An Honorable Man

Lorraine’s attention was so fixed on Roark she forgot she was in the middle of giving Priscilla her instructions. Priscilla couldn’t help but smile. Roark had that effect on women, no matter what their age.

She was sure Roark could hold his own, so she skulked past her mother and into the room where she could properly greet the bride with a dainty hug.

“You look beautiful, Marisa,” Priscilla said, meaning it. Although her cousin was still in a dressing gown, her lush, curly black hair had been piled on top of her head in a style worthy of a Greek goddess. “You’re just…radiant.”

“Thank you,” Marisa said regally. Then she whispered, “The guy is gorgeous. And you let him see you in curlers!”

“Couldn’t be avoided. You know my hair doesn’t hold a curl for more than five minutes.”

“And mine frizzes in the humidity. Remember when we used to want to trade hair?”

Priscilla nodded and swallowed hard. She hadn’t thought she would get mushy—especially because Marisa and she hadn’t been as close in recent years. They’d gone to different colleges, cultivated different friends. But they’d shared a lot when they’d been younger, including their attempts to thwart their pushy mamas.

“Come and meet everyone, Roark,” Lorraine was saying. And she performed introductions. To his credit, Roark didn’t even flinch when seven women, some of them wearing identical hideous pink dresses, all tried to introduce themselves at once. Three of them were already married, yet to a woman they eyed Roark with predatory interest.

Even the prospective bride, who should have had thoughts only for her groom, sparkled a bit as Roark was introduced.

“Thank you so much for coming,” Marisa simpered. “It’s such a pleasure to have you at my wedding. I’ve seen you on TV.”

“The pleasure’s mine.” His voice was low and sexy as he shot Priscilla a look that could melt cold steel.

Again Priscilla was sure everyone in the room read between the lines and knew they’d slept together. This was not what she’d asked him to do.

“Well,” Roark said briskly, “I’ll let you ladies get back to…whatever it is women do before a wedding.” Every female in the room but Priscilla giggled—even her aunt Clara, who was normally about as giggly as a Star Wars storm trooper.

Priscilla walked him to the door. “You’re supposed to be devoted and besotted,” she whispered, “not hot to trot. Try to remember the difference!”

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