Wedding Fever

“What will you do if I marry you?” About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN Copyright

“What will you do if I marry you?”

A little smile curved his lips. “Make slow, delectable love to you until—”

Heat scorching through her, she croaked, “I mean about Dad.”

“As soon as he’s my father-in-law, the business and the house will be his again.”

“That’s very generous,” she said slowly.

“I’m sure you’ll be worth it,” Nick retorted sardonically.

“You don’t really want me for a wife. You just want to use me as a...a sex object, to rid yourself of an obsession.”

“Would you rather I said I loved you?”

LEE WILKINSON lives with her husband in a three-hundred-year-old stone cottage in Derby-shire, England, which gets cut off by snow most winters. They both enjoy traveling, and recently, joining forces with their daughter and son-in-law, spent a year going round the world “on a shoestring” while their son looked after Kelly, their much-loved German shepherd. Her hobbies are reading and gardening and holding impromptu barbecues for her long-suffering family and friends.

Wedding Fever

Lee Wilkinson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

THE letter that was to turn Raine Marlowe’s life upside down came out of the blue.

She and her father were eating breakfast in White Ladies’ white-walled, black-beamed morning room. September sunshine, golden as honey, bathed the garden and poured in through the lattice windows.

Raine, blissfully unaware of the coming upheaval, was putting marmalade on her second piece of toast while Calib, as black and glossy as her own hair, his cat’s eyes as green as her own, sat on the window-sill like a statue, the low sun gilding his fur and turning his whiskers to fine gold wire.

‘Only one this morning,’ the housekeeper announced cheerfully as she brought in the post.

Martha Deering had been with them twenty years and rated as one of the family.

‘Thank you, Martha.’

Ralph, a nice-looking man with a rugged face and a thatch of iron-grey hair, accepted the letter. Finishing his coffee, he tore open the envelope, which bore a US stamp, and drew out the folded sheet of paper.

Glancing at her father’s face as he read it, Raine saw that he looked shaken, tense. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

Taking of his horn-rimmed glasses, he said slowly, ‘A letter from Harry.’

‘Uncle Harry?’

‘Yes.’

As he passed it to her a sudden presentiment made her shiver.

She knew that the twin brothers had quarrelled and lost touch long before she’d been born, though in their younger days they had been very close, and, after leaving college, had gone into the real estate business together.

Confirmed bachelors, and well on their way to being highly successful, they had both fallen in love with the same woman—a black-haired, green-eyed, gentle beauty named Lorraine, who had been Harry’s girlfriend until she had met and fallen for his brother.

When, finally, she had agreed to marry Ralph, the brothers had split up. Ralph had kept White Ladies, the Elizabethan manor-house that had been the family home for generations, while Harry had realised enough capital to start another business and left for the States.

That had been almost thirty years ago.

The letter, which had a Boston address, was simple and to the point.

No doubt it will seem strange hearing from me after all these years. I’m ashamed to admit that only pride has kept me from getting in touch sooner. I’m aware, through a family friend, that Lorraine died a long time ago, leaving only one daughter. My own wife has been dead for many years, and I’m alone except for my adopted son, Nick. I’m still on my feet, but my health has been a problem for some time now, and the specialist has finally confirmed that I only have a few months to live. I would dearly like to see you again before I die. Will you come over for a while and bring my niece? If she can forgive an old man for being so foolishly stubborn.

At the bottom was a postscript.

If you decide to come, please make it as soon as possible. The specialist may be out on his timing...

Green eyes grave, Raine looked up to ask, ‘Will you be going?’

‘Of course.’ Her father answered without hesitation. ‘What about you?’

‘Do you want me to?’

‘It would be a pity not to meet your uncle and cousin.’

‘Then I’ll come. If we can both be away together?’

Since leaving business college Raine had been her father’s personal assistant. They went to work together each day; his office, in the little market town of Lopsley, was only ten minutes’ drive from home.

‘Certainly we can,’ Ralph said, rising to his feet. ‘Now, I’ll go into the office and deal with that side of things while you make the travel arrangements.’

‘When do you want to go?’

‘Today, if possible. As soon as we’re organised I’ll ring Harry and let him know our time of arrival.’

Raine could tell by the barely suppressed urgency in her father’s voice that all his old affection for his twin had come flooding back.

Some of that urgency rubbing off on her, she lost no time in phoning the airport, and in less than an hour they were booked on an evening flight to Boston.

The man waiting outside the international arrivals hall singled the pair out—a tall, spare, familiar-looking man accompanied by a slender black-haired beauty with wonderful Slavic cheekbones and a passionate mouth—and stepped forward.

Raine found herself looking up into a pair of long-lashed eyes the deep, dark blue of midnight—eyes of such a fascinating colour and shape that they took her breath away and made her heart do strange things.

They belonged to a tall, broad-shouldered man with a strong-boned face and thick, slightly curly hair the silvery-gold of ripe wheat.

‘Raine Marlowe?’ His voice was low and attractive, a little husky. Smiling at her surprise, increasing that electric sex-appeal by a thousand volts, he held out his hand. ‘Nick.’

The feel of her fingers imprisoned by the lean strength of his made her tremble and sent the blood racing through her veins.

Turning to shake Ralph’s hand, he said, ‘I’d have known you anywhere. There’s no mistaking the likeness between you and my father.’

While the two men dealt with the luggage and talked Raine tried not to stare at her cousin. Although she had been tipped off balance, she didn’t want to stand gaping like some star-struck schoolgirl. But that tough, handsome face, that austere yet sensual mouth, those eyes, drew her gaze like a magnet.

‘All set?’ His question made her blink and look away hastily.

‘All set,’ she replied, and thought crossly that if she didn’t pull herself together he’d put her down as a halfwit.

His sleek silver car was waiting, and as soon as he’d stowed their baggage they were off, heading into the heart of history-steeped Boston, the seventh largest city in the United States.

Indicating one of the elegant glass skyscrapers that filled the skyline, Nick remarked, ‘That’s where I have my offices. ’

‘Impressive,’ Ralph commented. ‘Harry mentioned that as well as running his companies you’ve been very successful on your own account. How difficult was it to build an international business empire before you were thirty?’

‘Not difficult at all,’ Nick answered coolly. ‘The technique was, and is, simple but effective. I buy up ailing businesses and reorganise them, cutting away the dead wood until they begin to make healthy growth...’

Raine had chosen to sit in the back, and while the men talked she stared out at the beautiful cosmopolitan city, which, though compact, had a wonderful feeling of airiness and space.

The skyline was full of contrasts. Tall skyscrapers and imposing modern buildings alternated with old steeples and clock towers and colonial landmarks.

It was a warm September evening, and as they drove towards Beacon Hill the streets seemed full of people strolling in summer dresses and short-sleeved shirts.

Red-brick mansions and narrow, gas-lit, cobblestoned streets gave the exclusive residential area, which sloped down to the Charles River, a picturesque, turn-of-the-century look.

The house Nick and his father shared was on Mecklenburg Place, one of the most elegant and charming squares, with tall shade trees and a central park. Illuminated by the streetlamps, the lacy canopy of leaves glowed with colour.

Number eight was a handsome, well-proportioned Georgian-style town-house, its front door flanked by symmetrical sash windows with rectangular panes and black-painted window-boxes full of autumn flowers.

As the car drew up outside the door it opened, spilling yellow light down the steps, and a tall, spare man with a rugged face and a thatch of iron-grey hair appeared.

Though Raine should have been prepared, it was oddly disconcerting to see a mirror image of her father.

Harry held out his hand.

Without a word, Ralph took it and wrung it. Then the two men were embracing, the warmth of their greeting wiping out the years of estrangement and separation as if they’d never been.

Raine, her eyes suspiciously bright, felt Nick’s hand cup her elbow. They exchanged a look and a smile of understanding which brought them close mentally as well as physically.

Over the next week that feeling of closeness, of unspoken communication remained, and, instead of fading, Raine’s first impression of Nick as the most wonderful man she’d ever met grew apace.

Apart from his stunning looks, she found that he was quick and brilliant and aware, with a strong character and a razor-sharp brain.

A conversation she overheard between the brothers one day proved that as well as loving him, his adoptive father respected him.

‘No one can afford to be soft in business,’ Ralph was saying. ‘There’s too many sharks about.’

‘You’re right,’ Harry agreed, and added, ‘Nick’s far from soft. Not many try to cheat or hoodwink him. The few who do, don’t last long.’

‘But he seems to be a good employer?’

‘He won’t keep anyone who’s unnecessary or who doesn’t pull his weight, but he cares about people. I’ve known him sack a man for being lazy then out of his own pocket support that man’s family until he’s found another job...’

From the first Raine had sensed a certain ruthlessness in Nick, and, falling deeper under his spell, wanting to think well of him, she was gladdened by that glimpse of humanity.

Every day she discovered more about his complex personality, about the man as a whole, and she liked what she found.

As well as an athletic build and a striking face—redeemed from film-star handsomeness by a strong nose and jaw—he had a kind of magnetism, a natural arrogance which made most women give him a second and lingering look.

Yet he was totally lacking in vanity or any kind of conceit, and, though he was quite capable of being hard and despotic, he was also caring and generous, with no petty faults or meanness of spirit.

He had everything and more that she had ever dared hope to find in a man, and, though she did her best to hide it beneath a cheerful camaraderie, the fascination he exerted intensified until he filled her thoughts by day and her dreams by night.

But she had no idea how he felt about her.

Often, when her eyes were drawn irresistibly to his face, she found he was studying her, but his cool expression gave nothing away and it was impossible to guess what he was thinking.

He took a vacation from the office and the four of them walked the Freedom Trail, saw the US Constitution, marvelled at the shimmering reflection of Trinity Church in the soaring glass of Hancock Tower, visited the Omni Theater at the Museum of Science and ate lunch in bustling Quincy Market.

With the unspoken knowledge that time was running out, they packed as much into their days as possible, and each night—after Raine had gone to bed and Nick had retired to his study to catch up on some work—the two brothers sat talking until the early hours of the morning.

One night, leaving the older men to their endless reminiscing, Nick followed Raine up the elegant staircase.

Talking casually, they paused by her bedroom door. She was smiling at something he’d said, when suddenly he bent and kissed her gently—then not gently at all.

The universe exploded in a flash of fire that was followed by a darkness like folds of thick black velvet.

When his lips had reluctantly freed themselves, he said huskily, ‘Goodnight, Raine. Sleep well.’

Closing the door of her room behind her, she leaned weakly against the panels and knew that her life would never be the same again.

That night she dreamt of white lace and orange blossom, of rice and rose petals and stained-glass windows, of living happily ever afterwards...

Next day, not being one to wear her heart on her sleeve, she did her best to maintain her usual veneer of composure. But Raine—cool, self-contained, sensible Raine—was head over heels in love, and happiness and excitement fizzed and bubbled inside her like champagne.

When, after a morning walk on the common, the four returned to Mecklenburg Place, Mrs Espling, the housekeeper, had a message from Nick’s secretary. Some business had cropped up that demanded his attention.

That evening, returning from the office in time to have a meal with them, Nick seemed unusually quiet and thoughtful.

While the two older men talked, Nick ate in silence. Raine watched him surreptitiously from beneath long lashes.

She was studying the planes and angles of that hard, lean face, the wide, mobile mouth, the strong nose and the well-marked brows, several shades darker than the thick blond hair, when he looked up and saw her.

Afraid the longing she felt was only too visible, she flushed scarlet and bent her head, allowing her black silky hair to partially curtain her face.

‘I have to go up to Maine tomorrow,’ Nick remarked during a lull in the conversation.’

‘Maine?’ Ralph raised an eyebrow.

Harry answered. ‘Donkey’s years ago I bought a lumber company and several paper mills up there. Nick takes time from his own business affairs to look after them for me.’

Nick smiled. ‘An occasional trip to Maine is no hardship. It’s a wild, beautiful state, well worth a visit. How about if we all go?’

Harry shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to count me out.’

‘What’s it like?’ Ralph asked his nephew.

‘Lakes, mountains, a spectacular rocky coastline with hundreds of small islands, charming little towns, white clapboard churches, quaint fishing villages, hidden harbours and colourful lighthouses... A lot of the sparse population live near the coast and make their living from the sea.

‘Northeast, towards Canada, is the Allagash—a wilderness of forests and swamps and waterways, where most of the logging is done.’

‘Sounds marvellous,’ Ralph said, ‘but I think I’ll stick with Boston.’

‘Why don’t you two young ones go?’ Harry suggested.

‘How about it, Raine?’ Midnight-blue eyes caught and held green:

A trip alone with Nick would be as exhilarating as jumping out of a plane at thirty thousand feet without a parachute—and as dangerous.

‘I’d love to,’ she said, and if he noticed the quiver in her voice, hopefully he would put it down to excitement.

The next day they caught an early flight up to Bangor. Then Nick, piloting the company’s small plane, which had been specially fitted with dual landing gear—wheels and floats—and extra fuel tanks, took them to the Maine wilderness.

They were to visit the site offices of the lumber company, and landed on a graded road, following a huge truck piled high with massive tree trunks held in place by chains.

Seeing that Raine was startled, Nick told her, ‘There are no airstrips out here. Either we land on water, or on one of these logging roads that belong to the company.’

He steered the plane over uneven ground and they bumped through enormous wire mesh gates and into a kind of compound, where there were several long prefabricated buildings.

Climbing the steps to what was obviously the office block, they were greeted by a short, plump, balding man, wearing a hairy checked shirt and rimless glasses. Nick addressed him as Elmo.

Raine was ushered to a hard wooden chair and plied with strong black coffee and thick slices of cake while Nick sorted out the problem that had taken him there.

Business completed, he returned to say casually, ‘We have a log cabin over at Owl Creek. Would you like to stay there for a few days and see something of the backwoods? Or would you prefer to go somewhere more civilised? ’

Without hesitation, she burnt her bridges. ‘Oh, stay at Owl Creek.’

They flew over forests of spruce, fir, pine and birch, interlaced with gleaming waterways, and landed on the mirror-like surface of Owl Lake, disturbing its evening cloud reflections.

Ringed by hills clothed in the scarlet and gold, green and bronze of ash and maple, tamarack and cedar, it was the most beautiful place Raine had ever seen.

The substantially built, single-storey log cabin was on the lakeshore about half a mile from Owl Creek. Set well back from the water, it was in the centre of a wide clearing and raised on piles, with an open veranda running along three sides and a screened porch.

Nick opened the heavy door, and, having stooped to put a match to the stove, left her to look around while he brought their luggage from the plane.

The kitchenette was fairly basic. Apart from a sink and an old-fashioned hand-operated washing machine, it had a gas cooker, which was connected, and a gas fridge, which wasn’t. But the larder was stocked with all manner of dried and tinned goods, including tins of butter and malted brown bread.

Beyond the kitchenette was a small, separate bedroom and next to that a bathroom—luxurious, Raine guessed, by backwoods standards—with a porcelain sink and bath, a shower cabinet and a flush toilet.

But most of the space was taken up by a large, attractive, open-plan room on split levels.

The living area was simply furnished with two long bookcases, a coffee-table and a comfortable black leather suite. There were boldly patterned cushions and curtains, and matching Aztec-type mats were scattered on the polished wooden floor. The huge wood-burning stove stood in a stone fireplace, and in front of it lay a shaggy bearskin rug.

To one side, on a curved, slightly raised dais, were a stripped pine wardrobe, a dressing-table, a blanket chest and a large divan.

The air was cold and held the faint mustiness of a place that had been shut up for some time, but already crackling flames were devouring the kindling and licking around the pile of split logs in the stove.

‘Like it?’ Nick asked as he carried in their cases.

‘Love it,’ she answered lightly, trying to ignore the tension between them—a sexual tension which had been growing ever since she’d agreed to come here. ‘Incidentally, the bathroom surprised me.’

He grinned briefly. ‘I’m old enough to prefer a certain standard of comfort.’

‘But how do you manage it?’

‘The water’s pumped from a well, and bottled gas provides heating and lighting. Speaking of which...’

Dusk was falling rapidly, and, after bending to light a taper, Nick touched it to the gas mantles, which lit with little plops and blossomed into yellow flowers. That done, he drew the heavy curtains over the windows, making the place cosy and intimate.

‘I’ll cook tonight,’ he said. ‘Your turn tomorrow. But first we’ll have a drink.’

While she stood by the stove, enjoying the blaze, he brought a bottle of Chablis from the larder, and, having opened it, poured two glasses and handed one to her.

As she accepted it his fingers brushed hers, and she caught her breath audibly.

Their eyes met and held. Something deep and primitive flared in his—a look that was at once a challenge and a statement of intent.

She knew without a shadow of doubt that if she didn’t want him, now was the time to make that plain. All she had to do was break eye contact and step back.

But she did want him—with a passion that made her blood run through her veins as hot and impatient as molten lava. Green eyes drowned in blue, she took a step forward.

Removing the glass from her nerveless fingers, he set it carefully on the table.

But, instead of leading her to the bed, he laid her down in front of the stove with a cushion beneath her dark head, and, stretching out beside her, kissed her eyes and her throat and her mouth with a passionate hunger that turned her very bones to water.

She was his to take then, and he must have known that, but, keeping his own desire leashed, slowly, unhurriedly, with enjoyment and finesse, he set out to rouse hers to fever-pitch.

The fire-glow gilded her creamy skin as he slowly undressed her, savouring each new discovery, erotically exploring her exquisite, sensuous body with eyes and hands and mouth.

High, perfectly shaped breasts with dusky nipples firmed enticingly to his touch, offering themselves as tempting morsels for a hungry mouth. A slender waist asked to be stroked and spanned by two strong hands. Curving hips invited leaner hips to fit into their seductive cradle.

‘You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,’ he told her huskily as he stripped off his own clothes. ‘You enchant me.’

Her body responded to his without shame, arching to his touch, welcoming him, holding nothing back.

He was a skilful, considerate lover, and, though she was a virgin, there was no pain, only a joyous acceptance and a growing, spiralling delight that finally ended in a climax so intense that she felt as if her body had imploded into a white-hot core of pure sensation.

She was lying in his arms, her head on his shoulder, her heartbeat and breathing slowly returning to normal, when he queried softly, ‘First time, Raine?’

Wondering if he preferred experienced women, she asked, a shade hesitantly, ‘Do you mind?’

‘Mind? I feel like a king!’

After that first rapturous coming together they made love morning, noon and night, as though they were on their honeymoon, leaving the bed they shared only to shower or to eat, to take an occasional walk or a canoe trip on the lake.

Nick called her, ‘My green-eyed witch,’ and told her how lovely she was and how much he wanted her.

He never said the three words Raine was longing to hear, but it was only a matter of time, she felt sure—just an initial reluctance to admit to the deepest and most binding human emotion of all.

Neither wanted that idyllic week to end, but when, all too soon, the weekend came, he sighed and said they had to return.

They got an early start. During the journey home Nick seemed silent and abstracted, but, transported by love, Raine travelled back to Boston on cloud nine, deliriously happy with the present, glowingly confident about the future.

On reaching Mecklenburg Place, they found that Harry and Ralph had gone to a ball game and that an urgent message from Nick’s secretary was waiting.

‘Damn!’ he muttered, frowning. ‘I need to talk to you—to tell you something—but I’d better go into the office first. There are some important papers I have to look through and sign.’

Taking both her hands in his, he gave them a squeeze. ‘I shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours at the most. Will you be all right on your own?’