

1He leaned back into his corner of the sofa, his legs stretched out and crossed under the table. He sipped at his coffee and waited for her to explain.

She turned toward him, cookie in one hand, cup in the other. “I’m afraid of embarrassing them, too, though for different reasons. I feel very much out of my element amid all their style and elegance. I mean, Chloe would probably never dunk a cookie in her coffee, would she?”

“Uh…I can’t say I’ve ever seen her do it.”

“See? And she’s not only stylish and elegant, she’s European. I am so not going to measure up to the rest of the Abbotts.”

As she made that claim, an idea formed, full-blown. Three years ago, she’d been left at the altar—well, not the altar, the travel agency. Her fiancé was supposed to meet her there to pay for their honeymoon tickets to Hawaii. When he never came, she went home, to find a voice-mail message that he’d changed his mind about the wedding and was off to London.

She’d been more careful of men since then but hadn’t stopped looking for the right one. And despite Brian’s resistance, she was beginning to wonder if it was him. Now she thought she had a way to spend time with him to determine if he was or not. Convincing him of that, of course, would take time and effort and was a job for later.

“You’re not going to measure up?” he said in disbelief. “That’s ridiculous. You always behave as though—”

She interrupted with a swipe of her cookie in the air. “It’s an act. I’m just afraid that one day I’m going to do something embarrassing to them.”

“Get a grip, Janet,” he said. “They’re not royalty. They’re just wealthy people who are socially well connected.”

She gave him a dry look. “If I may quote you, ‘Easy for you to say.’ You grew up in their world. Your parents had the same standard of living, the same social connections. You know how to behave among all this—” She raised a finger to stop him when he would have interrupted her. “Yes, you have that scandalous background.” She enunciated the word with a dramatic waggle of her eyebrows. “But people deal so much more on perception than they do fact. All people notice is that you behave like a gentleman, that you’re well-spoken and well educated. Columbia, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. I went to Columbia.”

“I went to Las Manzanas Community College and Columbia River College.”

“Doesn’t education depend on the thirst for knowledge in the student, rather than on where he goes to school?”

“I don’t imagine my brothers’ Ivy League educated friends would believe that.”

He studied her with a frown. “I think you have some reverse snobbery at work here.”

She smiled innocently. “Why? You’re convinced everyone’s going to judge the Abbotts by the unfortunate circumstances of your birth.”

He continued to frown, and she couldn’t decide if he was out of arguments or out of patience. She considered it a good time to make her point.

“I’ve been asked to be Campbell and China’s maid of honor,” she said, sipping her coffee, “and I don’t have the luxury of refusing them. China’s my only sister and I’m hers.” She paused on the chance he wanted to comment. He didn’t.

“So friends and family are coming from far and wide to this wedding of the year, and I have to be part of the party and take my chances that I won’t do or say something inappropriate among all those people and with all the press bound to be there. Word is the New York Times is sending someone.”

She bit into her cookie, avoiding his eyes. Was she overdoing it? She couldn’t tell. And for a usually straightforward man, he was a master at hiding what he was thinking when he wanted to.

She ate the last bite of her cookie, chewed and swallowed, buying time.

“But if you were best man,” she added, putting her cup down and dusting off her hands, “I’d feel less intimidated. You can help me during the Mass. I wasn’t raised Catholic and I’m not familiar with the ritual, but you are, right?”

“My mother took me to church when I was a child, but I haven’t been in a long time. I don’t think your brothers have, either.”

“At least you have some experience. I won’t know whether to stand or sit or kneel, but you’ll be beside me. You can give me a high sign. You can provide moral support during the reception, and I can deflect the reporters away from you. We’ll help each other.”

HER ARGUMENTS WERE very transparent. The Mass could be confusing to the uninitiated, and it was true that the congregation sat behind the wedding party, so it wasn’t possible to follow their lead in sitting, standing, kneeling unless you turned around to see what they were doing—and that would be just the faux pas she seemed so worried about.

But Sophie, Sawyer’s fiancée, knew the ritual; she sang in the choir at St. Paul’s. Following her lead would be easy enough.

And he couldn’t remember ever seeing Janet make a misstep despite her insistence that Abbott society was unfamiliar to her.

He could only deduce that she was laying it on a little thick because she was determined that her sister and her brother have the wedding they wanted, and that included him.

And, though he disliked admitting this to himself, he found it hard to refuse the appeal in her wide brown eyes. Even knowing it was as much performance as sincere emotion, he was going to let it reel him in. Undoubtedly, he would hate himself for this later.

“All right,” he said.

She blinked at him. “You mean…you’ll do it?”

“Yes.”

“But…why?”

“Because you’re so persuasive.” And, he added silently to himself, I’m a self-indulgent idiot.

He rested one hand on his knee and she closed both hers over it as she beamed at him. “Thank you, Brian.” Her gratitude did sound heartfelt, and her hands on his knee, even over his hand, had a very pleasant effect on his body. “They’ll be so happy.”

“Well, that’s what we want.”

The bell rang over the front door. “Excuse me,” he said, getting to his feet. “Customer.”

Another came in before he was finished with the first, and before he knew it, the place was suddenly hopping.

When he turned to see if everyone had been helped, he found Janet trying to reach something on a top shelf for an older woman who watched her in concern. Brian recognized the woman as a three-or-four-times-a-week customer for most of August and September.

Janet’s body was stretched to its utmost, her heels off the floor, her calves and her bottom in the shorts tight with her effort. He could have watched her in that pose for a while, but he hurried to lend a hand.

“What are you after, Mrs. Lindell?” he asked.

She pointed to the back of the shelf. “That bottle of hair gel.”

He caught it off the shelf and handed it to Janet. She gave it to the woman, who already had a helmet of hair that looked as though it wouldn’t move in a class five hurricane. It was carved into a curled and flipped style he remembered his mother wearing twenty-five years ago.

“Is that the right brand?” Janet asked helpfully.

“That’s it exactly!” The woman gave Janet a ten-dollar bill. “I was sure you were out of it! You wouldn’t believe what a sailboat can do to a hairdo.” To Brian she said, “I’m glad to see you’ve gotten yourself another assistant. She’s more attentive than that boy you just hired. The last time I was here, he was so engrossed in an argument he was having with a girl he didn’t even notice me.”

“I’m sorry.” That was unwelcome news. Joe Fanelli was young, but he’d been so eager for the job. Part of the reason Brian had hired him was that his grandfather owned and operated Fulio’s, the best restaurant in Lost-hampton, known for its attention to detail and customer service. Joe had worked for him after school and during summers, and Brian was sure Fulio insisted on a work ethic at least as strong as his own.

Janet passed him the ten and the three of them went to the cash register. He made the woman change and put her purchase in a bag. “Thank you for telling me,” he said. “I promise that won’t happen to you again.”

“Thank you.” She took her change and chatted on about the dearth of cheerful and dependable retail help while she opened her wallet, dropped the change into the right compartment, then closed it and moved several things around in her purse so that she could put the wallet back in.

Then she picked up the bag and patted Janet’s cheek with her free hand. “You’ll go far, sweetie. The consumer likes a convenient place to shop and a helpful staff. My husband owns four delicatessens. I know what I’m talking about.”

She winked at Brian. “Bye, now.”

Brian watched her walk away, hoping he wouldn’t have to fire Joe Fanelli.

“I think I know what Joe’s problem is,” Janet said, leaning a hip against his counter.

That surprised him. “I wasn’t aware you knew him?”

“I don’t. But I heard the ladies at the beauty shop talking about him when I had my hair trimmed just before I left for L.A.”

“And?”

“And,” she said gravely, “his girlfriend is pregnant. That’s why he’s put off college for a year. Her parents are furious at both of them. His parents are angry at him. Even the girlfriend wants him to go to school. She’s insisting she’ll get a job and raise the baby and wait for him to graduate. He wants to get married and assume his responsibilities.”

Brian leaned against the other side of the register. “You ladies really discuss things in depth over hair trimmings.”

“Having your hair or your nails done inspires confidences. It’s a fact.” She looked worried. “Are you going to fire him? He needs the job.”

“I understand that. But I’d like to stay in business, and that won’t happen with customers being ignored. I’ll talk to him. Then if he doesn’t shape up, I’ll fire him.”

She nodded approval. “Very fair. Well, now that I’ve argued with you, fallen in the inlet, had coffee, made a sale for you and acted as Joe Fanelli’s union advisor, my work here is done. Can I have a plastic bag for my wet clothes?”

He reached under the counter for one and handed it to her. “I’ll close up for a few minutes and drive you home.”

“No!” She put a hand to his chest. His heartbeat reacted to her touch. She must have felt it, because she dropped her hand immediately, then cleared her throat. “I’m perfectly capable of riding the Vespa home.”

“Not a good idea after your dunking,” he said, moving her aside when she stood in his path. “And I appreciate your lending a hand when I got busy. Thank you.” He went to the door, changed the Will Be Back sign to read In Fifteen Minutes, then ushered her out ahead of him and locked the door.

“This is silly!” she argued, hurrying to keep up with him as he steered the Vespa toward his truck, then lifted it into the back.

“I…” she started to say, but he opened the passenger door and lifted her into the truck.

She growled and she pulled out the seat belt.

“As a general rule,” he said, before closing her door, “socially correct women never growl. You might bear that in mind.”

He had her home in five minutes, unloaded the Vespa and placed it for her in a corner of the garage. Behind her at a small distance, the beautiful yellow-and-white mansion that was her family’s home was perched on a knoll, with a view of the vast lawn and the apple orchard. The house had a central cupola and porches at the front and back that exemplified the cozy style at the heart of everything Abbott. Janet seemed to fit in well.

The construction going on at the west end of the house reminded Brian again of the potential for scandal in his very name. His father had almost destroyed Chloe’s addition. She’d wanted to enlarge the sun porch on the first level, add a room for Brian on the second level so that he could stay with them during holidays and other family occasions and expand the third floor so that when Sawyer and Sophie were married, there would be lots of room for her three children. Now Sawyer and Sophie were living at Sophie’s place, nearer the hospital where she was a nurse, but Chloe had visions of having the entire family together in Shepherd’s Knoll for holidays and long, lazy weekends, even though they all lived nearby.

His father had cruelly, vengefully set fire to the addition though it was obvious that both China and Chloe’s wheelchair-bound Tante Bijou were inside. The building had gone up quickly, and had it not been for China’s courage and quick thinking, and the fact that Campbell and Winfield, who handled the estate’s security, had arrived home at the right moment, both women might be dead. He shuddered at the thought.

“Thank you,” Janet said. “Can you come over tomorrow?”

He had to pull himself out of his grim thoughts. Had he really agreed to be in this wedding? “Ah…why?”

“Because Abbott’s West is sending someone from the men’s department to measure all of you for tuxes.” Abbott’s West was the retail flagship store in Manhattan.

He groaned. Yes, he had agreed. He’d done it for Janet, as much as for the family.

She widened her eyes at him teasingly. “If it’s socially incorrect for women to growl, are socially correct men allowed to groan?”

She made him smile, but it seemed wisest not to answer. He knew this was going to get worse before it got better. “What time tomorrow?”

“Ten. And you’d better go easy on Joe Fanelli. You’re going to need him a lot between now and the wedding.” She patted his shoulder. “Thanks for the cookie and the coffee.”

He sighed and smiled. “I don’t regret that. But I’m starting to wonder if fishing you out of the water was the wisest thing I could have done.”

“I guess only time will tell. See you tomorrow.”

She headed for the house. He climbed into the truck to spare himself the view of her neat little backside as she walked away.

But there it was, beautifully framed in his rearview mirror.

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