Wish Upon a Wedding

She chafed her arms, suddenly cold. All she knew was that another twenty years down the track she didn’t want to look back and feel she’d wasted her life.

When Russ had found all that out he’d laughed and rubbed his hands together. ‘Jo,’ he’d said, ‘I’ve just the job for you.’

And here she was.

She glanced around, her nose wrinkling.

She loved Russ dearly. She enjoyed his twisted sense of humour, admired the values he upheld, and she respected the man he was. She did not, however, hold out the same hopes for his brother.

She planted her hands on her hips. A brother did not desert his family when they needed him. Russ had been there for Mac every step of the way, but Mac had been nowhere to be found when Russ had needed him. But here she was, all the same. Mac’s hired help. She didn’t even know what her official job title was—cook, cleaner, housekeeper? Russ had dared her to don a French maid’s outfit. Not in this lifetime!

Russ needed someone to make sure Mac was getting three square meals a day and not living in squalor—someone who could be trusted not to go racing to the press. At heart, though, Jo knew Russ just wanted to make sure his little brother was okay.

Cue Jo. Still, this job would provide her with the peace and quiet to work out where she wanted to go from here.

She pulled Mac’s note from her pocket and stared at it.

There should be absolutely no reason for you to venture onto the first floor.

Oh, yes, there was.

Without giving herself too much time to think, she headed straight for the stairs.

There were five doors on the first floor, if she didn’t count the door to the linen closet. Four of them stood wide open—a bathroom and three bedrooms. Mind you, all the curtains in each of those rooms were drawn, so it was dark as Hades up here. The fourth door stood resolutely closed. Do Not Disturb vibes radiated from it in powerful waves.

‘Guess which one the prize is behind?’ she murmured under her breath, striding up to it.

She lifted her hand and knocked. Rat-tat-tat! The noise bounced up and down the hallway. No answer. Nothing.

She knocked again, even louder. ‘Mac, are you in there?’

To hell with calling him Mr MacCallum. Every Tuesday night for the last five years she’d sat with Russ, watching Mac on the television. For eight years she’d listened to Russ talk about his brother. He would be Mac to her forever.

She suddenly stiffened. What if he was hurt or sick?

‘Go away!’

She rolled her eyes. ‘“There was movement at the station.”’

‘Can’t you follow instructions?’

Ooh, that was a veritable growl. ‘I’m afraid not. I’m coming in.’

She pushed the door open.

‘What the hell?’ The single light at the desk was immediately clicked off. ‘Get out! I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed.’

‘Correction. An anonymous note informed me that someone didn’t want to be disturbed.’ It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She focussed on that rather than the snarl in his voice. ‘Anyone could’ve left that note. For all I knew you could’ve been slain while you slept.’

He threw his arms out. ‘Not slain. See? Now, get out.’

‘I’d like nothing better,’ she said, strolling across the room.

‘What the hell do you think you’re—?’

He broke off when she flung the curtains back. She pulled in a breath, staring at the newly revealed balcony and the magnificent view beyond. ‘Getting a good look at you,’ she said, before turning around.

The sight that met her shocked her to the core. She had no hope of hiding it. She reached out a hand to steady herself against the glass doors.

‘Happy?’

His lips twisted in a snarl that made her want to flee. She swallowed and shook her head. ‘No.’ How could she be happy? He was going to break his brother’s heart.

‘Shocked?’ he mocked with an ugly twist of his lips.

The left side of his face and neck were red, tight and raw with the post-burn scarring from his accident. His too-long blond hair had clumped in greasy unbrushed strands. Dark circles rimmed red eyes. The grey pallor of his skin made her stomach churn.

‘To the marrow,’ she choked out.

And in her mind the first lines of that Banjo Paterson poem went round and round in her head.

There was movement at the station,

for the word had passed around

That the colt from old Regret had got away

Regret. Got away. She suddenly wished with everything inside her that she could get away. Leave.

And go where? What would she tell Russ?

She swallowed and straightened. ‘It smells dreadful in here.’

Too close and sour and hot. She slid the door open, letting the sea breeze dance over her. She filled her lungs with it even though his scowl deepened.

‘I promised Russ I’d clap eyes on you, as no one else seems to have done so in months.’

‘He sent you here as a spy?’

‘He sent me here as a favour.’

‘I don’t need any favours!’

Not a favour for you. But she didn’t say that out loud. ‘No. I suspect what you really need is a psychiatrist.’

His jaw dropped.

She pulled herself up to her full height of six feet and folded her arms. ‘Is that what you really want me to report back to Russ? That you’re in a deep depression and possibly suicidal?’

His lips drew together tightly over his teeth. ‘I am neither suicidal nor depressed.’

‘Right.’ She drew the word out, injecting as much disbelief into her voice as she could. ‘For the last four months you’ve sat shut up in this dark house, refusing to see a soul. I suspect you barely sleep and barely eat.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘And when was the last time you had a shower?’

His head rocked back.

‘These are not the actions of a reasonable or rational adult. What interpretation would you put on them if you were coming in from the outside? What conclusion do you think Russ would come to?’

For a moment she thought he might have paled at her words—except he was already so pale it was impossible to tell. She rubbed a hand across her chest. She understood that one had to guard against sunburn on burn scars, but avoiding the light completely was ludicrous.

He said nothing. He just stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. Which just went to show how preoccupied he must have been. When most people saw her for the first time they usually performed a comical kind of double-take at her sheer size. Not that she’d ever found anything remotely humorous about it. So what? She was tall. And, no, she wasn’t dainty. It didn’t make her a circus freak.

‘Damn you, Mac!’ She found herself shouting at him, and she didn’t know where it came from but it refused to be suppressed. ‘How can you be so selfish? Russell is recovering from a heart attack. He needs bypass surgery. He needs calm and peace and...’ Her heart dropped with a sickening thud. ‘And now I’m going to have to tell him...’ She faltered, not wanting to put into words Mac’s pitiable condition. She didn’t have the heart for it.

Mac still didn’t speak, even though the ferocity and outrage had drained from his face. She shook her head and made for the door.

‘At least I didn’t waste any time unpacking.’

* * *

It wasn’t until the woman— What was her name again? Jo Anderson? It wasn’t until she’d disappeared through his bedroom door that he realised what she meant to do.

She meant to leave.

She meant to leave and tell Russ that Mac needed to be sectioned or something daft. Hell, the press would have a field-day with that! But she was right about one thing—Russ didn’t need the added stress of worrying about Mac. Mac had enough guilt on that head as it was, and he wasn’t adding to it.

‘Wait!’ he hollered.

He bolted after her, hurling himself down the stairs, knocking into walls and stumbling, his body heavy and unfamiliar as if it didn’t belong to him any more. By the time he reached the bottom he was breathing hard.

He’d used to jog five kilometres without breaking a sweat.

When was the last time he’d jogged?

When was the last time you had a shower?

He dragged a hand down his face. God help him.

He shook himself back into action and surged forward, reaching the front door just as she lugged her cases down the front steps. Sunlight. Sea air. He pulled up as both pounded at him, caressing him, mocking him. He didn’t want to notice how good they felt. But they felt better than good.

And they’d both distract him from his work. Work you won’t get a chance to complete if Jo Anderson walks away.

He forced himself forward, through the door. ‘Please, Ms Anderson—wait.’

She didn’t stop. The woman was built like an Amazon—tall and regal. It hurt him to witness the fluid grace and elegance of her movements. In the same way the sunlight and the sea breeze hurt him. It hurt him to witness her strength and the tilt of her chin and the dark glossiness of her hair.

Jo Anderson was, quite simply, stunning. Like the sunlight and the sea breeze. There was something just as elemental about her, and it made him not want to mess with her, but he had to get her to stop. And that meant messing with her.

With his heart thumping, he forced himself across the veranda until he stood fully in the sun. His face started to burn. The burning wasn’t real, but being outside made him feel exposed and vulnerable. He forced himself down the steps.

‘Jo, please don’t leave.’

She stopped at his use of her first name.

Say something that will make her lower her cases to the ground.

His heart hammered and his mouth dried as the breeze seared across his skin. It took all his strength not to flinch as the sun warmed his face. He dragged a breath of air into his lungs—fresh sea air—and it provided him with the answer he needed.

‘I’m sorry.’

He sent up a prayer of thanks when she lowered her cases and turned. ‘Are you really? I suspect you’re merely sorry someone’s called you on whatever game it is you’ve been playing.’

Game? Game! He closed his eyes and reined in his temper. He couldn’t afford to alienate her further.

‘Please don’t take tales back to Russ that will cause him worry. He...he needs... He doesn’t need the stress.’

She stared at him. She had eyes the colour of sage. He briefly wondered if sage was the elusive ingredient he’d been searching for all morning, before shaking the thought away.

Jo tilted her chin and narrowed her eyes. ‘I don’t take anyone’s wellbeing or health for granted, Mac. Not any more. And—’

‘This is my life we’re talking about,’ he cut in. ‘Don’t I get any say in the matter?’

‘I’d treat you like an adult if you’d been acting like one.’

‘You can’t make that judgement based on five minutes’ acquaintance. I’ve been having a very bad day.’ He widened his stance. ‘What do I need to do to convince you that I am, in fact, neither depressed nor suicidal?’

He would not let her go worrying Russ with this. He would not be responsible for physically harming yet another person.

She folded her arms and stuck out a hip—a rather lush, curvaceous hip—and a pulse started up deep inside him.

‘What do you need to do to convince me? Oh, Mac, that’s going to take some doing.’

Her voice washed over him like warm honey. It was a warmth that didn’t sting.

For no reason at all his pulse kicked up a notch. He envied her vigour and conviction. She stalked up to him to peer into his face. To try to read his motives, he suspected. She was only an inch or two shorter than him, and she smelt like freshly baked bread. His mouth watered.

Then he recalled the look in her eyes when she’d recovered from her first sight of him and he angled the left side of his face away from her. Her horror hadn’t dissolved into pity—which was something, he supposed. It had been scorn. Her charge of selfishness had cut through to his very marrow, slicing through the hard shell of his guilt and anger.

‘Stay for a week,’ he found himself pleading.

His mouth twisted. Once upon a time he’d been able to wrap any woman around his little finger. He’d flash a slow smile or a cheeky grin and don the charm. He suspected that wouldn’t work on this woman. Not now. And not back then, when he’d still been pretty, either.

Mind you, it seemed he’d lost his charm at about the same time he’d lost his looks. Now he looked like a monster.

It doesn’t mean you have to act like one, though.

Her low laugh drizzled over him like the syrup for his Greek lemon cake.

‘I believe you’re serious...’

Yeah? Well, at the very least it’d buy Russ another week of rest and—

What the hell? This woman didn’t know him from Adam. She had no idea what he was capable of. He pulled himself upright—fully upright—and the stretch felt good.

‘Name your price.’

He wasn’t sure if it was more scorn or humour that flitted through her eyes. She straightened too, but he still had a good two inches on her. She could try and push him around all she wanted. He—

He grimaced. Yeah, well, if he didn’t want her worrying Russ she could push him around. Whoever happened to be bigger in this particular scenario didn’t make a scrap of difference.

He thrust out his chin. Still, he was bigger.

‘Name my price?’

He swallowed. She had a voice made for radio—a kind of solid-gold croon that would soothe any angry beast.

‘Well, for a start I’d want to see you exercising daily.’

It took a moment for the import of her words rather than their sound to reach him.

Risk being seen in public? No! He—

‘During daylight hours,’ she continued remorselessly. ‘You need vitamin D and to lose that awful pallor.’

‘You do know I’ve been ill, don’t you?’ he demanded. ‘That I’ve been in hospital?’

‘You haven’t been in hospital for months. Do you have any idea how much you’ve let yourself go? You used to have a strong, lean body and lovely broad shoulders.’

Which were still broader than hers. Though he didn’t point that out.

‘And you used to move with a lanky, easy saunter. Now...? Now you look about fifty.’

He glared. He was only forty.

‘And not a good fifty either. You look as if I could snap you in half.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘I wouldn’t advise you to try that.’

She blinked and something chased itself across her face, as if she’d suddenly realised he was a man—a living, breathing man—rather than a job or a problem she had to solve.

Not that it meant she fancied him or anything stupid like that. How could anyone fancy him now? But...

For the first time since the fire he suddenly felt like a living, breathing man.

‘If you want me to change my mind about you, Mac, I want to see you walk down to the beach and back every day. It’s all your own property, so you don’t need to be worried about bumping into strangers if you’re that jealous of your privacy.’

‘The beach is public land.’ He had neighbours who walked on it every day.

‘I didn’t say you had to walk along it—just down to it.’

‘The land that adjoins my property to the north—’ he gestured to the left ‘—is all national park.’ There’d be the occasional hiker.

‘So walk along that side of your land, then.’ She gestured to the right and then folded her arms. ‘I’m simply answering your question. If you find daily exercise too difficult, then I’ve probably made my point.’

He clenched his jaw, breathed in for the count of five and then unclenched it to ask, ‘What else?’

‘I’d like you to separate your work and sleep areas. A defined routine to your day will help me believe you have a handle on things. Hence a workspace that’s separate from your bedroom.’

He glared at her. ‘Fine—whatever. And...?’

‘I’d also want you to give up alcohol. Or at least drinking bourbon in your room on your own.’

She’d seen the bottle. Damn!

‘Finally, I’d want you to take your evening meal in the dining room with me.’

So she could keep an eye on him—assess his mental state. He could feel his nostrils flare as he dragged in a breath. He was tempted to tell her to go to hell, except...

Except he might have given up caring about himself, but he hadn’t given up caring about Russ. His brother might be eleven and a half years older than Mac, but they’d always been close. Russ had always looked out for him. The least Mac could do now was look out for Russ in whatever limited capacity he could. With Russ’s health so tenuous Mac couldn’t risk adding to his stress levels.

Jo’s phone rang. She pulled it from the back pocket of her jeans. He stared at that hip and something stirred inside him. And then desire hit him—hot and hard. He blinked. He turned away to hide the evidence, adjusting his jeans as he pretended an interest in the horizon.

What on earth...? He liked his women slim and compact, polished and poised. Jo Anderson might be poised, but as for the rest of it...

He dragged a hand back through his hair. There was no denying, though, that his body reacted to her like a bee to honey. He swallowed. It was probably to be expected, right? He’d been cooped up here away from all human contact for four months. This was just a natural male reaction to the female form.

‘I don’t know, Russ.’

That snapped him back.

‘Yeah...’ She flicked a glance in his direction. ‘I’ve seen him.’

Mac winced at her tone.

‘You have yourself a deal.’ He pitched his words low, so they wouldn’t carry down the phone to Russ, but they still came out savage. He couldn’t help it. He held up one finger. ‘Give me one week.’

‘Hmm... Well, he’s looking a little peaky—as if he’s had the flu or a tummy bug.’

He seized her free hand. Startled sage eyes met his. ‘Please,’ he whispered.

The softness and warmth of her hand seeped into him and almost made him groan, and then her hand tightened about his and his mouth went dry in a millisecond.

When she shook herself free of him a moment later he let out a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding.

‘I expect it’s nothing that a bit of rest, gentle exercise, home-cooked food and sun won’t put to rights in a week or two.’

He closed his eyes and gave thanks.

‘Nah, I promise. I won’t take any risks. I’ll call a doctor in if he hasn’t picked up in a few days. Here—you want to talk to him?’

And before Mac could shake his head and back away he found the phone thrust out to him.

He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat and took it. ‘Hey, Russ, how you doing?’

‘Better than you, by the sounds of it. Though it explains why you haven’t answered my last two calls.’

He winced. ‘It’s all I’ve been able to do to keep up with my email.’ I’m sorry, bro. He hadn’t been good for anyone. Least of all his brother.

‘Well, you listen to Jo, okay? She’s got a good head on her shoulders.’

He glanced at said head and noticed how the wavy dark hair gleamed in the sun, and how cute little freckles sprinkled a path across the bridge of her nose. She had a rather cute nose. She cocked an eyebrow and he cleared his throat.

‘Will do,’ he forced himself to say.

‘Good. I want you in the best of health when I come to visit.’

He choked back a cough. Russ was coming to visit?

‘Give my love to Jo.’

With that, Russ hung up. Mac stared at Jo. ‘When is he coming to visit?’

She shrugged and plucked her phone from his fingers.

‘Why is he coming?’

‘Oh, that one’s easy. Because he loves you. He wants to see you before he goes under the knife.’ She met his gaze. ‘In case he doesn’t wake up after the operation.’

‘That’s crazy.’

‘Is it?’

‘Russ is going to be just fine!’ His brother didn’t need to exert himself in any fashion until he was a hundred per cent fit again.

She stared at him for a long moment. ‘Are you familiar with the Banjo Paterson poem “The Man From Snowy River”?’

Her question threw him. ‘Sure.’

‘Can you remember what comes after the first couple of lines? “There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around that the colt from old Regret had got away...”.’

‘“And had joined the wild bush horses—he was worth a thousand pound, So all the cracks had gathered to the fray”,’ he recited. His class had memorised that in the third grade.

‘Wild... Worth... Fray...’ she murmured in that honeyed liquid sunshine voice of hers.

‘Why?’

She shook herself. ‘No reason. Just an earworm.’

She seized her suitcases and strode back towards the house with them, and he couldn’t help feeling his fate had just been sealed by a poem.

And then it hit him.

Honey! The ingredient he’d been searching for was honey.

Copyright © 2015 by Michelle Douglas

From Ex to Eternity

“I’m good at what I do.”

Cara’s gaze skittered across his mouth, lingering. “I’m pretty aware of the breadth of your skill set.”

Her voice had dropped, turning sultry, and Keith’s body hardened in an instant. Yeah, he remembered how hot their kisses had always been.

“Are you flirting with me, Cara?”

“Not in the slightest. Your best skill is walking away, and I took copious notes. Allow me to demonstrate what I learned.”

She pivoted and walked away, leaving Keith standing alone by the pool. With a tropical storm on the horizon and a grand reopening combined with a bridal expo in two days, Cara was a distraction he could not afford to indulge.

KAT CANTRELL read her first Mills & Boon® novel in third grade and has been scribbling in notebooks since she learned to spell. What else would she write but romance? She majored in literature, officially with the intent to teach, but somehow ended up buried in middle management in corporate America, until she became a stay-at-home mum and full-time writer.

Kat, her husband and their two boys live in north Texas. When she’s not writing about characters on the journey to happily-ever-after, she can be found at a soccer game, watching the TV show Friends or listening to ’80s music.

Kat was the 2011 Mills & Boon So You Think You Can Write winner and a 2012 RWA Golden Heart Award finalist for best unpublished series contemporary manuscript.

One

Even the sandpipers were getting more action than Cara Chandler-Harris.

But she was working at this Turks and Caicos resort instead of frolicking in the crystal-blue surf with a nearly naked, oiled companion. Cara would be the sole designer showcasing her fairy-tale-inspired wedding dresses to two hundred industry professionals at a three-day bridal expo. The wedding-dress fashion show was one of the premier events and Cara Chandler-Harris Designs, which was still in its fledging stages, was poised to explode with this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for exposure.

Adding testicles into the mix would only drive her to drink.

Cara swept a glance over the woman in white silk standing before her in the Ariel wedding dress and repositioned the model to face forward. Wincing as she knelt for the four hundredth time, Cara stuck another pin through the lace-trim edging of the mermaid skirt.

“Don’t forget her heels will be five inches. Not four,” her assistant, and sister, Meredith, reminded Cara as she handed her another pin. “And yes, I checked with the airline again. The missing bag with the shoes in it will be here by four o’clock.”

“Thanks, honey. I took her heel height into account. Is Cinderella ready to go?” Cara glanced at her sister.