by Lori Wilde
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Laurie Vanzura
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Forever
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10017
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Forever is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing. The Forever name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
First eBook Edition: April 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-55199-1
Contents
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
Jillian’s Story
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 Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Epilogue
RUDE AWAKENING
“Who the hell are you?” they asked in unison.
“I’m Jillian Samuels,” she said as he said, “I’m Tucker Manning.”
And then they both said, “What are you doing here?”
It was a very strange moment. It wasn’t every day that a man met his fantasy woman. She’s not your fantasy woman. You just had a dream about her. Except it hadn’t been just your run-of-the-mill dream. It had been a portentous vision.
“You go first,” Tuck said. “You’re the visitor.”
“Actually,” Jillian drew herself up to her full height, which had to be close to six feet. “I’m not.”
She reached into a purse the size of Michigan and pulled out some kind of legal document. “Deed to this house.” She drew in a deep breath.
He couldn’t help noticing her chest rise. If the vision he’d had of her was in any way accurate, she had a great pair of breasts underneath that fluffy red sweater.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” she snapped.
“Like what?” Tucker forced his eyes off her breasts and onto her face.
“Like you know what I look like without my clothes on.”
CRITICS LOVE LORI WILDE’S NOVELS!
ADDICTED TO LOVE
“4 Stars! Entertaining and humorous … There’s a seriousness to it also, as the heroine learns to recognize real love and caring. Wilde again includes secondary romances that are intriguing, entertaining, and hot.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Wilde brings romance fans a feel-good, laugh-out-loud read … one of the best romantic comedies I’ve read in a long time.”
— NightsandWeekends.com
“Charming … lighthearted fun … strong secondary romances enhance an engaging Valentine tale.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Rachel and Brody’s love/hate relationship had me giggling … but there are tender moments as well. Supporting characters … fill this story with humor and romance.”
— BookLoons.com
“An A+ Review! A really great book and I recommend it to everyone and anyone who wants to read a good love story … I’m eagerly going to fetch out the other books by this author.”
— ReadingRomanceBooks.com
“There are plenty of laugh-out-loud moments and hot romance.”
—Parkersburg News & Sentinel (WV)
“Will charm the romantic’s heart.”
— JandysBooks.com
“A fun, lighthearted romp.”
— LikesBooks.com
“Funny, engaging, and a joy to read … contains chuckles from start to finish and a few feel-good moments too! Overall, a great story.”
— TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
ONCE SMITTEN, TWICE SHY
“A light, entertaining read.”
— NightsAndWeekends.com
“An endearing tale … a feel-good read.”
— JandysBooks.com
“Lori Wilde at her best … The magic and romance that Ms. Wilde began in her first book in the series, There Goes the Bride, continues in this novel … I really loved this story. The writing is wonderful and the plot grabbed my attention from the first page. I fell in love with the characters and couldn’t wait to see how they worked everything out.”
— ContemporaryRomanceWriters.com
“A definite crowd pleaser … Lori Wilde can write very engaging and quirky romances and Once Smitten, Twice Shy is one of them … [A] good read with some suspense to boot.”
— FreshFiction.com
“A wild ride on an emotional roller coaster.”
— FallenAngelReviews.com
“Amusing … an entertaining contemporary romance.”
—Midwest Book Review
THERE GOES THE BRIDE
“I adored this book! I even kept it in my purse in the hopes that I would have a few minutes in which to squeeze a paragraph or two … I can’t wait to read the next in this wonderful new series … Superb!”
— TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“A fun, sweet romance.”
— ArmchairInterviews.com
“The passion in There Goes the Bride is enjoyable … another solid romance from Lori Wilde.”
— MyShelf.com
“There Goes the Bride is a [Lori] Wilde madcap contemporary romance.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A charming romance novel.”
— JandysBooks.com
“FOUR HEARTS! Ms. Wilde conquers a whole new part of the romance genre … lots of funny elements and a great cast of characters.”
— LovesRomanceandMore.com
YOU ONLY LOVE TWICE
“Part thriller, part adventure, and always humorous, Wilde’s latest is just what the doctor ordered to chase away the blues. This author proves that she does humor right.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Fast-paced adventure, sexy situations, and lots of suspense will make Wilde’s book appeal to a wide spectrum of readers.”
—Booklist
“Readers will be … laughing at the shenanigans.”
—Publishers Weekly
MISSION: IRRESISTIBLE
“4 Stars! This novel has a nice balance of humor, sexy romance, and a large splash of danger.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Sexy … An action-packed, fast-paced adventure.”
—Booklist
CHARMED AND DANGEROUS
“This zany romantic comedy will steal your heart … sexy, fun, and hard to put down … pure delight.”
—TheBestReviews.com
“Witty … the chemistry between David and Maddie is hot enough to satisfy those looking for light summer reading.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Lovable … Wilde has a unique voice that will soar her to publishing heights.”
—Rendezvous
LICENSE TO THRILL
“With a sassy, in-your-face style reminiscent of Jan
et Evanovich, Wilde has created an unforgettable heroine.”
—Booklist
“Sexy … Wilde dishes up a delicacy that really hits the spot.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Great fun … A wild ride! Her characters are so alive and the plot is outstanding. I loved every word.”
—Rendezvous
ALSO BY LORI WILDE
License to Thrill
Charmed and Dangerous
Mission: Irresistible
You Only Love Twice
There Goes the Bride
Once Smitten, Twice Shy
Addicted to Love
Michele Bidelspach—the most insightful, understanding editor I have ever worked with.
Thank you for the Gilmore Girls.
May you find that grand love of your very own.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Lou Ann King for showing me around her quaint little Colorado lake town. I love you like a sister. Thanks to legal eagles and fellow writers Dorien Kelley and Jamie Denton for all their help with the legal mumbo jumbo. Any mistakes are solely my own. You guys rock!
Jillian’s Story
Chapter One
Houston deputy district attorney Jillian Samuels did not believe in magic.
She didn’t throw pennies into wishing wells, didn’t pluck four-leaf clovers from springtime meadows, didn’t blow out birthday-cake candles, and didn’t wish on falling stars.
For Jillian, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny had always been myths. And as for Santa Claus, even thinking about the jolly fat guy in the red suit knotted her stomach. She’d tried believing in him once, and all she’d gotten in the pink stocking she’d hung on the mantel were two chunks of Kingsford’s charcoal—the kind without lighter fluid.
Later, she’d realized her stepmother put the coal in her stocking, but on that Christmas morning, while the other kids rode bicycles, tossed footballs, and combed Barbie’s hair, Jillian received her message loud and clear.
You’re a very bad girl.
No, Jillian didn’t believe in magic or fairy tales or happily-ever-afters, even though her three best friends, Delaney, Tish, and Rachael, had supposedly found their true loves after wishing on what they claimed was a magic wedding veil. Her friends had even dared to pass the damnable veil along to her, telling Jillian it would grant her heart’s greatest desire. But she wasn’t falling for such nonsense. She snorted whenever she thought of the three-hundred-year-old lace wedding veil shoved away in a cedar chest along with her winter cashmere sweaters.
When it came to romance, Jillian was of the same mind as Hemingway: When two people love each other, there can be no happy ending. Clearly, Hemingway knew what he was talking about.
Not that Jillian could claim she’d ever been in love. She’d decided a long time ago love was best avoided. She liked her life tidy, and from what she’d seen of it, love was sprawling and messy and complicated. Besides, love required trust, and trust wasn’t her strong suit.
Jillian did not believe in magic, but she did believe in hard work, success, productivity, and justice. The closest she ever came to magic were those glorious courtroom moments when a judge in a black robe read the jury’s guilty verdict.
This morning in late September, dressed in a no-nonsense navy-blue pin-striped Ralph Lauren suit, a cream-colored silk blouse, and Jimmy Choo stilettos to show off the shapely curve of her calves and add three inches to her already imposing five-foot-ten-inch height, Jillian stood at attention waiting for the verdict to be read.
On the outside, she looked like a dream prosecutor—statuesque, gorgeous, young, and smart. But underneath the clothes and the makeup and her cool, unshakeable countenance, Jillian Samuels was still that same little girl who hadn’t rated a Christmas present from Santa.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict in this case?” Judge Atwood asked.
“We have, Your Honor,” answered the foreman, a big slab of a guy with carrot-colored hair and freckled skin.
“Please hand your decision to the bailiff,” the judge directed.
Jillian drew a breath, curling her fingernails into her palms. Before the reading of every verdict, she felt slightly sick to her stomach.
The bailiff, a gangly, bulldog-faced middle-aged man with a Magnum P.I. mustache, walked the piece of paper across the courtroom to the judge’s bench. Judge Atwood opened it, read it, and then glared at the defendant over the top of his reading glasses.
Twenty-three-year-old Randal Petry had shot Gladys Webelow, an eighty-two-year-old great-grandmother, in the upper thigh while robbing a Dash and Go last Christmas Eve. Gladys had been buying a bottle of Correctol and a quart of 2 percent milk. He’d made off with forty-seven dollars from the cash register, a fistful of Slim Jims, and a twenty-four pack of Old Milwaukee.
“Will the defendant please rise?” Atwood handed the verdict back to the bailiff, who gave it to the jury foreman to read aloud.
Head held high, Petry got to his feet. The man was a scumbag, but Jillian had to admire his defiance.
“Randal LeRoy Petry, on the count of armed robbery, you are found guilty as charged,” the foreman announced. As the foreman kept reading the verdicts on the other charges leveled against Petry, Jillian waited for the victorious wash of relief she always experienced when the word guilty was spoken. Waited for the happy sag to her shoulders, the warm satisfaction in her belly, the skip of victory in her pulse.
But the triumph did not come.
Instead, she felt numb, lifeless, and very detached as if she were standing at the far end of some distant tunnel.
Waiting … waiting …
For what, she didn’t know.
People in the gallery were getting up, heading for the door. The court-appointed defense attorney collected his papers and stuffed them into his scuffed briefcase. The guards were hauling Petry off to jail. Judge Atwood left the bench.
And Jillian just kept standing.
Waiting.
It scared her. This nonfeeling. This emptiness. Her fingernails bit into the flesh of her palms, but she couldn’t feel that either.
“You gonna stand there all day, Samuels, or what? You won. Go knock back a shot of Jose Cuervo.”
Jillian jerked her head around. Saw Keith Whippet, the prosecutor on the next case, waiting to take his place at her table. Whippet was as lean as his name, with mean eyes and a cheap suit.
“Chop, chop.” He slammed his briefcase down on the desk. “I got people to fry.”
“Yes,” Jillian said, but she could barely hear herself. She was a bright kite who’d broken loose from its tether, flying high into a cloudless blue sky. Up, up, and away, higher and higher, smaller and smaller. Soon she would disappear, a speck in the air.
What was happening to her?
She looked at Whippet, a weasly guy who’d asked her out on numerous occasions, and she’d shattered his hopes every single time until he’d finally given up. Now he was just rude. Whippet made shooing motions.
Jillian blinked, grabbed her briefcase, and darted from the courtroom.
Blake.
She had to talk to her mentor, District Attorney Blake Townsend. He would know what to do. He’d tell her this feeling was completely normal. That it was okay if the joy was gone. She would survive.
Except it wasn’t okay, because her job was the only thing that gave her joy. If she’d lost the ability to derive pleasure from putting the bad guys behind bars, what did that leave her?
The thing was, she couldn’t feel happy about jailing Petry, because she knew there were thousands more like him. She knew the prisons were overcrowded, and they would let Petry out of jail on good behavior after he’d served only a fraction of his sentence to make room for a new batch of Petrys.
The realization wasn’t new. What was startlingly fresh was the idea that her work didn’t matter. She was insignificant. The justice system was a turnstile, and her arms were growing weary of holding
open the revolving door.
She was so unsettled by the thought that she found it difficult to catch her breath.
Blake. She needed to speak to Blake.
Anxiety rushed her from the courthouse to the district attorney’s office across the street, her heels clicking a rapid rhythm against the sidewalk that matched the elevated tempo of her pulse.
By the time she stepped into the DA’s office, she was breathing hard and sweating. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in a window and saw that her sleek dark hair, usually pulled back in a loose chignon, had slumped from the clasp and was tumbling about her shoulders.
What was happening to her?
The whole room went suddenly silent, and everyone stared in her direction.
“Is Blake in his office?” she asked the DA’s executive assistant, Francine Weathers.
Francine blinked, and it was only then that Jillian noticed her reddened eyes. The woman had been crying. She stepped closer, the anxiety she’d been feeling morphed into real fear.
She stood there for a moment, panting, terrified, heart rapidly pounding, staring at Francine’s round, middle-aged face. She knew something bad had happened before she ever asked the question.
“What’s wrong?”
The secretary dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex. “You haven’t heard?”
A hot rush of apprehension raised the hairs on the nape of her neck. “Heard what? I’ve been in court. The Petry case.”
“I …” Francine sniffed. “He …”
Jillian stepped closer and awkwardly put a hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”
Francine shook her head and burst into a fresh round of tears. Jillian dropped her hand. She’d never been very good at comforting people. She was the pit bull who went after the accused. Gentleness was foreign.
