by Joan Reeves
STILL THE ONE
By
Joan Reeves
Still The One
Copyright 2011 by Joan Reeves
www.JoanReeves.com
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be used or reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of Joan Reeves, the copyright owner and the publisher of this book, with the exception of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person with whom you wish to share it. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for honoring the copyright laws and for respecting the author's work and her livelihood.
Cover Art Copyright 2011 by Adina B. Reeves, [email protected].
Photograph Woman Wearing Black Corset and Long Pearls, Copyright 2008 by Catalin Plesa, http://www.catalinpleasa.comby
Dedication
This book is for Micky Chamberlain Reeves, who possesses the finest attributes of any hero who ever graced the pages of a novel. Thank you, Micky, for enriching my life. I couldn't imagine my world without you.
As always, this book is for Larry. My hero. My husband. My heart. Thanks for the memories!
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Meet Joan Reeves
Excerpt, The Trouble With Love by Joan Reeves
Excerpt, Video Vixen by Elaine Raco Chase
Excerpt, In the Garden of Seduction by Cynthia Wicklund
Excerpt, Jane I'm-Still-Single Jones by Joan Reeves
Amusing Book and Author Trivia
Chapter 1
Ally Fletcher had waited six years for this opportunity. Six long years. There was no way a mere thunderstorm was going to stop her. Of course in Texas, calling this a mere thunderstorm was like saying a Texas tornado was a mere puff of wind.
She peered anxiously through the river of rain that washed down the windshield. The sluggish wipers just couldn't keep pace with a downpour that reduced visibility to zero.
Where was the church? It had to be around here somewhere. Had she already crept past the old limestone block building? In this storm, it would be easy to miss just about anything through the curtain of falling rain.
Suddenly, the church loomed out of the early evening fog like the iceberg that had sunk the Titanic. Ally slammed on the brakes and jerked the steering wheel of the rental car sharply to the right in an effort to execute the turn into the parking lot.
Big mistake.
The little blue car made the turn into the drive, but it kept on turning, spinning in a three hundred sixty degree circle. Ally didn't even have time to scream. She fought the steering wheel, but she lost. The little rental car concluded its acrobatic performance by smashing into a sleek black Jaguar parked in the line of cars along the curving driveway. The impact jarred Ally from the top of her too-tight chignon to the toes of her black patent pumps.
The rental car shuddered as if it had the chills and wheezed like an asthmatic in desperate need of an inhaler. Then the engine died without further ado. Ally released the breath that had caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat and slumped over the steering wheel. She ached all over, but she figured it was more from the stress of driving through the storm than the impact of the low-speed crash.
What a perfect ending to a perfectly horrible day!
With shaking hands, she shoved the gear shift into low and turned the ignition key to off. Even though the engine seemed as dead as last year's round-toed pumps, she yanked up the handbrake just in case. The way her luck was running, the damn car might come back to life like some kind of post-apocalyptic zombie.
Ally squared her shoulders. She didn't have time to waste on hysterics. Her flight from Dallas Love Field had landed thirty minutes late at Houston Hobby Airport due to the storm.
Desperate to get to the small town of Brookwood, thirty miles southeast of Houston, she had taken the only available car at the rental agency even though that meant contorting her five feet nine inches into a car obviously engineered for someone built more like one of the inhabitants of Munchkin Land.
Belatedly, the clerk at the rental car counter had warned her that the car's air conditioner was a little tricky. Tricky? Inoperable would have been a more accurate label.
Somehow, she'd negotiated Houston's flooded streets, and, in record time, for rush hour traffic, that is, she'd reached her exit.
By the time Ally had skirted through the Clear Lake area and turned onto the two-lane, black-top road leading to Brookwood near the bay, the rainy June evening had become a steamy experience in the confines of a car about as roomy as a can of tuna. The so-called tricky air conditioner had conspired with Houston's humidity to melt her carefully applied makeup. And now this!
Disgusted, Ally smacked the steering wheel with her palms. She'd just leave the darn car where it was, right front fender smack dab up against the left rear fender of the Jag. She'd take care of this problem, and the sure-to-be irate owner of the Jag, later.
Ally yanked the door handle upward. Nothing happened. The door didn't budge. She groaned. "I don't have time for this," she complained aloud. Exasperated, she pulled hard and shoved with her shoulder at the same time. The door flew open. With a startled cry, Ally fell out into the rain.
Instinctively, she broke her fall with her hands. The asphalt was cold, hard, and wet. She earned herself two abraded palms for her efforts. Her arms felt as if they'd been slammed into, well, cold, hard asphalt. Really angry now, at the lousy car, the rain that drenched her, the rush hour traffic, and the phone call that had started this insanity, she scrambled to her feet. Cursing, she impulsively kicked the offending door with her right foot.
"Owww!" She yelped. But the door slammed and stayed that way. Hopping on her left foot, she realized that cursing in front of a church would have had her grandmother washing her mouth out with soap. Chagrined, and in pain, she moaned, "Can this day possibly get any worse?"
As if the universe answered her, the rain intensified, pelting her with even greater force. Ally blinked and shielded her eyes. This was all Burke's fault. She hadn't seen the blasted man in six years. Six years of a quiet, orderly life. But from the moment her grandmother had mentioned his name today, her world had begun to tip crazily on its axis.
"You're going to pay for this Burke Winslow!" She muttered, shivering in the pouring rain. Limping to th
e church steps, she winced with pain each time her right foot made contact with the pavement.
Her expensive black silk sheath offered no protection from the weather. She thought longingly of the dress's matching jacket, lost somewhere during the mad dash from Dallas to Houston. And her shoes! Her beautiful, sexy black patent pumps that she'd paid way too much for were ruined. It was all Burke Winslow's fault.
When she'd conceived this plan, Ally had pictured herself arriving at the church and looking as if she'd stepped off the pages of Vogue. Instead, she probably looked like a newspaper photograph of someone who'd been caught in a mudslide.
With her foot throbbing and rain dripping from her hair and her dress, she shoved open the iron-hinged double doors of the church.
This wasn't how this scene was supposed to play out. She should be looking sophisticated and gorgeous in her best outfit. On the plane, she'd envisioned herself strolling down the center aisle of the church, with every man's eye on her. Especially Burke's intense hazel eyes. In her daydream, she'd been calm and collected, and oh, so cool. Well, she was cool, all right, she thought, trying to control her chattering teeth.
For a moment, Ally considered abandoning her impulsive plan. But, maybe, she rationalized, she didn't look as bad as she thought. The moment of sanity flitted by.
When this was over, Ally decided, she was going to have a nice nervous breakdown. Right now, she just didn't have the time. The wedding may have already started.
Chapter 2
Burke Winslow had a knot the size of a hockey puck in his gut. At least it had started in his gut. As soon as the minister had said, "Dearly beloved," the hockey puck had migrated upward. Now, it seemed to be lodged in his throat.
He swallowed. The stiffly-starched white collar encircling his neck made no allowance for a hockey puck. He could hardly breathe. He looked around, not hearing a word the minister was saying. As if in a dream, he noted the baskets of fern and orange-speckled lilies that flanked the altar. Who on earth would pick orange flowers for a wedding?
Three women wearing satin dresses the color of orange sherbet looked distinctly uncomfortable in their puff-sleeved, bell-skirted concoctions. He'd overheard one of the bridesmaids grumble that brides always picked hideous colors and styles for their attendants so that the bride, by contrast, would appear even more beautiful. Then they'd went on to complain about their friend who'd asked them to be bridesmaids. Apparently, she could hold her own with any bridezilla who'd ever marched down a church aisle.
That could be the only justification for the choices made by Tiffany, his business partner. No, he corrected himself. Today she was more than his cut throat, cut-to-the-chase partner. She was, he swallowed hard. His bride. At least in name only.
His bride? A drumbeat began pounding in his temples. Even if in name only, the thought made a shudder of apprehension sweep through him. The hockey puck in his throat enlarged to the size of a football.
Burke glanced to his right. His brother Rod, the best man, and Burke's two best friends, Dave Hernandez and Craig Bishop, groomsmen, stood there, looking far more comfortable in their tuxedos than Burke felt in his. Though judging by their expressions you'd think they were pall bearers at a funeral instead of attendants at a wedding.
His eyes swung back to Tiffany. It was as if he were watching his life flash before his eyes. Suddenly, he wondered what on earth he was doing. Was any business deal worth marrying a woman you didn't love? Sure, old Tiff was a great business partner. She'd helped grow their company to its present financial stature, but a wife? Burke felt a primal instinct to flee. His feet shuffled restlessly.
"What are you doing?" Tiffany hissed.
Burke looked at her and felt as if he were seeing the real Tiffany for the first time. She looked extremely displeased. Odd. He'd never noticed those frown lines between her eyes. True, they were faint, but he could see how they'd be in a few years.
In fact, the more he studied the lines, the more they seemed like furrows carved into her skin. Now that he thought about it, Tiffany did frown quite a bit. He'd never realized that before. Just like he'd never known she had such bad taste. His eyes swung back to the orange sherbet dresses.
Tiffany's green eyes narrowed. Usually, he appreciated that focused stare because it meant she was calculating some strategy that would increase the company's profits. That was one thing he really liked about Tiff, she was all business. Today, however, that shrewd look gave him a definite chill.
"Burke Winslow, don't you dare embarrass me. Now is not the time to get cold feet!"
Burke swallowed hard, forcing saliva past the football in his throat. Her words sounded like the warning hiss from a snake. Not like the sexy whisper a bride should use. Of course, sexy wasn't on the menu in this marriage of convenience. Good thing because he and Tiffany had never had anything close to the hots for each other. He shuddered. The way she seemed to read his mind was positively scary.
"We agreed this was the thing to do. Remember?" she hissed again.
We didn't agree, he wanted to shout. She had conceived this hare-brained plan and had talked him into it. And she sure hadn't hissed when she'd been persuading him to do this. He couldn't marry a woman who hissed even if it was a marriage in name only.
Perspiration popped out on his forehead. Suddenly, Burke was certain that he was making the biggest mistake of his life. No, he corrected himself, the second biggest. The honor of biggest mistake had already been awarded to his first marriage fiasco.
Panicked, he decided that he had to stop this farce before it went any further. But how? Tiffany had a lot of pride. She might be a pain in the neck sometimes, but she was his partner. He sighed. More importantly, she was a friend. And even if she weren't, he didn't make a practice of bruising someone's dignity.
Old Tiff had dignity up to her eye balls, and a stiff-necked unyielding pride. Injuring that pride would be as foolhardy as waving a red flag in front of a Texas longhorn. And it would have just as dire a consequence. She'd be homicidal if he suddenly called the wedding off. From the altar! Burke felt sick. The nauseous feeling gave him immediate inspiration. They'd have to cancel the ceremony if he suddenly tossed his cookies, wouldn't they?
"Burke Winslow!" Tiffany all but growled. "This is the answer to our problem. Remember?"
Her words forced cold reality to counter the emotion that threatened him. He was wedged between a rock and a hard place. With a sigh, he acknowledged that everything had progressed too far. Like a doomed aircraft, they'd passed the point of no return. He'd have to go through with this insanity.
"Yeah, I remember," he muttered for her ears alone. "But this was your idea. I was just fool enough to let you convince me it would work. This is wrong." And in that moment, he knew he couldn't go through with it. Not for any deal. This just wasn't right.
He cleared his throat and prepared to speak up. Tiffany might not have a life outside of business. He'd always thought it strange that a woman who was gorgeous as she, was completely oblivious when it came to men. Why, he'd be surprised if she ever had a date. But he had a social life. Didn't he?
Burke frowned and tried to remember his last date. When he drew a total blank, he realized that he and Tiffany were two of a kind. Maybe they did deserve each other. He suspected that no one else would want the two workaholics.
"Snap out of it!" Tiffany swayed against him and ground her tiny satin-slippered, stiletto-heeled foot into his instep.
Burke grimaced in pain.
"Don't you dare back out," Tiffany whispered. "You agreed, and I'm holding you to it."
Burke swallowed an exclamation of pain and looked into her eyes. Even as panicked as he was, he recognized the warning emanating like laser rays from her big green eyes.
"Okay, okay," he muttered to her. She rewarded him with a pleased smile. She was right. He had agreed with Tiffany that they'd worked too hard to pass up this opportunity. She had come up with the way around their sticky situation. And it wasn't as if he had to rom
ance Tiff. They'd both laughed at that idea.
Okay. So be it. Resigned to his fate, Burke shrugged. He'd survived one divorce. Kind of. He could do it again. At least he wasn't deluding himself that he and Tiffany were madly in love. This wouldn't be bad at all compared to his first marriage and divorce.
He heard the minister solemnly intone, "If anyone here knows why this man and this woman should not be joined in holy wedlock, let him speak now," the minister paused, as if for dramatic effect.
"Stop the wedding!" A woman's voice rang out.
Burke rolled his eyes heavenward and murmured a fervent, "Thank you, Lord." A ripple of subdued laughter broke out in the pews nearest the altar. Sweet relief swept away his desperation like sunshine chased away dark clouds.
Tiffany elbowed him sharply and hissed a command, and called him a name that should never be said in church. Though he felt like laughing aloud, Burke assumed a poker face. He was saved. He'd escaped the matrimonial axe. Despite the mass of rationalizations, he could only rejoice as he turned to view his salvation.
A soft chorus of gasps and whispers swept the church. Someone giggled nervously. Everyone craned their necks to see who had shouted the objection.
A woman limped from the back of the sanctuary. Each step she took squished wetly and left a muddy footprint on the rich amethyst carpet. Even at this distance, she looked oddly familiar.
Her rain-wet hair clung to her head in a drooping knot that seemed to have lost its mooring. It hung precariously above her right ear at the moment while the rest of her hair seemed to be plastered to her forehead. Rain dripped from the hem of her dress. In all, she was the embodiment of the old cliche: she looked like something the cat had dragged in.
"What's the meaning of this?" Tiffany demanded. Crimson stained each sculpted cheekbone. Then she turned on him. "Is this your idea of a joke?" Her narrowed eyes, like chips of green glass, were ablaze with anger.
