Raves for the Novels of Connie Brockway
Hot Dish
“With her contemporary debut, Connie Brockway blasts into modern times with her rapier wit and dazzling prose fully intact. Regardless of the time period, Brockway writes sheer magic. I’d say, ‘Welcome to the twenty-first century, Connie!’ but, quite frankly, I’m not sure I need the competition.”
—Elizabeth Bevarly
“A dazzling contemporary debut!”
—Christina Dodd
“A hilarious, bittersweet look at going home. Connie Brockway proves she’s got the contemporary chops to go the distance.”
—Eloisa James
“Connie Brockway’s contemporary debut is wry, witty, and wonderful! This cast of unforgettable characters will tickle your funny bone and your heartstrings.”
—Teresa Medeiros
The Rose Hunter Trilogy
My Surrender
“By brilliantly blending an exquisitely sensual romance between two deliciously stubborn individuals into a plot rife with danger, deception, and desire, and then wrapping the whole thing up in … elegant writing, Brockway deftly demonstrates her gift for creating richly imagined, completely irresistible love stories.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
My Seduction
“A well-crafted, engaging read.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A fabulous love story … wicked, tender, playful, and sumptuous. Too wonderful to resist.”
—Lisa Kleypas
My Pleasure
“This is why people read romance … an exceptionally good read.”
—All About Romance
Bridal Favors
“A scrumptious literary treat … wonderfully engaging characters, a superbly crafted plot, and prose rich in wit and humor.”
—Booklist
“Never predictable, always refreshing, wonderfully touching, deeply emotional, Ms. Brockway’s books never fail to satisfy. Connie Brockway is simply one of the best.”
—All About Romance
The Bridal Season
“Characters, setting, and plot are all handled with perfect aplomb by Brockway, who displays a true gift for humor. Witty and wonderful.”
—Booklist
“If it’s smart, sexy, and impossible to put down, it’s a book by Connie Brockway.”
—Christina Dodd
The McClairen’s Isle Series
The Ravishing One
“Skullduggery, bitter English-Scottish hatreds, and harrowing cat-and-mouse pursuits fill the ebb and flow of this eighteenth-century romance.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Exquisite romance…. Brockway’s lush, lyrical writing style is a perfect match for her vivid characters, beautifully atmospheric setting, and sensuous love scenes.”
—Library Journal
“If you’re looking for passion, tenderness, wit, and warmth, you need look no further. Connie Brockway is simply the best.”
—Teresa Medeiros
The Passionate One
“Rich, romantic, and intense.”
—Jill Barnett
My Dearest Enemy
“Brockway’s respect for her audience is apparent…. This rare story introduces social issues without preaching, characters who are well-developed, and enough passion, humor, and pathos to satisfy most readers.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Connie Brockway is a master at creating sparkling chemistry.”
—Laura Kinsale
As You Desire
“Smart, sassy, sexy, and funny. Connie Brockway has a way with humor that not only makes you laugh, but touches your heart.”
—Romantic Times
My Scottish Summer
“Romance with strength, wit, and intelligence. Connie Brockway delivers!”
—Tami Hoag
Once Upon a Pillow
“(Brockway’s) work brims with warmth, wit, sensuality, and intelligence.”
—Amanda Quick
HOT DISH
Connie Brockway
A SIGNET BOOK
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, November 2006
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © Connie Brockway, 2006
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-1-101-56283-3
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Printed in the United States of America
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be 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 both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This one is for you, Doodah.
With all my love, Mom.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The decision to strike out in a new direction is always fraught with excitement and trepidation. So many people helped me make this book happen in so many different ways. Doris Egan, Bob Howard, Jay Halvorson, Kent-Erik Halvorson, and Kyle Mairose lent me their expertise in making sure the devil stayed out of my details, and I most gratefully thank them. The following people were always there to offer encouragement, direction, and most importantly, their unswerving confidence in me and my craft. Thank you, Damaris Rowland, who as my agent for more than a decade has always made me feel like a star and encouraged me to follow one. Thank you to my editor, Claire Zio
n, who provided a desperately needed lantern when the way got murky and I could barely feel the road beneath my feet let alone see it. Thank you to the Squawkers (Liz Bevarly, Christina Dodd, Eloisa James, Lisa Kleypas, and Terri Medeiros); a finer, more talented group of friends would be unimaginably hard to find—a more generous one, impossible! And finally, thank you, David, best friend, unflinching critic (a few flinches now and again would be appreciated), most trusted adviser, and wittiest companion. You put every hero, real or imagined, in the shade, and I love you.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Ninteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Prologue
Present day
Blue Lake Casino, Blue Lake Reservation, Minnesota
Fifteen miles northeast of Fawn Creek, Minnesota
I hate this town.
Jenn Lind dragged her gaze away from the crowd held back from the poker table by a velvet rope and peered through her wraparound sunglasses down at the cards lying on the green baize table. She spat out a strand from the black polyester wig that kept finding its way into her mouth.
“Your bid, Ms. Uri,” the dealer said. When she’d given the dealer her pseudonym it had seemed appropriate.
“Yeah. I know.” She notched back the corners of the two cards, squinting at them again in the futile hope she’d been mistaken. She hadn’t. She sighed. Crap. Now what am I going to do?
Jenn lowered her head further, using the black plastic curtain of hair—it had begun life that morning as a witch’s wig in Pamida’s Dollar Bargain Bin—as a shield.
“Miss Uri?” the dealer prompted again.
“I’m thinking.” He could prompt until he went hoarse. There was no time limit on making up your mind. And she had some serious contemplation to do.
How the hell had she come to be sitting in a poker tournament across the table from Ken Holmberg, a middle-aged, small-town potentate sporting a mosquito: the minnesota state bird cap, with a hundred thousand dollar cash prize for first place and the fate of a town, and one she wasn’t all that fond of to begin with, riding on the outcome? She wasn’t a gambler.
Oh, yeah, Before the Fall, before gambling had led to the collapse of the family dynasty, she’d played poker. Her whole family had. It had been the Hallesby family’s recreation of choice and damn good at it they’d been. And Jenn, as early as age eight, had been something of a prodigy. But after the family’s leisure pursuit had led to the demise of the family’s leisure lifestyle, she’d seen poker for what it was: a fool’s game. One’s dad losing the family fortune on the turn of a card could bring about such epiphanies and Jenn was no fool.
So what was she doing here?
She scoured her memory for some past misstep that would have turned the Powers That Be against her and found nothing. All she had done was accept an invitation to be the Grand Marshal of Fawn Creek’s sesquicentennial. Nothing even the most vengeful Greek god would have gotten pissy about. But then, this was Minnesota and its Nordic gods were a whole lot more particular about what constituted a yank of the old celestial wang.
How had everything gone so wrong? She’d come to town with no other plan than to lead their Snow Pack Parade perched atop an ATV beside that damn butter head….
That damn butter head.
Oh, yeah.
That’s where it had all gone wrong.
Chapter One
11:50 a.m.
Monday, August 27, 1984
The Hippodrome, the Minnesota State Fairgrounds
“… and that is how dairy products changed my life,” finished seventeen-year-old Miss Fawn Creek, Jennifer Hallesby. Behind her, Duddie Olson’s prizewinning 4-H milk cow, Portia, also representing Fawn Creek, mooed approvingly.
“Thank you, Miss Hallesby,” the emcee said. “Miss Delano?”
Jenn bobbed a little curtsy and was rewarded when the Minnesota Dairy Farmers’ Federation’s only female judge winked and mouthed the words, “Very nice.”
Jenn step-glided her way back to her plastic lawn chair among the other Buttercup finalists, no easy feat while navigating the minefield of mementos left by the nine blue-ribbon cows now stationed behind their respective princesses.
Please let my bangs stay up, she offered heavenward as she took her seat and smoothed out her pink satin skirt. Though she’d sprayed the magnificent prow of bangs three times and the Hippodrome was relatively cool, it was August and it was humid. Maybe she should have gelled it, too.
She looked up into the stands as Miss Delano launched into her prepared speech, the last portion of the competition. Only five of the cavernous Hippodrome’s thirty-six tiers were filled, mostly with finalists’ family and friends, but also with die-hard pageant enthusiasts and a few hundred marginally interested fairgoers who’d wandered in seeking relief from the noontime heat. Here and there clusters of people in like-colored T-shirts frantically waved banners emblazoned with the names of proud hometowns.
Fawn Creek was not represented.
What a crappy thing. Someone should be here. She was representing their town, wasn’t she? You’d think they would at least show up to hear Fawn Creek’s name called out if she won. She couldn’t figure them out.
But then, she’d been confused ever since her parents had appeared in her walk-in closet almost two years ago as she’d sorted through clothes for the Poor People—little suspecting that within a few minutes she would be revealed as one of them.
“There’s no pleasant way of saying this, Jenn,” her father had announced. “We’ve been living on credit for years and the business has filed for bankruptcy.”
“Huh?”
“Compounding the situation, while we were in Vegas, your mother and I got to thinking ‘in for a penny, in for a pound,’ and my luck was running really hot—honey, I had a straight flush!—so we went for it. All of it.”
What was he talking about?
“It was a crap shoot. Unfortunately, well, the bottom line is that we lost everything.”
Crap, she recalled thinking, she supposed this meant she and Tess would be flying coach rather than first-class to Cozumel next winter vacation.
“Everything except your grandfather’s hunting camp in Minnesota,” her father had gone on. “So we’ll be leaving Raleigh and moving there at the end of the month.”
She’d just looked at him then, because his words had ceased to make any sense. His mouth moved. Sounds came out. He looke
d serious. Then why couldn’t she figure out what he meant? It had sounded like her father thought they should move to Minnesota. Which was ridiculous. Minnesota was cold. And there was snow. And it was cold.
“That’ll never work,” she’d finally said. “I have a white convertible.”
How could they have forgotten? They’d given her a white BMW convertible for her Sweet Sixteenth birthday. It had only been a couple weeks ago. “You can’t drive a white convertible in Minnesota.”
“Had a white convertible, Jenny,” her mother said. “I’m afraid we’re all going to have to make some sacrifices for a while. But it’s just temporary, dear. Just for the summer.”
That had been twenty months ago. A summer had since come and gone and the second was disappearing as she sat half listening to Miss Delano attempt to convince the judges that Dairy Was Her Life.
Movement halfway up the tiers of seats caught Jenn’s eye. She smiled. So she wasn’t completely abandoned, after all.
An unlikely duo sat together, the younger one waving a red bandanna: Jenn’s fellow student and fellow outsider, Heidi Olmsted, more comfortable with animals than people and more manly than any guy in town, and little, gray-haired Hilda Soderberg, not an outsider at all, but undisputed Ruler of the Lutheran church’s basement kitchen, from whom Jenn had covertly acquired every bit of knowledge she owned about Scandinavian cooking. Not that Jenn had started from base zero. She’d always loved cooking….
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Miss Delano had taken her seat and the emcee was tapping on the microphone. Jenn straightened. “Just a few minutes now and we’ll announce our winner.”
Please. Please, please, please.
With the scholarship that came with the Buttercup crown, Jenna could afford the out-of-state tuition to Chapel Hill and rejoin her friends from Raleigh there. All of her friends except for Tess, because Tess had died six months ago, just after she’d returned from the winter break vacation Jenn was supposed to have gone on, too.
Jenn’s decision not to go hadn’t only been because her parents couldn’t really afford to send her—Tess’s parents had made it clear that once Jenn landed they’d pick up the tab for everything else—but because she’d discovered a wiser way to use the money earmarked for the plane fare: she’d used it to enter regional pageants and to buy her first sequin and satin gown. It had seemed like the most practical decision at the time but Tess had been furious. Jenn had called Tess long distance to explain that ten days on the beach was a small price to pay for four years at Chapel Hill but Tess hadn’t listened. She’d refused to take the call. And Jenn, angry her friend could be so shortsighted when it was her future they were talking about, had reacted by not calling again.
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