The Substitute Bride (The Great Wedding Giveaway Series Book 7) (19 page)

“I was just
wondering
...”

He surged, full and hot and ready, defenseless in her hands.  She angled her fingers, and caressed the spot that always brought him home.

“...if you would like to marry me.”

His head shot up, but it was already too late.  His hips jerked.  He cried out once, and then he was throbbing helplessly against her fingers.  His powerful, pulsing release mingled with the foaming white soap and the warm, streaming silver water.

When he was finally spent, but still bowed and racked with aftershocks, she put her forefinger under his chin, lifting it so she could kiss his wet, wonderful mouth.  The mouth, and the man, she loved.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said.

––––––––

The End

––––––––

I
f  you loved
The Substitute Bride
, you won’t want to miss Kathleen’s
His Defiant Princess
!

“S
o...before we go any further, Ms. Tinley, we should talk about your fees. I assume you’ll want a retainer.”

Brenna Tinley, the co-owner of Tinley-Arden Public Relations, gazed at the man across the desk and raised her eyebrows, surprised. A retainer? That was premature, wasn’t it?

Joseph Denning, the Secretary of Tourism for the tiny island kingdom of Cornetta, had come in twenty minutes ago to request help salvaging his reputation, but she hadn’t yet agreed to represent him. Frankly, she wasn’t sure she would.

When she didn’t answer, Denning delicately touched his jacket, as if feeling for his wallet, and gave Brenna a polished smile he obviously assumed would sweep away her doubts. “Perhaps five thousand?”

Willow Arden, Brenna’s business partner, made a small choking sound. Willow had been sitting quietly in the other office chair, but now she straightened her spine, beating her fountain pen nervously against her palm. She stared at Brenna, obviously willing her to say yes.

Denning would be a good catch. He not only had a high-profile job in the Cornetta government—he also owned a huge chunk of the Isle of Green, one of the smaller islands in the Cornetta chain. He had very deep pockets.

Tinley-Arden could use a client like that. A dozen clients like that.

Yes, yes
. Five thousand would be
perfect
.

Brenna refused to meet her partner’s gaze. Willow
always
wanted to say yes—especially since she got pregnant last year. The analytical young research professional who had flown with Brenna from Chapel Hill, North Carolina, across the ocean to the kingdom of Cornetta, had changed overnight. She was now a nervous single mom obsessed with financial security.

Brenna was pretty sure Willow would agree to take on the devil himself, as long as the check for his retainer didn’t bounce.

Brenna was the complete opposite. She refused to represent anybody who carried even a whiff of sleaze. Her picky temperament had earned Tinley-Arden the reputation of being exclusive and classy. But it had also slowed their growth. Unfortunately, even in this fairy tale kingdom, sleaze was a lot more common than class.

Brenna eyed the career politician in front of her, trying one last time to read his character. Though she could usually make these judgments in a nanosecond, today she was having trouble.

On the surface, the situation was simple enough. Rumors were swirling that Denning was on the take. His enemies whispered that he’d accepted payola from the cruise line seeking parliamentary approval to access Cornetta through the Isle of Green.

The Cornetta royal family, as well as many ordinary Cornettans, were adamantly opposed to the introduction of big ships, which would bring jobs, yes, but at a huge environmental price. The tiny Isle of Green was the gem of the Cornetta chain. It was the island closest to the coast of France, and the mountains of its larger island neighbor, Shearwater Key, sheltered it from the turbulent forces in the Bay of Biscay.

Birds, deer, fish, trees, flowers...species thrived on Green that were never glimpsed anywhere else. The water was blue and clean, the air pure, the forests lush. The way of life was simple, as if the nearby mountains kept all winds away, even the winds of change.

Denning insisted the rumors were malicious falsehoods. He didn’t deny he was in favor of the cruise ships, but only for the economic boost. He denied any impropriety. He wanted Tinley-Arden to help him convince the Cornettan public, and the queen, of his innocence.

His indignation sounded heartfelt. Plus, he was a charming and handsome man. It would be easy to promote him. But under that polished charm there was something....

“Miss Tinley?” Denning tilted his head and raised one eyebrow. His hand still hovered over his lapel. “I assume you’ll accept a check?”

And suddenly, just like that, Brenna knew why she was waffling. The problem was...Denning looked a little like her father.

Five years ago, Andrew Tinley had suffered a freak heart attack and died two minutes later. Just two minutes, that’s all it had taken to erase that strong, witty man, the rock of Brenna’s life. She still hadn’t fully recovered.

But Denning wasn’t her father. Her gut had been trying to tell her that, ever since he walked in the door. He was a crook.

She leaned back in her chair, finally able to relax. Problem solved. She always, always followed her gut. Only twice in her life had she been young enough—and stupid enough—to ignore her instincts. Two spectacularly foolish times. Once when she married Mark. And once when she met Ronan, the prince of Cornetta...

Both times had ended in heartbreak. But at least she’d finally learned her lesson.

“I’m so sorry, Secretary Denning,” she said, setting down her pen and snapping shut the leather folder in which she’d been taking notes. “I’m afraid our calendar’s too crowded to take on another client right now.”

Denning frowned. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. I don’t think my situation will demand much of your time, and—”

Brenna rose. “I’m sorry, Secretary. I’d be glad to recommend another firm, if you’d like. There are several excellent PR companies in town.”

Denning’s handsome face didn’t look quite as charming anymore, as his cheeks flushed red, and his eyes narrowed. He didn’t beg, but while she and Willow escorted him to their secretary, Georgie Graves, whose desk was near the door, Brenna could feel his anger radiating out like lasers.

He refused to shake hands as he left, rigid with thinly veiled contempt. To think an insignificant firm like theirs would be foolish enough to pass up such a prize!

When the door finally shut behind him, Brenna turned to Willow with a shaky laugh. “
Whew
. That was a close call. Can you imagine if we’d agreed to represent that ego?”

“I can imagine lots of things.” Willow’s normally melodic voice was like sandpaper across cactus. “If you’d accepted his check, I could imagine being able to finally put a little money into Maisie’s college fund.”

Brenna glanced at Georgie. Luckily, the secretary had gone back to typing, with earbud cords dangling around her cheeks, her shoulders swaying to music only she heard. And Tyrone, their office manager/tech department, worked only Tuesday and Thursday.

This was Monday. So their argument was probably private, even though they weren’t technically alone.

Brenna shook her head. “Oh, come on, Willow. It’s not that bad. Maisie’s only six months old. It’s not the eleventh hour for college yet.”

Willow didn’t argue. When they’d started this firm, they’d agreed that both partners would have absolute veto, uncontested, over any new clients.

Brenna had just exercised hers.

The rule was a good one. They were strong-willed women, and with no third partner to break tie votes, power struggles could have brought the business to a standstill.

They weren’t always at loggerheads, of course. She and Willow had a lot in common. They were lifelong friends, North Carolina gals, only children who’d grown up with no mothers and had recently lost their fathers. They’d come to Cornetta together five years ago, when both their lives had been in desperate need of rebooting.

They both loved the ocean, seabirds, greasy pizza and roller-skating. They both adored their little rental cottage, where the back garden tumbled down to the beaches of Port Thimble, and from there to the Bay of Biscay.

But they were polar opposites in almost every other way. Willow was tall, dark, beautiful but stern—a realist who planned and replanned, then planned again. Brenna was short, blonde, pretty but not imposing. She depended on intuition, and had always been inclined to be idealistic and spontaneous.

And yet, somehow, they made it work. Mostly, they were a good team, their strengths offsetting each other’s weaknesses. Generally speaking, Brenna was Tinley-Arden’s public face, while Willow’s steel-trap brain handled logistics, research and behind-the-scenes details.

Unhappy to have caused a rift, Brenna watched as Willow went to the window, picked up her crystal paperweight, and began turning it over in her hand.

That paperweight was Willow’s worry stone. It meant she was deeply upset.

Oh, what a way to start the workweek. Talk about a blue Monday.

“Willow, I’m really sorry.”

Willow didn’t appear to have heard, though she stood only twenty feet away, staring out the window on the east wall, the one that looked out onto the busy Bay Boulevard. Her dark hair glistened in the sunlight, and her pale face was as immobile as if she’d been carved from marble.

“I’d love to have a new client, too.” Brenna tried again. “But Denning is awful. You know he is.”

Still no answer.

“You’ve read the newspaper articles. He’s corrupt. Working for him would’ve tainted our business forever, even if we were successful enough to repair his image. Heck,
especially
if we were successful. Then every sleazeball in the kingdom would be knocking at our door, looking for the same miracle. We’d end up the Johnnie Cochran of public relations.”

She hoped that last comment, at least, might tease a smile out of Willow, but no such luck.

“Oh, never mind.” Willow set the paperweight slowly back down on her desk. “I guess I understand why you said no.” She leaned her hip against her desk wearily. “Honestly though, Bee, your darned ethics could bankrupt us one of these days.”

Brenna nodded. “But so could a lack of them.”

In the silence that followed, Brenna didn’t mention her ex-husband. She didn’t have to. The fact that Mark was still in prison for embezzlement and fraud wasn’t something they were likely to forget. Six years ago, his public relations firm,
their
firm, had been a rising star in the industry—and today Brenna was still paying back the clients she’d unwittingly helped him rob.

Willow didn’t seem to want to go there, either. Picking up the remote, she turned on the television on the far brick wall, one of a bank of three they used to monitor local news and clients. She surfed a little, clearly hoping to find a safe change of subject. After a minute, she started to chuckle.

“Ah,
the rogue prince
. Now here’s something we can agree on. The medieval absurdity of royalty.”

Brenna looked over—and instantly regretted it. All three screens were tuned to the same station—the Unified Isles of Cornetta Broadcasting, or Uck-bee, as the locals called it.

Uck-bee always devoted far too much airtime to The Monarchy Watch. Right now, they seemed to be covering a local artist exhibit at the museum, not because the art was significant, but because members of the royal family were in attendance.

For several minutes, the camera trailed Queen Esme slavishly. She was lovely, tranquil and surprisingly young to be the mother of two grown sons. She always got her share of attention.

But the main attractions of The Monarchy Watch were her two gorgeous, glamorous princes, Emory and Ronan. The instant the cameraman spotted Ronan standing off to the side, the focus shifted, and the rogue prince, as the tabloids loved to call him, took the spotlight.

What a sexy, unapologetic rascal he was, tilting his head first one way, then another, as if trying to figure out the painting in front of him—which was, admittedly, rather bewildering. Then he grinned at the camera, and for a moment Brenna caught her breath. It was as if he was grinning straight at her, as if it amused him to meet her here.

Even in a video, he crackled with life. At thirty, he was long, lean, trimly athletic, graceful in that way that said he was the master of every muscle he owned.

His face was mobile and intelligent. His dark brown eyes somehow managed to smolder and twinkle simultaneously. And they were about twice as big as they should have been, set in a fringe of black lashes so thick and long they looked fake.

And that smile. Wolfish, adorable, a smile that leaped off the screen and landed right at the bottom of Brenna’s belly. It lay there, warm and tingling, like something alive.

The intensity of her reaction to him always surprised her. It had been nine years since she spoke to Ronan Vicenza....or Ron Vee, as he’d called himself then. Nine years since she’d touched him...