The Bride Means Business Read online

  “You Know What I Missed All These Years I Was Away From You?”

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  Books by Anne Marie Winston

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  “You Know What I Missed All These Years I Was Away From You?”

  Dax asked Jillian, his expression strangely intense.

  She looked at him sharply. “What?”

  “Memories and someone to share them with.”

  Her eyes, wide and blue as a summer sky, were luminous as she nodded.

  “I feel alone, too,” Jillian said with an odd tone in her voice. Abruptly she turned away. “Let’s just forget it, Dax.”

  He stepped closer, standing directly behind her without touching her. “I’ve discovered that I like remembering.”

  “I don’t. It’s better just to forget things.” There was such sadness in her voice that he turned her to face him. Slowly he drew her to him. She didn’t resist, and gently Dax pressed her head against his shoulder.

  And for the first time since he’d set foot in town again, Dax felt as if he had truly come home....

  Dear Reader,

  Spring is in the air—and all thoughts turn toward love. With six provocative romances from Silhouette Desire, you too can enjoy a season of new beginnings...and happy endings!

  Our March MAN OF THE MONTH is Lass Small’s The Best Husband in Texas. This sexy rancher is determined to win over the beautiful widow he’s loved for years! Next, Joan Elliott Pickart returns with a wonderful love story—Just My Joe. Watch sparks fly between handsome, wealthy Joe Dillon and the woman he loves.

  Don’t miss Beverly Barton’s new miniseries, 3 BABIES FOR 3 BROTHERS, which begins with His Secret Child. The town golden boy is reunited with a former flame—and their child. Popular Anne Marie Winston offers the third title in her BUTLER COUNTY BRIDES series, as a sexy heroine forms a partnership with her lost love in The Bride Means Business. Then an expectant mom matches wits with a brooding rancher in Carol Grace’s Expecting.... And Virginia Dove debuts explosively with The Bridal Promise, when star-crossed lovers marry for convenience.

  This spring, please write and tell us why you read Silhouette Desire books. As part of our 20th anniversary celebration in the year 2000, we’d like to publish some of this fan mail in the books—so drop us a line, tell us how long you’ve been reading Desire books and what you love about the series. And enjoy our March titles!

  Regards,

  Joan Marlow Golan

  Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Silhouette Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  THE BRIDE MEANS BUSINESS

  ANNE MARIE WINSTON

  Books by Anne Marie Winston

  Silhouette Desire

  Best Kept Secrets #742

  Island Baby #770

  Chance at a Lifetime #809

  Unlikely Eden #827

  Carolina on My Mind #845

  Substitute Wife #863

  Find Her, Keep Her #887

  Rancher’s Wife #936

  Rancher’s Baby #1031

  Seducing the Proper Miss Miller #1155

  *The Baby Consultant #1191

  *Dedicated to Deirdre #1197

  *The Bride Means Business #1204

  * Butler County Brides

  ANNE MARIE WINSTON has believed in happy endings all her life. Having the opportunity to share them with her readers gives her great joy. Anne Marie enjoys figure skating and working in the gardens of her south-central Pennsylvania home.

  For Foxy

  1979-1998

  It still seems as if you just left me yesterday.

  Purr in peace, my Old Girl.

  One

  A drop of sweat slipped between her shoulder blades, caught for a moment on the barrier of her bra, and then slithered on down the very middle of her back. As Jillian Kerr negotiated the uneven ground in her very high heels, her black summer suit felt as if it had turned to heavy wool. The sun was bright, and beneath her fingertips, the dark jacket of her escort felt hot.

  After a week of rain, Baltimore had enjoyed three gorgeous days of nice weather, the wonderful Indian-summer weather for which mid-Atlantic Septembers were famous. The ground had dried, the grass was thick and green, summer birds still spread their song on the air.

  Jillian didn’t notice any of it.

  The twin graves were a freshly slashed scar in the expanse of mown lawn as she walked around them to the canopy where the graveside service would be conducted. She released the arm of the friend at her side, and he dropped back to stand behind her with other friends from the stores near hers as she took a seat, alone, on the folding chairs reserved for family.

  Only there was no family. Other than her, and she didn’t really count. She and Charles had grown up together, were practically sister and brother, but in the most accurate sense of the word, they hadn’t been related. And Alma, Charles’s wife, was an only child of deceased parents, so there was no one there to represent her, either. Jillian was the only family there was left to mourn either of her two dear friends.

  Well, that wasn’t strictly true; there was other family. She had sent a very correct and courteous facsimile to share the sad news. But in her heart she was sure that she was the only one who would care enough to show up here today.

  Carefully, she sidestepped the land mines in that train of thought and came out on the other side of sorrow as the minister began the service and the hushed voices in the crowd quieted. Her eyes stung, and she blinked once, shaking back her mane of blond hair and staring fixedly past the identical white caskets at the trees on the far side of the hill. She didn’t cry. Ever. She repeated the words over and over as the clergyman eulogized Alma Bender Piersall and Charles Edward Piersall, local businessman, tireless community volunteer, active church member, generous contributor to many charities and her dearest childhood friend.

  Charles Edward Piersall also had been responsible for the devastating sequence of events that had taken her only chance at love and made her who she was today. And still, even though she probably should have hated his sorry butt, her memories of Charles were warm and filled with love.

  They’d ridden tricycles and bicycles together, played kick-ball and climbed trees. They’d gone skinny-dipping in the creek as teens until his father found out and tanned their fannies, criticized each other’s dates and walked arm-inarm to their high school graduation ceremony. They’d been there for each other during the darkest periods in each of their lives. And although she hadn’t seen as much of him in recent years, the knowledge that Charles had been just across the city had been a sort of lifeline, an anchor when the loneliness threatened to overwhelm her.

  A ripple of whispering in the crowd behind her caught her attention and she glanced around, annoyed at the commotion. preparing to quell the chatterers with one of her best freezing stares. Honestly, people today had no sense of propriety. Or plain good manners.

  Movement caught her eye. It was—it couldn’t be! As she recognized the dark head surging toward the front of the crowd, for one strange moment the ground rose up at her, tilted crazily, and settled back down only when she took a deep breath. She whipped her head
back and faced front again, just as Charles’s older brother Dax—Travers Daxon Piersall the Fourth, if you please—stepped from the crowd and walked to her side, folding himself into the chair on her right.

  Oh, God. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Panic rose. She nearly bolted from her chair before she remembered where she was, and she forced her quivering muscles to stillness. Flight was not an option. Besides, she told herself grimly, you aren’t the one who makes a habit of running away. That thought brought forth such a surge of unexpected rage that she clenched her hands into fists, fighting the resentment and hurt that had hardened into pure hatred years ago. She’d be damned if she’d let Dax’s unexpected, unwanted arrival chase her away.

  The buzz of conversation grew fiercer, and in her peripheral vision, she saw his head turn. And the crowd grew quiet.

  Why, oh, why hadn’t he gotten flabby around the middle or worn bottle-thick glasses? Walked with a cane. Been follically challenged? Any little flaw would have done.

  She hadn’t taken more than that one horrible glance of identification, but it had been enough to show her that Dax hadn’t lost one iota of his looks. If anything, his dark masculine presence had only intensified in his years away, and his shoulders looked as broad and strong as ever. The long thigh resting just to the right of her own, mere inches away, stretched taut over lean, muscled flesh hidden beneath the sober dark suit pants. A memory of that thigh, and the ecstasy it had brought pushing between her own, tried to roll across the mental screen in her head, and she ruthlessly chopped it into a million pieces.

  Thank God she hadn’t let her own figure go. Thank God. She looked damn good and she knew it. Her body was in great shape, courtesy of her never-ending calorie-counting, the stair machine, the free weights and legions of expensive skin lotions and hair appointments. Her nails were flawlessly lacquered in an appropriate, understated pale peach, her hair perfectly styled, and her black summer suit, bought during a terrific sale at a cute little boutique at Owings Mills Mall, fit every slender, sculpted, hard-earned curve perfectly.

  Damn him. If only he’d wilted a little around the edges of his youth and good health. It would have been wonderful if she could have looked at him, this man she’d loved and had planned to marry, and wondered what she’d ever seen in him in the first place. Instead, she could barely breathe, and her heart was galloping away, leaving the rest of her to be dragged along behind by a stirrup.

  The crowd behind her murmured, “Amen,” and she realized they’d come to the conclusion of Charles’s and Alma’s funeral service. The minister stepped aside and she rose to do her part.

  Beside her, Dax also stood. As she moved forward with two yellow roses, a last token of her friendship, he slipped his hand beneath her elbow, wrapping long fingers around her upper arm and holding her firmly against his side.

  She cast him a furious glance, tugging her elbow away, but he didn’t let her go. For the first time, their eyes met, and the cynical amusement she read in his black eyes made her grit her teeth so hard she heard them grinding together. If he thought he was going to force her into making a scene here, he was sadly mistaken. She’d come to pay her last respects to his younger brother—

  Charles. Oh, God, Charles and Alma. The fight went out of her and she had to lock her knees against the sudden weakness that threatened.

  The reason for Dax’s presence exploded in her mind again. Charles couldn’t be dead, couldn’t be lying in cold abandoned silence in that white box. He was the only person in the whole world who knew everything there was to know about Jillian Elizabeth Kerr, and she needed him. She needed his undemanding friendship, the total support he’d always offered, the shoulder for her tears.

  And Alma. Sweet, gentle Alma. Charles hadn’t expected to love her, but she’d been the best thing that could have happened to him, and she’d accepted Jillian’s place in his life as easily as she would have a real sister. Alma’s shoulder also had been dampened by tears, though Jillian had stopped shedding them years ago.

  But those tears were trying desperately to get out today. She pressed her lips together to still their quivering, standing silently for a moment before leaning forward to lay down her offering atop each casket, then moving aside so others could pay their respects.

  Dax’s fingers touching her arm burned through the suit cloth and as soon as she wasn’t the focus of attention any more, she did yank her arm away. “Get your hands off me, Dax, unless you want to lose those fingers.”

  They had moved out into the sunlight, and his perfectlycut black hair gleamed, so deep a midnight hue that not the slightest trace of copper or indigo highlight would dare show itself. He looked every inch the successful American male. He chuckled at her words, though there was no humor in the sound, and his deep voice raked over exposed nerve endings like sugar on a bad tooth. “I’m glad to see you’re as charming as ever, honey-bunch. I just got into town. Aren’t you going to fall all over me and welcome me home?”

  “You’re about seven years too late.” She could have cut out her tongue as soon as the words came out—the last thing she wanted was for him to think his leaving had bothered her so much she still remembered it. But the old endearment had rattled her, brought memory nudging again at the door closed and locked on that chapter of her life.

  His eyes narrowed, and something dark and scary moved beneath the polished charm for a moment, making her almost—almost—step back. But she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

  His eyes cut toward the coffins behind them. “Shame about old Charlie. And his wife. I never met her but she really must have been some hot number, for him to drop you like a hot potato.”

  Monster. How could he talk so callously about his own brother? The fist around her heart squeezed painfully, but all she said was, “Alma was very special. Charles cherished her.”

  The inverted Vs of his dark eyebrows lifted. “I bet that really ticked you off. Or did he keep you around for a little side action when things got dull?”

  Her brain ingested the words, rolled them around and tried several times to connect them before she realized what he meant. “You bastard. Don’t make assumptions about my life. You don’t have a clue what Charles and I felt for each other. Oh, excuse me—” she nodded graciously as if something had just occurred to her “—I forgot. You’re better at assumptions than you are at commitments.”

  She was standing almost toe-to-toe with him now, although it was hard to look him in the eye without tilting her head backward since he was so much taller than she. The dark thing in his eyes flickered and flared to life, and she recognized contempt, and a rage as deep as her own.

  “Jill?” The husky feminine voice carried a note of worry. “What’s wrong?”

  Jillian turned. Her sister Marina was rushing toward her, practically dragging her husband Ben along in her wake.

  Jillian moved toward her, taking her hands and slowing her to a halt. “Nothing’s wrong.” She made an effort to focus. “Except that we’re standing at a funeral for two people who never should have died so young.” She heaved a sigh, aware that Dax was still behind her, but planning to ignore him. Permanently.

  “Marina. Have I changed that much?” She should have known Dax wouldn’t slink away quietly. No such luck. He came up beside them and took Marina’s hands from Jillian’s, a smile so much warmer than the hateful greeting Jillian had received sliding across his tanned features that she blinked and stared.

  Then she realized her sister was looking at her for help, her pretty face clouded by the knowledge that this was someone she should know.

  “Um, Marina, this is Dax Piersall, Charles’s brother.”

  Dax was already opening his mouth to ask a question when she turned to him. “Marina was in an accident a few years ago that caused her to forget some things. She doesn’t remember much of her childhood.”

  “Charles’s brother?” Marina’s wide blue eyes filled with tears as she gripped Dax’s hands. “I didn’t know Charles had any fami
ly. I’m so sorry—”

  “Don’t be.” Dax’s words were a whip that halted the flow of words midstream. “We hadn’t seen each other in years. We weren’t close.” He shot a glance at Jillian and an expression very near a sneer distorted his face. “Not like Charles and Jillian were close.”

  “Stop it, Dax,” she said coolly. “You can snipe at me all you like, but at least try not to be a bore to the rest of the world.”

  There was a flat, dead silence. Then Dax drew a breath and looked at Marina again, and again, Jillian noticed his expression softened. “I’m sorry you don’t remember me. We had some good times together when we were kids.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” she said softly. Turning, she drew her husband forward. “This is my husband, Ben Bradford. Ben, Dax Piersall, who apparently is one of my childhood friends.”

  Jillian’s brother-in-law thrust out his hand and gripped Dax’s, but she noticed Ben wasn’t smiling. Neither was Dax, and the similarities between the two men struck her suddenly. Both were quite tall, strong without being bulky, dark-eyed and black-haired—although Ben’s hair was a warmer shade, and there were traces of silver at his temples that Dax hadn’t acquired yet. Unless he colored them, she thought nastily.

  Both men also exuded an aura of raw power, a force field of some kind of personality energy that other people recognized and deferred to instantly. Except for those who happened to be named Jillian Kerr.

  Ben stepped back from the handshake, clearly dismissing Dax. “You’ll have to excuse us,” he said to Jillian. “I have to get Marina home. She needs to get out of this heat and rest.”