Here Comes the Bride Read online

  “I know, Nick.”

  He went on. “The other day I had a couple reconcile. They’d changed their mind about going to court. They wanted to try to make their marriage work again.”

  “And that doesn’t happen often in divorce cases?”

  “Not often enough. But when it did, when they decided to try again, I realized I’d been focusing only on the negative instead of the beauty of the marriages that do make it. I thought of how my own marriage had crumbled and I was certain that love was a fabrication of the mind, a nonreality. I refused to look further—until I came here, Fiona. Until I looked into your eyes and saw what I would be giving up.”

  Fiona jumped up and went to him, flinging her arms around his neck. She kissed him long and hard and deep. “Oh, Nick …”

  He held her close against him, as if afraid of losing her.

  “I was miserable after you left, Fiona. I blamed that misery on everything but the real reason: you were gone. I tried a vacation, to get away. It lasted two days. Auntie mentioned you in every postcard—as if I needed any reminders that you weren’t there, that I couldn’t reach out and hold you and kiss you like this.”

  She smiled through the tears welling in her eyes. “I was every bit as miserable, Nick. I tried to work, I tried to forget you, but I couldn’t do either. I could only miss you.”

  Nick kissed her again, slowly this time, drinking her in hungrily. She tasted slightly salty from the air and the ocean.

  She tasted like forever—and forever was what he wanted with her.

  “Marry me, Fiona,” he whispered. “Marry me soon.”

  “As soon as you want, Nick.”

  Fiona could hardly wait to start showing him that love was a permanent commodity.

  And she knew just the place to start—the antique rosewood four-poster in her bedroom.

  She wanted to make love with him in it all afternoon. And all through the night. She wanted to wake up with him in the morning, knowing it was the first day of forever for them.

  She kissed her way to his ear, then whispered into it all the things she wanted to do to him in that big bed.

  Nick broke every speed limit getting back to Fiona’s shop. Making sure the “closed” sign was firmly in place, he carried her up the staircase to her apartment.

  He had no trouble locating the big bed she’d mentioned and had no trouble getting her out of her clothes. But it seemed to take an interminably long time for Fiona to get him out of his—and to check out his sexy briefs.

  Her gaze took him in, slowly, thoroughly. “Tiger stripes,” she said, smiling up at him with an ever-so-naughty curve of her lips.

  She proceeded to peel them off of him, her touch soft and dangerous. Then she led him to her bed.

  EPILOGUE

  “This is the last suitcase,” Fiona said, setting it by the front door for Nick to carry down to the car for the trip to the airport.

  She couldn’t believe that two small babies and one husband could generate that much luggage.

  “Are you sure we packed everything?” Nick asked, counting the five bags.

  “If it’s not in the suitcases, we don’t need it. Besides, if we don’t hurry, we’re going to miss our flight.”

  Fiona was ready to escape this part of Boston’s long winter and spend a few weeks in the desert. Her father and Winnie were anxious to see the twins again. It would be a family reunion. Even Camille would be there. She was coming from India and said she had wonderful news to tell everyone.

  Fiona hoped that meant there would be another wedding in the gazebo soon, like the one Winnie and Walter had had, like Fiona’s and Nick’s a few months later.

  She still smiled when she thought of her wedding day—and her wedding night. Nick could make her body sing with just his touch.

  Their love had grown, deepening into something that left no doubt in her husband’s mind that happily ever after did exist. She and Nick had created it for themselves.

  They had also created two wonderful babies that occupied their days—and sometimes their nights when colic or bouts of teething kept them awake.

  They’d long ago outgrown their small apartment over Fiona’s shop, but Fiona hated to move and give up the warmth and coziness the four of them shared there.

  She had help in the shop now—Peggy, her new assistant, who would run Antiques ’n Such while she and Nick were away. Nick had given up his Las Vegas practice. With his talents, he’d been quickly welcomed into one of Boston’s most prestigious law firms. He handled only the occasional divorce case now, having decided to move on to other legal arenas.

  “The car’s packed,” Nick announced. “Are you ready? Walter’s probably already at the airport in Vegas, he’s so anxious to see Matt and Mark.” He kissed the twins, then scooped them up, one in each arm. “I hope Walter didn’t drive that old sedan of his.”

  Fiona smiled, then reached up and met Nick’s lips. “You know Dad likes that old car. It makes him feel secure.”

  She laughed at Nick’s pained expression but couldn’t help but bask in her own wonderful feeling of security as Nick ushered his small family out the door. Her world was rich, full of enough passion and love to last a lifetime. A lifetime of loving Nick and being loved by him.

  To the Las Vegas girls—

  Barb, Diane, Ethel, and Shannon

  THE EDITOR’S CORNER

  Welcome to Loveswept!

  We have a wonderful treat for you next month: DEEP AUTUMN HEAT, the first book in Elisabeth Barrett’s sexy new Star Harbor romance series. In this sparkling and steamy story, a celebrity chef turns up the heat for a local café owner—and things start to sizzle. Featuring the wickedly handsome Grayson brothers, this story will captivate you to the very end. And don’t worry, we have the next Grayson brothers story releasing just two months after DEEP AUTUMN HEAT!

  And don’t miss Adrienne Staff’s KEVIN’S STORY and Kristen Kyle’s THE LAST WARRIOR. These enthralling reads are also available next month!

  If you love romance … then you’re ready to be Loveswept!

  Gina Wachtel

  Associate Publisher

  P.S. Watch for these terrific Loveswept titles coming soon: In August, we have Sally Goldenbaum’s delectable FOR MEN ONLY, Karen Leabo’s tender CALLIE’S COWBOY, and Linda Cajio’s thrilling JUST ONE LOOK.Don’t miss any of these extraordinary reads. I promise that you’ll fall in love and treasure these stories for years to come… .

  Read on for excerpts from more Loveswept titles …

  Read on for an excerpt from Debra Dixon’s

  Midnight Hour

  ONE

  As soon as the little girl on his emergency-room table was out of danger, Nick Devereaux stripped off his latex gloves and allowed himself one small moment of celebration. He’d beaten death again. He smiled at the child.

  “You’ll be all right, chère,” he said, his Cajun accent creeping into his speech.

  His smile faded as he thought of the two hotshot paramedics who’d brought the girl in. Tonight confirmed his hunch that a pattern was forming. Those two boys kept turning up in his emergency room with patients they should have taken to another hospital. An official reprimand seemed a little too much like an arrogant power play from the new doctor in town, so Nick decided a little heart-to-heart chat was in order. As soon as possible.

  Checking his watch, Nick frowned. Paramedics didn’t hang around hospitals very long, especially not in the ER staff lounge at Mercy Hospital. The lounge was a spartan affair, boasting only a lumpy sofa, two chairs, a tiny refrigerator, and a primitive coffee maker. No radio. No television. Just yesterday’s paper.

  “I don’t suppose they hung around tonight?” Nick asked the nurse who’d come in to check the IV.

  “Bobby and John? They might have. They just brought in Mr. Peterson. I think he really did break his hip this time. We’ve got an orthopedic resident who’s been working nights with him.”

  “Good. I’ll be in the lounge having a little
chat with Bobby and John.”

  “I’d check the waiting room first.” She grinned at him. “It’s after midnight on a Friday night. If they’re here, they’ll be clustered around the television set, trying to catch a few minutes of The Midnight Hour while they drink some coffee.”

  “Television,” Nick whispered with a shake of his head. He’d moved to Louisville, Kentucky, a couple of months ago and still didn’t understand the city’s fascination with The Midnight Hour. Of course, he’d never seen the show. “Doesn’t anybody in this city do anything else on Friday night except watch that show?”

  The nurse laughed. “Not if they can help it.” As he pushed aside the curtain to leave, she said, “Hey, Doc. You do good work.”

  Walking away, Nick looked over his shoulder and said, “Oui, but then we have no choice, you and I.”

  Rolling his shoulders eased the ache between them; he pushed open the door to the waiting room. He was bone-tired, only on his feet because he was too stubborn to close his eyes and too familiar with the wretched furniture that graced Mercy Hospital to sit down. He paused long enough to reassure the child’s parents and tell them they could see her before the staff moved her upstairs.

  The smiling couple hurried away, and Nick let his gaze sweep the depressing room. Drab green vinyl and chrome had never been favorites of his. Nor was he any fonder of gray speckled linoleum, patched so many times it resembled a crazy quilt. Institutional was the kindest adjective he could summon for the waiting room. Not warm, reassuring, or even comfortable. Just institutional. Considering the private, nonprofit hospital’s shoestring budget, the room was never likely to become anything more.

  Right now his problem wasn’t the waiting room, but the two paramedics huddled in front of the old television set. They jostled one another for position and obscured the screen from Nick’s view as he approached. Bobby, tall and thin, swore softly at the screen. John, who looked more like a surfer than a paramedic, intoned reverently, “Have mercy on my soul.”

  “Hold that thought,” Nick advised drily. “You gonna need it by the time I’m through with you.”

  Both the men whirled, but John spoke first “Hey, Doc! How’s the little girl?”

  Nick held on to his temper, deliberately making himself answer calmly. “She’ll make it. But if you’d gone down the road ten more blocks, you could have admitted that girl to a hospital better equipped for pediatric emergencies. Gentlemen, that’s the fourth patient you’ve delivered here who could have gone down the road. And I’d like to know why.”

  “The girl’s parents asked for Mercy Hospital,” John answered with a shrug. “We gotta go where the patients tell us.”

  “You expect me to believe that the parents wanted you to bring their child to this hospital?” Nick raised an eyebrow. “We can barely manage to scrounge up a pediatric blood-pressure cuff.”

  “We didn’t bring her here,” Bobby clarified with a grin. “What John’s trying to say is that the parents are from the neighborhood. The word’s out on the new doctor who likes working Friday-night shifts. The girl’s parents figured she had a better chance with you. Ten blocks up the road don’t have Nick Devereaux.” A tone from Bobby’s beeper put an end to the conversation, but as the young man backed to the door he added, “Face it, Doc, you’re beginning to get a reputation around here—a reputation for getting the job done.”

  About to sprint away, John called over his shoulder, “You look like hell, Doc. If you won’t go home, why don’t you take a load off, and let Midnight Mercy do the rest?”

  Nick waited until they’d gone before he dropped into the chair. He didn’t need to watch television. He needed eight solid hours of sleep. Closing his eyes, Nick leaned his head back against the seat. A low sigh escaped him as he finally admitted that moving away from New Orleans hadn’t changed a damn thing. He still never slept for more than four hours at a time, and he was no closer to finding a place to call home than he had been before.

  Life hadn’t felt right in a long time. Not since his world fell apart years ago. Not since a voice on a telephone informed him that his parents and his little sister hadn’t survived the accident.

  Slowly, seductively, a woman’s husky voice penetrated his thoughts of the past. It was the kind of voice that grabbed a man’s soul and turned him inside out. “I’ll do anything once, but even I won’t invite a vampire to dinner unless he promises not to bite the neck that feeds him.”

  Nick’s eyes flew open, and he stared at the water-stained tiles in the ceiling. Some masculine spark of self-preservation warned him to turn away from the siren’s voice while he still could. Laughing at the absurdity of the thought, Nick pushed himself to a sitting position and got his first look at Mercy Malone, Louisville’s hip horror queen, hostess of the Friday-night-movie showcase, The Midnight Hour.

  “Be still my heart,” Nick said aloud, and then Louisiana heat warmed his voice as he added, “Bon Dieu, chère, you could definitely raise the dead.”

  Spike heels supported legs that were probably outlawed in less progressive countries. Besides black fishnet hose, the woman wore only a tuxedo jacket, strategically buttoned somewhere in the vicinity of her waist and falling just past the sweet curve of her rump. No bra or at least not one that showed at the deep vee of the jacket.

  Nick wasn’t satisfied with guessing. It seemed suddenly important to know if she wore a scrap of sexy lace that pushed up the creamy flesh. Her hands slowly rubbed their way down her body, hinting at curves beneath the jacket before she tucked her red-tipped fingers into the pockets of the tux. Lost in the illusion she created, Nick leaned forward, resting his forearms on his wide-spread knees.

  Russet, he decided. Her hair was russet, a deep reddish brown shot with bits of gold. Definitely long russet hair, tumbled and mussed in an incredibly sexy way. Just the way he’d muss it when he made love to her. Mercy’s head was slightly tilted. One strand of hair fell artfully against her forehead and across one eye, as if begging him to reach out and push it away as he kissed her.

  When the camera zoomed in for a close-up of her face, she peered up from a tangle of eyelashes and sexuality as she said, “Don’t touch that … dial.”

  Nick let out a long slow breath. Mercy Malone was raising something, and he was fairly certain it wasn’t the dead. No wonder the male population glued itself to the television set every Friday night. He’d heard that half the female population did too.

  After seeing her, Nick understood why. Mercy might be a living, breathing male fantasy, but she didn’t buy into the fantasy. The half smile and the twinkle in her eyes appealed to anyone with a sense of humor. Unfortunately, Nick was both male and possessed of a sense of humor. He didn’t know whether to chuckle or take a cold shower.

  During the commercial, he hauled himself out of the chair, wanting to walk off some of the energy Mercy had managed to spark within him. Calculatingly, Nick scanned the waiting room as he paced, noting again the dilapidated condition of the place. To no one in particular, he announced, “If that blue-eyed angel can raise the dead, she can probably raise a few bucks for a worthy cause.” He stopped pacing. “And causes don’t get more worthy than this place.”

  Nick nodded, satisfied with the neat solution of his two newest problems—fund-raising and Mercy Malone. Engineering a meeting might take a couple of weeks, but he never doubted for a moment that he would pull it off. As he paced he began to plan his attack. First, he needed to talk with Sister Agatha, the nun who ran Mercy Hospital. If the gossip was true, that woman had incredible connections around town. She knew virtually everybody.

  Then with her approval, he’d talk to the hospital’s board members. How could they say no to any scheme that would raise money for the emergency room? Rubbing his hands together, Nick realized he was finally looking forward to the future instead of getting bogged down in the past. He had places to go and people to see, all because Mercy Malone had given him an idea and jump-started his emotional battery.

  Mercy
stared at the disaster and thanked every one of her lucky stars that a new kitchen floor hadn’t made it to the top of her remodeling list. A half hour earlier she’d climbed out of a cool shower, completely relaxed. And then disaster had struck. Or more accurately, the plumbing from hell struck and flooded her kitchen floor. Her old kitchen floor, she thought with some satisfaction, and reminded herself that this sort of thing was to be expected when you lived in a hundred-year-old house. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  Glancing at the clock over the stove, she debated calling the plumber’s answering service again. She felt a twinge of guilt for insisting they try to track him down at his niece’s dance recital, but she really hadn’t had a choice. This was the only plumber in town who advertised weekend service and had a real live voice at the end of his telephone line. The other four numbers in the phone book were answered by a recording.

  Why did disasters always happen after hours? She took some comfort from knowing that a disaster at six-thirty on a Saturday evening was probably less expensive than a Sunday-morning disaster. On second thought, any plumber pulled away from a family event was going to charge a fortune. It was either pay a fortune or stay up all night repeatedly emptying the bowl she now had under the pipe. When the doorbell sounded, Mercy smiled with relief. The cavalry had arrived! And none too soon.

  On her way to the front door, she flipped tendrils of. still-wet hair out of her face, grimacing slightly in the gilded entryway mirror. Maybe the plumber wasn’t a fan. Otherwise he’d be disappointed to meet Mercy instead of Midnight Mercy.

  When she opened the heavy, oak-paneled door, she wondered if this situation might not be one of Mother Nature’s little practical jokes. The immaculate man in front of her had obviously come straight from the recital. While she stared at the plumber-to-die-for, she remembered she hadn’t put on shoes or makeup. Her blue-jean cutoffs didn’t look sexy; they looked old, and she sincerely hoped she didn’t appear as scruffy as she suspected she might.