“You don’t think I love your brother, do you?”

Savannah asked, Cash’s smile aggravating her.

“You must know by now that what I think is of little importance in this family.”

“Well, I’d like to know what you think.”

“People in love are always fools.” Cash’s amusement was gone, leaving a darkness on his features. A darkness that encouraged the doubts Savannah had been battling since her fiancé ran off. “Do you love my brother?”

She looked into his eyes. “I may not be a woman of passions—”

“On the contrary, Ms. Sweetfield. I think you are exactly that.”

Dear Reader,

Welcome to another wonderful month at Harlequin American Romance. You’ll notice our covers have a brand-new look, but rest assured that we still have the editorial you know and love just inside.

What a lineup we have for you, as reader favorite Muriel Jensen helps us celebrate our 20th Anniversary with her latest release. That Summer in Maine is a beautiful tale of a woman who gets an unexpected second chance at love and family with the last man she imagines. And author Sharon Swan pens the fourth title in our ongoing series MILLIONAIRE, MONTANA. You won’t believe what motivates ever-feuding neighbors Dev and Amanda to take a hasty trip to the altar in Four-Karat Fiancée.

Speaking of weddings, we have two other tales of marriage this month. Darlene Scalera pens the story of a jilted bride on the hunt for her disappearing groom in May the Best Man Wed. (Hint: the bride may just be falling for her husband-to-be’s brother.) Dianne Castell’s High-Tide Bride has a runaway bride hiding out in a small town where her attraction to the local sheriff is rising just as fast as the flooding river.

So sit back and enjoy our lovely new look and the always-quality novels we have to offer you this—and every—month at Harlequin American Romance.

Best Wishes,

Melissa Jeglinski

Associate Senior Editor

Harlequin American Romance

May the Best Man Wed

Darlene Scalera

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To the Sisters of the Lake who, when the ship was sinking, threw me a lifeline.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Darlene Scalera is a native New Yorker who graduated magna cum laude from Syracuse University with a degree in public communications. She worked in a variety of fields, including telecommunications and public relations, before devoting herself full-time to romance fiction writing. She was instrumental in forming the Saratoga, New York, chapter of Romance Writers of America and is a frequent speaker on romance writing at local schools, libraries, writing groups and women’s organizations. She currently lives happily ever after in upstate New York with her husband, Jim, and their two children, J.J. and Ariana. You can write to Darlene at P.O. Box 217, Niverville, NY 12130.

Books by Darlene Scalera

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

762—A MAN FOR MEGAN

807—A MAN IN A MILLION

819—THE COWBOY AND THE COUNTESS

861—PRESCRIPTION FOR SEDUCTION

896—BORN OF THE BLUEGRASS

923—HELP WANTED: HUSBAND?

967—MAY THE BEST MAN WED

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

Chapter One

All of Atlanta slept except Savannah Sweetfield. Her feet, resplendent in open-toed Pradas, shoes being her one frivolous passion, click-clicked across the concrete. Her thoughts spoken into the microcassette recorder in her right fist held the same peal of purpose.

“Cathedral flowers?”

“Two dozen urns filled with larkspur and white waxflower branches, fourteen feet tall, front pew to back. Candles on metal stands ringed with lemon leaves and gardenias at aisles. Confirm white candles on altar.”

She jabbed Up for the elevator connecting the underground garage to the Sweetfield corporate offices.

“Champagne?” she asked into the recorder.

“Perrier-Jouet,” she answered herself.

“Crystal?”

“Baccarat.”

The elevator ascended.

“Guests?”

“Double-check Grammy Eta is seated as far away from Auntie Luanne as possible. Have Cousin Charlene keep count of Great-Uncle Pom’s gin fizzes. Check on hotel gift bags for out-of-town guests. Remind—monogrammed gold W on bag or no go.”

The elevator stopped, the doors opened and Savannah stepped out, her staccato steps swallowed by carpet. All was silence as she walked through the reception area, past the offices on the fifteenth floor of Sweetfield’s corporate headquarters. She was the first to arrive. Always.

The click of the record button broke the silence. “Cocktail buffet?”

“Dungeness crab cocktail shooters, iced jumbo prawns, eastern oysters shucked to order, served on cracked ice.”

Her mother had suggested one of the wedding planners renowned in their circle, but Savannah had rejected flat-out the very idea of trusting a complete stranger with the needs and nuances of this event. This was more than a wedding. It was an alliance between old Southern stature and new South self-made standing; a merger between a Goliath of old-guard tradition and a Goliath of modern capitalism. And everybody who was anybody in Georgia had been scrambling for the right outfit and the perfect present since the day the engagement of Savannah Ainsling Sweetfield and McCormick Beauregarde Walker hit Atlanta’s society pages.

Even Savannah’s immediate family had been impressed enough to conceal their surprise that she would be the first of the five Sweetfield offspring to marry. She’d been born somewhere amongst three handsome brothers and a sister whose inherited beauty and charm had secured her place in the world since birth. When nothing else had developed on Savannah except her comprehension of her position in the overall scheme of things, she had realized she’d have to work harder, longer and smarter than any of her siblings just to be more than an afterthought in her family of natural wonders.

Her mother, a woman of complex and contradictory passions, had been most moved by the news of her less-endowed daughter’s engagement. Once bold enough to go by train unescorted all the way to New York City to dance on the stage, Belle Sweetfield had soon found her way back to the bosom of her birth—but not before marrying a Yankee whose canny business abilities, it was politely whispered, had been supplemented by enigmatic resources. Motherhood had swiftly followed, diverting the young beauty’s energies into more conventional channels and sterner standards which now, as she wept, seemed to have culminated in her daughter’s betrothal to a family with land and money and pale skin and blond hair and blood as blue as anyone else’s in Dixie. Savannah had even witnessed, prompted by his wife’s joy, a sheen in the eyes of her father, Jack Sweetfield, a man whose fortune had given the woman he helplessly adored everything except the social acceptance she so craved.

Such was the impact unleashed by Savannah and McCormick’s engagement announcement. That day, standing there before her parents’ highly unlikely display of emotion, Savannah had reached for her fiancé’s hand and held on tightly, suddenly humbled by the magnitude of their decision.

Not that she wasn’t certain about marrying McCormick. It was just that Savannah and her intended, both sharing and admiring the same practical nature, had arrived at this juncture in a somewhat less-than-impassioned manner. They had first met as emissaries of their family’s respective empires, a meeting generated by each other’s desire to achieve unprecedented success for their companies, their families and themselves. Small talk had swiftly been tabled in order to discuss the possibility of the two businesses forming an unshakable conglomerate in direct response to a looming overseas threat. Savannah had known right off that her future fiancé had chosen to approach her first in the family because she was a woman. Rather than being indignant, she had appreciated her opponent’s strategy—just as he’d soon learned to enjoy an equal who wasn’t a pushover in the boardroom or the bedroom.

From there, the couple’s remarkable compatibility began and continued into all other weighty areas. Savannah couldn’t even remember who first came up with the idea of marriage. It had seemed a natural and foregone conclusion to such harmony between two individuals. After marriage, they’d agreed both would continue flourishing at the new megacompany currently in the long process of being created. Without question, Savannah would keep her maiden name, no hyphen. They’d have children eventually—two or four. Certainly not one or three—odd numbers were too awkward. And although her daddy’s beginnings were farther north and a wildness had once run in her mama’s blood, Savannah suspected neither she nor McCormick would leave the South until they were planted side by side in the family plot.

She smiled as she walked down the silent hall, anticipating the jangling phones and whirring faxes and constant interruptions that would make a less-competent woman crazy. In a little under two weeks, she was going to be a wife, and like everything else she took on, she would do her job as near to perfection as possible—beginning with a perfect wedding, right down to every last petal on the thousands of sugar roses that would cover the six-foot, ten-tier vanilla buttercream cake.

Striding through her office suite, Savannah took advantage of the calm before the storm that was often her day to review her recorded checklist. She marched through the private reception area appointed by her favorite designers, ignoring the deliberately impressive sweep of the city outside the conference room’s windows as she finalized the status of each detail with every exact step. She might have been stepping in high cotton by the time she arrived at her private office. She clicked off the recorder, the decisive sound making her smile. No, not one thing would go wrong with this wedding. She pushed open her office door, thoroughly triumphant.

And stopped dead for the first time in what might have been decades.

Between her two prized Eames armchairs, behind the great black rosewood desk, in her custom chair of plush gray velvet, sat a man.

A shallow breath later, Savannah’s facilities snapped back into operating mode, summoning the determination and composure that had defeated many adversaries—predominantly male—before. She assessed her current enemy. Late twenties, early thirties, Caucasian but tan. Very tan. More than very tan—burnished, bronzed, a life-risking, severely glorious golden. Even at this ungodly hour of the morning when all was wan, this man was radiant. Hadn’t he read the AMA reports about the dangers of excessive sun exposure? This radiance was unique, unprecedented, more than a color or a cancer-causing factor. It seemed a heat, a flare, an ignited pyre. Her climate-controlled office was, as always, a moderate seventy-one degrees, but she felt a dampness beneath the curve of her underarms, between her knees, at the juncture of her thighs.

She hated to sweat.

Preferring anger to fear, she suddenly didn’t care if the brilliant male specimen before her was Ra the Sun God himself. His rear, which judging from the rest of the package was probably equally golden-brown and magnificent, was in her chair. At her desk. In her office.

She strode to the desk, grabbed the phone and dialed Security. “My office, immediately.”

“Nice man, George.” The sun god spoke, his tone languid, his voice warm and smoky as if fueled by the heat. She stared at him without expression. She was still sweating.

“The night security guard. His first name is George. Last name McCallahan.” The man’s eyes were gem-green in a face sinful in its seduction. “You didn’t know that, did you?”

Even if her excessive sense of responsibility and guilt gave her the inclination, she could never know everyone who worked for the Sweetfield Corporation. “This building employs hundreds of people.” Terrific. She was defending herself to a psychopath.

“His wife, Velma, is going in for a knee replacement on her right knee next week. Had the left one done five years ago. Went like a breeze. Still, George is a little apprehensive.”

Play nice with the nut case now. She smiled while her mind worked overtime. Security would be here in less than a minute. Her silver letter opener could gut a catfish but it was in her top desk drawer. Still smiling, she sat down as if to have a nice chat and employed the one weapon at her disposal—she crossed her legs. While her sister had received the bulk of her mother’s beauty, and Savannah had got whatever was left, her mother’s dancer genes and Savannah’s perverse need to exercise had eventually resulted in a facsimile of Belle’s former Radio City Music Hall Rockette legs. Psychotic or not, the man was, after all, a man.

She twisted to the side, turning her entwined legs to greater advantage. If she could distract him, she might be able to grab the solid brass sculpture on the nearby table before he could stop her.

She shifted again, uncrossed her legs slowly, then recrossed them several inches higher on her thigh. The man was in a trance now. She edged her fingers along the chair’s arm.

“Ms. Sweetfield?”

Savannah jumped, startled by the voice at the door. Her arm flung out, knocking the sculpture onto her exposed toes.

Pain shot from the point of impact up her limbs. Savannah howled. She’d never howled in her life. She grabbed the murderous objet d’art off her well-shod foot and waved back the security guard as he rushed toward her.

The man sitting in her custom chair eased back and propped his long, lean legs across her polished desk. She stared at his heavy boots wriggling hello at her from the desk’s corner.

“Steel toes, sweetheart. Only way to go in this big, bad world.”

She met the sun god’s calm gaze. In her mind’s eye, she jumped up and lunged toward him, her hands circling that bronzed throat. For the first time, she wished she were a woman who followed her impulses. Her hands gripped the sculpture. “When the police arrive to take this man away,” she spoke to the security guard without taking her eyes off the trespasser and his size-thirteen tootsies resting on her rosewood desk, “tell them I’ll be down before lunch to personally press charges.”

George cleared his throat. “Are you sure you want to do that, Ms. Sweetfield?”

Her head whipped to the guard. “A man breaks into my office—”

“Well, no, actually he didn’t break in, Ms. Sweetfield.”

“What’d he do—just ask for the key card at the front desk?”

“No.” The security guard glanced at the man behind her desk. “I let him in.”

“You let him in?” After the howl, she was careful to keep her voice temperate but firm. Her hands tightened on the sculpture.

“I figured, being the man is your fiancé and all—” Savannah’s head swung to the intruder.

“And since policy had been sent down to show Mr. Walker directly to your office on arrival, I escorted him here as instructed. Had a nice chat, too.”

“Well, I, for one, appreciate your rare sense of hospitality, George.” The sun god spoke. “And your even rarer, although mistaken, identification of me as worthy of this lovely lady.”

Amusement twinkled in the sun god’s emerald eyes as he flashed the whitest teeth she’d ever seen. Had he actually just winked at her? Her knuckles popped as she clutched the sculpture.

“No, George, my brother is the lucky man who gets to marry Ms. Sweetfield. I have only come as Cupid, bringing my soon-to-be sister-in-law a message from her one and only.”

“You’re McCormick’s brother?” The question came although Savannah already knew the answer. She’d heard enough of the stories. The one repeated most often was how he’d left his bride at the altar seven years earlier. The poor girl had died in a car crash a week later, but many said it was a broken heart that had killed her.

Savannah waited for the man to answer, the clear picture of her hands wrapped around his neck keeping her calm.

“Ms. Sweetfield, if I’ve—” The security guard’s apology was already in his tone.

“Don’t give it nothing but a chuckle, George,” the man interrupted. “Ms. Sweetfield’s confusion is understandable.”

When had he become the one in charge? And she the one whose actions needed explanation?

Probably about the time she imagined herself bounding over the desk to throttle him.

She looked at the smooth column of his neck. Would it be cool beneath her touch? Or pulsing with the heat of life the man seemed to thrive on?

“You see, George, my name is only mentioned in whispers or paired with colorful expletives. Certainly not repeated in the presence of a lady such as Ms. Sweetfield.”

“Cash Walker.” Savannah’s hands released from his throat. She held only the sculpture.

“Welcome to the family, darlin’.” Full lips that were rumored to have kissed countless women curved with complete enjoyment. “Was it the whispers you heard or the profanity?”

She stared right back at him. There was none of the predominant refined Walker fairness in this brother. The strong, clean lines of his face were harsh and unrepentant as if they, like the man, didn’t give a damn. Grooves running from his handsome nose to a mouth that seemed to say sex enhanced his image. His hair, the color of tarnished gold and swept back off his face with a natural carelessness, was several inches longer than her classic bob.

Her hand lifted, almost made it to her shoulder before she reminded herself that the urge to check her hair could be perceived as a sign of insecurity…or something worse.

Keeping her gaze on her future brother-in-law, she spoke to the guard. “Yes, this is all just a silly mixup. Thank you, George.” She emphasized the name, to Cash’s amusement.

She stood and extended her hand, keeping her gaze as firm as the shake she intended to deliver. “Cash.” His name made her voice sound breathless. “When McCormick mentioned you’d be coming in early, I didn’t realize he meant literally.” She smiled a future sister-in-law’s smile. “But unusual circumstances or not, I’m pleased to finally meet you.”

He pushed back from the desk and stood. His shoulders were wide and square, his long waist tapering into an elegant V toward narrow hips and long legs. He had the lean, physically alert look of one who spent much time running. He captured her hand. She felt the thickness of his fingers, his palm’s hard fullness. A man’s hand. She fought to keep her grip solid.

“I hope you’ll excuse my somewhat inappropriate welcome, but certainly you understand my confusion,” she said.

Laughter came from between those curved, full lips, his eyes staying strong on her. And she knew all the things they said about him were true.

She was about to take her hand back when his head bent. With a soft brush of sweetness to her cheek, she was given a vague idea of what those lips had done to so many other women.

“Remind me never to play poker with you, Slick.” A wash of breath warmed her skin.

She stepped back, ending physical contact. Her Southern manners and acquired ability to control herself and any situation allowed nothing but a gracious smile on her face and a polite hospitality to her tone.

“Please.” She gestured to the circle of chairs and couch set up for conversation as well as negotiation. She waited for him to move away from her desk.

“Ladies first.” The deep, thick drawl was still the song of the South, uninfluenced by his years away and his travels all over the world.

She smiled her appreciation and though the pain from her bruised toes stabbed with each step, her posture was finishing-school admirable, her steps smart as she walked to the other side of the room. She sat, crossing her legs at the ankles this time and indicated the opposite chair with her hostess smile. “We’ve certainly had quite a beginning. Already we share a delightful story to tell at family gatherings. Let’s get to know each other further.” She would be the perfect bride, the perfect wife, and for now, the perfect sister-in-law.

He crossed his own long legs and leaned back, the tilt of his lips indicating amusement and the rest of his strong, hard features naturally offering something else.

“Normally I’d be pouring you a bourbon right now, but, of course, it’s a bit too early for that.”

“Not by my book.”

His expression gave no indication whether he was kidding or not. She suspected the latter. Still, she laughed in appreciation. Being a woman executive in a man’s world, not to mention the boss’s daughter, she’d encountered obstacles similar to Cash Walker and his obviously well-deserved wild-man reputation before. And she’d always won.

“My secretary will be here shortly. I’ll have her bring us coffee and sticky buns. In the meantime, auspicious beginnings and delightful anecdotes aside, I must say you do aim to surprise, Cash.”

“Did you expect anything else, darlin’?”

“Please do call me Savannah.” She was proud of how the honeyed hospitality in her tone never wavered. “Yes, I’ve heard the stories. I believed about half of them.”

“Believe them all.”

Her smile turned real. There was nothing she liked more and found rarely than an equal opponent. “While I’m happy to finally meet my fiancé’s infamous big brother, I must admit to curiosity over your early visit. I can’t imagine we share a mutual fondness for rising at dawn. Certainly you don’t subscribe to the early bird gets the worm theory?”

He stretched his legs out longer. “On the contrary, my fondest memories are of being in bed.”

He didn’t even have to add overtones. Obviously he enjoyed an equal contender also.

“Well then, since I can’t imagine you forfeited any fond memory merely to meet me, I’m naturally intrigued by the timing of your introduction.”

“I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

“I don’t frighten.” She said it with a smile.

He smiled, too, as if enjoying himself. “It seems my brother has decided to take advantage of my role as best man as much as possible and has already pushed me into service.”

She was forced to tip her head back as he stood, revealing the vulnerable stretch of her throat. He reached into his pants pocket, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to her. Her name was written on the outside.

“This was on my nightstand with a note from McCormick asking me to give it to you as soon as possible.” The deep emerald of his eyes told her nothing.

“What is it?” She was actually still smiling.

“All I know is I woke too early this morning—still on Central time—and beside my bed was this envelope with McCormick’s instructions to deliver it to you as soon as possible.”

She tapped her fingernail against the envelope.

“He left this address, said it was the most likely place to find you. I couldn’t sleep….” He shrugged, making a simple gesture seductive.

She had several questions. Where was McCormick? Why hadn’t he just called? Yet, even asked in the most indignant of tones, such questions would expose fear, doubt. Completely unnecessary emotions when it came to her relationship with McCormick.

“How unusual,” she said, almost as if delighted.

She endured the man’s study before he said, “Seeing my duty’s done, I’ll be going.” He turned and moved toward the door. She made no attempt to stop him.

She sat, staring at the rectangle in her hand. Finally she stood and walked to her desk, even now not allowing her steps to coddle her throbbing toes. She sat down at her desk. The chair was warm from Cash’s heat. She pulled open the top drawer, removed the silver letter opener and slit the envelope. She slid out a folded sheet of good heavy bond, unfolded it, read the handwriting in straight lines across its width, folded the note exactly as it had been and slipped it back inside the envelope. Laying the envelope on the desk, she reached for the microcassette recorder she’d set on the desk earlier. She punched Record.

“Groom?”

“Gone.”

Click.

HER PARENTS’ red Cadillac was already in front of the Walkers’ brick Georgian when Savannah arrived that evening to discuss “the McCormick matter,” as the situation had been discreetly termed. She reached the library where liquor and coffee were being served along with civility, and where, at this moment, Franklin Walker was pointing his brandy at his oldest son.

“You’re home not even twenty-four hours, and your brother takes off in the middle of the night without letting anyone know where he’s going or for how long.”

Stretched out in a corner club chair, Cash sipped his own drink, his enjoyment undisturbed. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

“He did leave a note.” Savannah moved into the high-ceiling room. She waved her hand to tell her future mother-in-law to stay seated and helped herself to the coffee set up on the sideboard.

“A note.” Franklin’s hard gaze stayed on Cash. “That you delivered.”

Pauline Walker set her china cup on the coffee table only to pick it up again. “What your father is trying to say, dear, is that younger brothers often idolize their older siblings and are easily influenced. McCormick adored you.” Pauline’s use of the past tense did not go unnoticed by Savannah nor, she suspected, by anyone else in the room.

Cash’s voice softened as he spoke to his mother. “McCormick’s been a big boy for a long time now.”

Wistfulness stole into Pauline’s features as if she dreamed of a carefree past. A past, Savannah knew, few, including the Walkers, had been privileged to. Pauline stood as if unable to sit still any longer and smoothed her skirt repeatedly. “I won’t go through this again,” she announced. She moved to where Savannah stood stirring cream into her coffee.

Savannah’s father, sitting near the unlit fireplace, caught his daughter’s eye, raised his empty glass to her. She picked up the crystal decanter near the silver service.

“Do you know how much money is tied up in this wedding next weekend?” Jack Sweetfield asked. Savannah poured. Her father downed his drink in one long swallow. Savannah poured another. “Helluva time for your boy to take a powder.” His sharp northeast accent, which twenty-five years in genteel Georgia had failed to erase, thickened with agitation. “What kind of stunt is this to pull a week before tying the knot?”

“Actually, the wedding is eleven days away,” Savannah corrected.

“Do you know the money already spent for this little affair?” her father repeated.

Pauline’s delicately lined lips pursed as she carried the silver coffeepot to Savannah’s mother on the settee. A flush appeared on Belle’s cheeks.

“Has anyone tried calling him again?” Savannah’s mother attempted to direct the subject away from her husband’s blunt observations.

“His cell phone is turned off.” Pauline poured fresh coffee. “And he must be using cash because no charges have been reported.”

“Sounds to me like a man who doesn’t want to be found.” Jack finished his drink.

“What if something has happened to him?” Belle wondered. Pauline paused. Her eyes, a subtle pewter shade, stared down at Belle. Savannah watched her mother’s blush deepen, knew she felt raw and unfinished before the real thing.

Franklin turned to his oldest son. “If you had anything to do with this…”

Pauline laid a discreet hand on her husband’s arm as she passed with the coffeepot.

Franklin eyed his heir. “What did you and your brother talk about last night when you went out?”

Cash settled back in his chair, no reaction on his face. “The Braves, the Falcons, the Broncos.” He turned his far-too-handsome face to where Savannah stood. “Miss Sweetfield.” His green eyes met hers as if they were accomplices. She knew he was waiting for her to look away—evidence of how little he did know about her despite his claim of McCormick’s confidences.

“Did McCormick mention anything about this? Talk about taking off, getting away for a few days?” Franklin interrogated.

Cash lazily swung his head to his father. Despite his composed expression, tension burned in the space between the two men, seeming to bind them even as it forced them apart.

“We did talk about my adventures.” The sarcasm was implicit. “He mentioned he’d like to travel more if he had the time, perhaps someday visit my lodge. I told him, ‘Any time. Any time at all.’”

An expletive came from the senior Walker. Savannah didn’t have to look at Pauline to know her lips tightened further. Instead she watched Cash’s strong profile. Don’t smile, she silently warned. Too late. The corners of that fascinatingly mobile mouth lifted.

Franklin stabbed the air with his cigar. “Tell me this, son—”

Savannah heard more sarcasm, glimpsed something raw come into Cash’s eyes.

“—why would a man who has never done an irresponsible, foolhardy, childish—”

A wild torment flared in the unguarded green of Cash’s eyes, then, just as abruptly, it extinguished. His gaze became cold and hard as stone.

“—thing in his life, decide to do so now?”

Cash raised his drink to his father. “Obviously it was time.”

Franklin leaned down to stub out his cigar viciously, but, as he raised his head, Savannah saw where his son had learned to mask his feelings.

“The boy’s probably halfway across the country by now,” Savannah’s father told the group. “He’ll probably be shooting craps and eyeing whores in Vegas by morning.”

“Jack!”

Savannah’s father ignored his wife’s warning. “The million-dollar question, which I’m sure the bills are beginning to tally, is what are we going to do about it?”

“Let him go,” Savannah stated.

All gazes converged on her. She set down her coffee cup. “McCormick is a big boy, and if he decided he needs a few days away, maybe do something out of the ordinary by heading out in the middle of the night to some place different he’s never seen, some place such as his brother’s Colorado home…” She looked at Cash, trying to spy confirmation or denial but saw only a veiled interest. She turned back to the others. “The least we can do is respect his wishes. Let him go.”

Belle shifted on the settee. “But it is a mite close to the wedding.”

Savannah smiled at her mother. “Exactly.” She smiled at them all. “McCormick is less than two weeks away from taking one of the biggest steps of his life. Is it any wonder he’s acting a tad irrationally?” She paused for effect. “He’s scared.”

“What about you?”

Cash’s question came so swift and unexpected, it might have thrown one who hadn’t learned long ago that decisiveness and resolve could cover a multitude of insecurities.

“Are you scared?”

It was the first time anyone had asked her about her feelings. Feelings just waiting to waylay her.

“No,” she answered with unflappable faith.

It wasn’t until Franklin declared, “Cold feet,” that she tore her gaze away from Cash.

“Exactly,” she agreed with her fiancé’s father. “Lots of people have second thoughts, last-minute doubts right before their wedding. Everyone here can probably tell me a story about a similar situation.” As soon as she said the words, she realized her blunder. She swallowed hard as if to take them back. The others were discreet enough or, as she sensed in Franklin’s case, disgusted enough not to look at Cash.

“How ’bout you, Daddy?” She tried to shift the focus. “You can’t tell me you didn’t have a moment’s hesitation?”

Her father looked to where her mother sat and Savannah knew she’d made another mistake. Her beautiful mother had always been the center of her father’s life, followed by his business, work, and finally, in varying degrees, his children. Savannah, with hard work crowned by her celebrated engagement, had eventually found herself fitting in there somewhere.

Her father’s gaze locked with her mother’s. Like many of his gender and generation, he was not comfortable with open displays of affection, but one look at the man at this moment and it was clear—Jack Sweetfield had never had a heartbeat of doubt about his marriage.

“No. Not at all,” Her father confirmed.

An unusual melancholy rose inside Savannah. She pushed it aside. “Exception to every rule, no?” She smiled her most-assured smile. “My point is,” she sat down and folded her hands in her lap as if calm, “when you consider the circumstances, McCormick is actually acting in a very predictable manner. I mean wedding jitters are more the norm than not, correct? So, when all is said and done, his decision to take a few days and sort everything out is nothing to worry about. In fact, it’s a healthy move on McCormick’s part to explore his feelings. I say, give him some time, some space, some faith, and I’ll bet my favorite pair of Jimmy Choo sling-backs that two, three days tops, and McCormick will return. All demon doubts exorcised.”

Besides, she silently added her own argument conceived earlier today, what are the chances this could happen twice in the same family?

She didn’t look at Cash as she eased back in her chair. “After all, ‘absence does make the heart grow fonder.’”

She saw the two sets of parents exchange glances. She stood, refusing to court any speculation. She picked up her coffee cup and returned it to the sideboard.

When she turned around, she saw Cash had stood also and was looking straight at her. “Now that’s all settled, time for that bourbon you promised me this morning. Ready?”

She didn’t know who was rescuing who.

“Considering the circumstances, if you prefer to decline…”

Maybe she appreciated the out he offered. Maybe it was the naked emotion she had seen in his eyes earlier or the open challenge she saw in them now. Maybe it was the melancholy that lingered. Maybe, more than anything, it was her determination not to let one flicker of doubt assail her. Savannah took a step toward her fiancé’s brother.

Cash showed neither surprise nor smugness, only swept his hand forward for her to precede him.

“Good night all,” she said as she moved past him, attributing the unusual blitheness in her voice to her decision to keep “the McCormick matter” completely under control.

Chapter Two

Savannah had expected that Cash would drive a sleek sporty number made for speed and sin. He didn’t disappoint her. The roadster was cherry-red and topless.

“Good night, Cash.” She headed toward her four-door sedan—rated first in its class for safety.

“Good night?” He had thought her behind him. He now slouched against the roadster’s side, recklessness meeting recklessness, and folded his arms. Every already-more-than-sufficient upper torso muscle expanded into “Body by Jake” territory.

She reached her car. “Don’t worry. I’ll wait until you pole-vault into that little number to make sure you don’t injure any vital parts.”

A thick lock of hair fell charmingly across his brow. “Mine or the car’s?”

She met his shameless features. “I imagine both are extremely precious to you.”

The lazy sweep of his hand as he combed back his hair was echoed by the easy curve of his lips. “You imagined right.” He pushed off from the car. “So, no drink?”

She opened her car door. “You couldn’t keep up with me.” She liked too much the sound of his laughter floating behind her. She slid into the driver’s seat, careful not to slam the door and reveal her aggravation. Her first instinct about Cash Walker this morning had been correct. He was a dangerous, dangerous man.

He strolled over to her car, propped his forearms on the opened window. “You still owe me a bourbon.”

So much for a clean getaway. She smiled indulgently. “I don’t recall ever making a definite date.”

He leaned in closer. “I believe we just did…about three minutes ago.”

“No, three minutes ago you made up an excuse to get out of there without looking as if you were running away.”

“Is that what happened, sis?”

She eyed this man who so effortlessly elicited a rare impulse in her—to leap over any barrier and throttle him. This same man who would soon be forever linked to her as family. She couldn’t decide if she should be ashamed or rueful that she hadn’t acted on her first and only-ever primal urge this morning.

“You do have a pattern.”

Again, she stared at that column of bronzed flesh as if ready to reach out, take its length between her hands as if only to feel the pulse of life beneath her palms. For a woman who didn’t scare easily, she suddenly was afraid.

“I’m sorry,” she said to herself as well as to him.

He smiled. “Don’t apologize—not when you’re right.”

She’d kill him yet.

“Yes, I made up the excuse, but—” He held up an index finger. “You knew it, and here you are. Here we both are. You see, I’m what’s commonly known as a bad influence.”

She considered her murderous instincts and the man’s face too close to hers. “And you enjoy every second of it.”

His smile became laughter. She couldn’t remember when she’d ever heard such unfettered enjoyment. Her shoulders eased from the rolling wave of it alone. Such a dangerous man.

“That’s why you won’t have a drink with me?”

She realized she’d been staring at that mobile, full mouth. She stopped her own smile that had come uninvited. “Why do you want to have a drink with me?” Her voice had become as honestly earnest as his had been tempting. For a moment, the element of surprise was on her side.

“I like you.”

The surprise rebounded to her, but stayed concealed beneath her dry tone. “You like me?”

“You’re fascinating.”

She would have rolled her eyes, but she refused to show reaction. She knew good and well she was hardly the kind of woman men found fascinating. That was her sister’s department, along with the vast bevy of breathy, curvaceous beauties that after tobacco and cotton seemed to be the South’s greatest crop.

She propped her chin on her fist. “How so?”

“For starters, you’ve been the only one not to accuse me of putting evil ideas inside my brother’s head. That’s as close to a defense as I’ll get within a hundred-mile radius of these parts.”

She let him study her.

“How do you know I didn’t tell McCormick to chuck it all and take off for the wide-open spaces?”

She looked into his eyes. “I don’t.”

His laughter was so close this time it seemed to sing inside her.

“But I don’t believe in condemning a man without cause.”

“Many would say a man’s past is enough cause for conviction.”

“And I would say everyone makes mistakes. I’m not fascinating. Merely fair.”

“But that’s not all I find intriguing.”

She pressed her lips together and waited.

“With the wedding right around the corner—”

“Eleven days.”

“Eleven days.”

His smile aggravated her.

“Your fiancé scribbles you a note and hightails it out of town. Do you sob your eyes out, scream epitaphs or consider contacting someone named Carmine in New Jersey? No, you sit here cooler than my Aunt Raybelle’s prize-winning key lime pie.” His voice lowered. “Fascinating.”

She sensed his observation wasn’t entirely complimentary.

“So according to you, right now I should be a woman destroyed, collapsed somewhere, clutching my chest, writhing and wailing ‘why me?”’ she said without inflection.

He kept his voice velvet. “It would be something to see.” That damn smile.

“It might amuse you—” his smile wasn’t widening, was it? “—but I find such self-indulgence unbecoming.” Her chin still set on her fist, she examined his extravagant features. She wasn’t sure for how long—seconds or centuries. “You don’t think I love your brother, do you?”

The upper hand of surprise was again to her benefit but, as before, only fleetingly.

“You must know by now that what I think is of little importance in this family.”

“Well, I’d like to know what you think.”

He paused a moment too long while Savannah told herself she didn’t care.

“If that plucky little speech you just delivered inside was for real and you weren’t just blowing smoke to buy some time before your father puts out an APB on McCormick, then I’d say my brother is a lucky man.”

She smiled carefully, not wanting to reveal relief. “Or I’m a foolish woman?”

“People in love are always fools.” His amusement was gone, leaving only darkness on the man’s features. A darkness that could encourage the doubts Savannah had been battling since she had opened McCormick’s note.

“Anything else you would like to know about me?” She was anxious to end the interview before doubts gained strength, insisted she succumb.

He didn’t even hesitate. “Do you love my brother?”

“Land’s sake, what kind of a question is that?” Even she was surprised by the anger in her response. She should look away, conceal any unwanted emotion that might come to her features, but she didn’t dare.

“It seems like a reasonable question considering you’re about to marry him.”

She wished he’d step back from the car. “I may not be a woman of passions—”

“On the contrary, Ms. Sweetfield, I think you are exactly that.”

She scanned his face but found no mockery. Despite the fact emotions did seem to come too easily when he was around, he was wrong. She was a rational woman. “You would not ask me that question if you knew me.”

“But I don’t know you. And you only think you know me. So, do you love my brother?”

“I suppose you asked your brother if he loved me?” she challenged.

“Sure did.”

Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. He was waiting for her to ask what McCormick had answered but she had no reason to, she reminded herself. Maybe McCormick and she weren’t the type to wear their emotions on their sleeves, but their consideration and respect for one another were as real as those who waxed poetic. Of course, Cash, a man so obviously ruled by his passions, could never understand such an agreeable arrangement. Naturally, he’d be compelled to question the relationship.

“I understand your concern.” She was bolstered by the reasonableness in her voice. “And I find it endearing that you care so much about your brother.”

His unrestrained laughter shook her to her cool core.

“Did I say something amusing?”

He actually wiped away tears. “I’m sure you’ve decided by now, darlin’, I’m the most unendearing man you’ll ever meet.”

She was careful to modulate her tone. “You do have a certain gift to provoke.”

“Ahh, you see…” His eyes sparkled. “I knew beneath that collected exterior there raged a wildcat.”

She would end up throttling him before the night was over. “What you don’t understand and have not had a chance to witness is the fact that your brother and I are a perfect match. What he wants out of life, I want and vice-versa. We’ve never even had one fight. Bottom line, I can’t imagine anyone or anything better for me than McCormick. I’m crazy for him, totally wild, absolutely gaga.”

He straightened, his laughter loose. “You’ve never been gaga in your life, Slick.”

Why hadn’t she strangled him when she had the strategy of self-defense on her side? “McCormick and I were made for each other. You can ask anyone who knows us.”

He finally stopped smiling. Still she didn’t like the expression on his face.

“I’m asking you.”

“And I answered you.” She allowed no hesitation in her voice. Yet somehow he had gained the upper hand and he knew it. “Your brother will be back in two, three days tops—”

“So you said.”

“You don’t believe he’s coming back?”

“Again, it doesn’t matter what I believe. What matters is what you believe.”

“Damn straight.” She imagined fierceness in her face and struggled to smooth her features. “McCormick is coming back, and we’ll be married and incredibly, extraordinarily, blissfully happy for the rest of our lives.” She put her car into gear but Cash didn’t step away.

“Any more questions?” She called on the politeness inbred in all Southern women. She tipped her head back, matching his gaze. She didn’t like the rare soft brush of her hair against her shoulders. In the silent seconds, she heard the sound of her heartbeat.

Finally he said, “Just one.”

She braced herself.

“So, I won’t have to cancel Dee Dee and her Dancing Divas for the bachelor party?”

She used her most executive tone. “Oh, yes, you will.”

His smile returned as he chucked her under the chin as if she were no more than a child. “Good night, Savannah-Banana.”

Slick! Sis! Savannah-Banana! Not to mention the obligatory darlin’ and sweetheart. She watched him walk away, welcoming the relief, resigning herself to the irritation, surprised by a piddling curiosity. That’s as far as she dared to delve into the emotions that suddenly seemed ready to capsize her.

He turned as he reached his car. Too late, she realized she hadn’t taken her eyes off him. He rested his hand on the car’s side.

“Just so you won’t be disappointed.”

In one smooth motion, he hurdled himself behind the wheel. He looked down, back at her, wriggled his eyebrows.

“All precious parts intact.”

She fixed him with her longest stare of the night. “I don’t know if I like you.”

He grinned, all little boy now. “You like me.”

He drove off. Probably to look for the devil himself, she decided. She headed home, vowing to dream of McCormick and that they would be wonderful dreams. Instead she found herself lying wide awake in bed, contending with the fear that had threatened to topple her since she’d opened her office door that morning. She waited and waited for sleep to come. But even counting curses against Cash Walker instead of her usual recitation of fundamental strategies for achieving success in the twenty-first century didn’t do the trick.

Savanna woke the next morning without dreaming of McCormick, but the two hours sleep that had finally come were enough to restore her. With the day’s new coherency and a review of her daily planner, which was always within reach, also came the realization that she hadn’t told Cash about his fitting today. It was totally unlike her to be so inept. Only yesterday’s unusual circumstances permitted her to forgive herself and move on to fixing her blunder. Now if McCormick were here, she could simply call him and he would see his brother got to the fitting. Problem solved. Except McCormick wasn’t exactly here, was he?

She didn’t allow the thought to go any further. In the day’s new light, she refused to entertain any more doubts about her fiancé’s untimely trip.

She’d just have to make certain Cash got to the appointment herself.

“I’M SORRY, Ms. Sweetfield.” The Walkers’ maid came back on the phone line. “I knocked very loudly on his door but there was no answer.”

“Are you sure he’s in there?”

“I heard snoring, ma’am.”

Savannah released an exasperated breath as she checked the clock. No self-respecting individual sleeps until nine on a weekday. “Is anyone else home?”

“No, ma’am. Mrs. Walker just left for the salon and Mr. Walker is at the office, of course.”

“And I suppose Sam drove Mrs. Walker to her appointment?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, I doubt the bedroom door is locked. Just go in and give him a good, hard shake. That ought to do the trick.”

“Oh no, ma’am,” the other woman protested. “I couldn’t do that. He’s a grown man.”

“So he claims.” Savannah sighed again. “Listen, I’m coming right over. If, on the unlikely chance he does get up, don’t let him leave the house before I get there. He has an appointment at eleven and he’s not going to miss it.”

She arrived at the Walkers’ three-story Georgian in record time. Still, it was almost nine-forty. She’d been up for over four and a half hours already. The most Cash had probably done in that time was roll over.

She marched in as soon as the front door opened. “Which room is he in?” she asked the maid as she started up the stairs.

“Second floor, fifth door on your left, ma’am.”

Savannah reached the second-floor landing and strode down the hall to Cash’s room. She rapped on the door loudly. Without waiting for an answer, she twisted the knob. By the time Cash showered and dressed, they’d be lucky if they made the appointment on time.

“Cash?” She announced herself to the lump burrowed beneath the bedcovers. She marched to the window and threw back the curtains. She turned, triumphant. Still no sign of life from the bed. She marched to the bed, put her hand on what she presumed was a shoulder and gave it a good shake. “Cash, get up now.”

With a groan, he rolled over. His eyes still closed, he warned, “You’re gonna pay for that, Angeline.” Grabbing Savannah’s hand, he pulled her down onto the hard heat of his body.

Her mouth opened, only to be covered by his, his hands capturing the back of her head, thrust into her hair, holding her fast. He crushed her lips beneath his own, the kiss hot, urgent as if he’d been waiting his whole life for her. Shock, outrage and a sudden sense she had never been kissed before filled Savannah. Her anguish seemed to fall, matter no more beneath a passion and, heaven help her, a pleasure spreading, flowing through every inch of her, striking her senseless.

She squirmed, but her movements, the friction of muscle and flesh, were desire’s dance. An unintelligible plea came from the back of her throat, but Savannah could no longer be sure for what she begged. Her efforts had eased her lips wider, unwittingly provoking that hard, wonderful mouth deeper. She tasted a wildness, the sting of uncontrol. She stopped squirming. Her hands fisted against the sides of the body blanketed beneath her, against the heat, the power, the scorching need.

With a fierce twist of her head, she wrenched her mouth free. She held the breath that would come out as a gasp.

“You’re in bigger trouble now.” His hands reached for her once more.

“Cash!” she snapped, an inch from his face.

He opened his eyes; she filled his vision. “Whoa!” His head jerked back, surprise taking all the hooded sensuality out of his features. She wanted to jump up and run from his provocative power searing her body. She didn’t move. She’d be damned if she’d give him the satisfaction. It was too late anyway. She’d known his kiss, even though it had been meant for another and meant nothing. Yes, that was the thought she would cling to when the memory came.

She tasted her lips. “I see you had that drink after all last night.”

Amusement moved into his features. The sensuality had already returned. “You should have come with me, Savannah-Banana.”

“It’s a regret I’ll learn to live with.” With as much dignity as possible, she rolled off his body and rose from the bed. She looked down at him with perfect composure. “Get up and get dressed.”

He shrugged. “Okay, but I’ve got to warn you I sleep in the nude.” He started to push back the covers.

“I already knew that.” Savannah moved to the door, adjusting the starched collar and cuffs of her shirtwaist, as his rich laughter came. “You have a fitting at Mr. Max’s Formal Wear today. We’re to be there in less than an hour. I’ve never been late for an appointment in my life and I don’t intend to start now.” She walked from the room without another look at him.

He sank back against the pillows as the door closed, Savannah’s sweet taste and soft warmth still holding him like a dream. He had drunk too much last night for the first time in many years. Yet it was also the first time he’d been home in many years. A throbbing ache began in his head. He closed his eyes, but not to relieve the pain. No, he welcomed the pain. He closed his eyes to wipe out the memory of the moment that had just happened. Desire only strengthened. He opened his eyes, everything too real. He had wanted Savannah. He had touched his lips to hers and tasted the sweetest of promises. He threw back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He shook his head. “Hell.” He laughed again, this time at himself as the need clutched him.

Savannah made it as far as the second stair before she gripped the rail to steady herself. Still, sensation overwhelmed her. Every boundary she’d ever crafted seemed to have dissolved, leaving her vulnerable. It’d been the surprise, the shock, that’s all, she told herself. Nothing more, nothing more. Still the urgency rose.

She watched him come down the stairs twenty-five minutes later. “You forgot to shave,” she noted.

He smiled at her. “I didn’t forget.”

“I hope you at least brushed your teeth.” She turned to the door.

“Why? You gonna kiss me again?”

She spun around, angry with him, even more furious with the desire spiked by the mere suggestion. “You kissed me.”

“You kissed me back.”

“A gentleman wouldn’t—”

“Now you’re flattering me, Savannah-Banana.”

She forced her expression bland. She didn’t have to tell him how much she hated nicknames. She had the feeling he already knew.

“We keep going the way we are—” he still smiled “—and soon we’ll have a whole repertoire of anecdotes to share at family functions.”

Her hand sliced the air, dismissing him and his efforts to infuriate her. She yanked open the door. “Let’s go. I don’t want to be late.”

“Why?” He tripped down the porch stairs, easily catching up to her. “They’ll force us to wear pink cummerbunds?”

“Actually, they’re peach.” Savannah pulled open the car door.

Cash stopped dead, such a look of alarm on his face, Savannah would have smiled had it been anyone else.

“You’re kidding?”

She looked at him, confused. “They match the bow tie.”

She slid into the driver’s seat, enjoying a smile until Cash slid in beside her.

“You are kidding,” he decided.

She glanced at him, her expression betraying nothing. “Buckle up.” She put the car into gear and headed for the interstate.

“Stop.” He pointed to a mini-mart as they came to an intersection “I need caffeine.”

“There’s no time.”

“Come on.” He elbowed her in the side as if they were old school chums. “A man can’t live on love alone.”

She had an urge to rev the engine and shoot past the convenience store, but she always drove at the speed limit.

He leaned back against the seat, stretched his arms, reducing the space even further within the car. “If you’re in such an all-fired hurry to get downtown, why are you driving so slow?”

“I’m driving at the posted speed limit.” She snapped on her blinker, eased into another lane.

“Follow all the rules, don’t you, Slick?”

“That’s what they were made for, Walker.”

“Maybe, but it’s more fun to break them.”

“There’s more to life than fun.”

“Is that what you want on your tombstone?”

She decided to ignore him. In reality, she was too aware of him—his size, the movement of muscles as he shifted in his seat. The omnipresent heat, seductive as a southwest wind. Heat that she’d told herself she’d only imagined, until this morning when she’d felt it with her own body.

Fortunately they weren’t far from the heart of downtown now, having left behind the old-money estates and new-money monster mansions. Mr. Max’s was north of the city’s center among the upscale department stores and towering hotels and office high-rises. Cash groaned as they passed an advertisement for Fresh Mountain Roast Coffee.

He slumped against the seat. “All I can say is the bridesmaids better be gorgeous—each and every one of them.”

Savannah thought of her sister. Cash would be pleased. “I’m assuming then, you’re not bringing someone to the wedding?”

“Why? Do you need a date?”

Patience, Savannah, patience. “You just seemed rather fond of this Angeline person—”

“Angeline?”

The unexpected steel in his voice drew her gaze. His expression was even harder.

“That’s the name you called me when you accosted me in your bedroom. I assumed—”

“Honey, I’ve done a lot of things in a bedroom but accosting has never been one of them.”

As usual, his recovery was swift. Jaw set, she focused her attention on the traffic.

“You’re thinking you don’t like me again, aren’t you, Slick?”

Her jaw muscles locked.

“Angeline was the woman I left at the altar seven years ago.”

She swung her head to him. He was watching the passing buildings, the streets busy with people. “I’m sorry.”

He angled his head to look at her.

“Really, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I mean I knew what happened but, but—” She was actually stammering.

“The story isn’t exactly the type of fare that lends itself to amusing anecdotes at family reunions, is it?”

His barbs were rendered null and void by the pain etched in his expression.

“Why’d you do it?” Her words came without thought. Blame it on her current situation. Blame it on the loneliness she sensed beneath his laughter. She needed to know.

He shook his head. “She knew it was over. I had told her that morning.”

“Maybe she didn’t believe you?”

His words were certain. “She believed me.”

Savannah sensed he would say no more. She tried to fill in the blanks. “You were scared?” She felt her own fear, refused to let it take hold.

“Not at all. I wasn’t scared of anything back then. I was gaga about her.” He winked at her. She had to smile, her own fear falling away.

“Wild about her, absolutely wild. Followed her around hot as a three-dollar pistol.” His smile was rueful as he looked out the windshield at nothing and remembered. “It ended badly, but boy, in the beginning…it was something.”

Savannah could only nod dumbly while a faceless, nameless need rose inside her as if she were twelve again, dreaming of her first kiss. She wanted to ask more, know everything, but Cash turned to the window, his face lifting toward the bronze sunlight. “I hate this damn city,” he said.

She returned her attention to the road, started to search for parking. “They always have coffee for the customers at Mr. Max’s. Mr. Max insists it be brewed fresh on the hour, every hour. The beans are hand-ground.” It was all she could offer him at that moment.

She felt a warm gratification when she heard his chuckle.

They were ten minutes late for the fitting but no one minded except Savannah, and even she had ceased to care at that point. Cash immediately christened the owner Max the Madman and after two cups of black coffee with what Savannah thought was an excessive amount of sugar, he charmed the rest of the store’s personnel. Savannah watched him, wondering if anyone, even those who knew better, walked away from him untouched?

When he stepped from the dressing room, in classic black that instead of refining him only made his raw maleness more lethal, the assistants oohed and aahed, and even Savannah had to swallow hard twice. But when Mr. Max turned to her to second his opinion of Cash as “the most handsome best man to ever set foot in Mr. Max’s Formal Wear,” Savannah merely looked at Cash and in a bored tone, asked, “You will shave for the wedding, won’t you?”

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