The Right Man

by Anne Stuart

  A kiss that could destroy a lifetime of well-laid plans...

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  Part One—Susan

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Part Two—Tallulah

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Part Three—Susan Returns

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  “Immensely talented, Anne Stuart delights with singularly unique style”

  —Debbie Richardson, Romantic Times

  A kiss that could destroy a lifetime of well-laid plans...

  He slid his fingers through her hair, tilting her face up to his. And then he kissed her, taking his time—a slow, languorous touch of mouth against mouth, tongue against tongue, building in increments of heat and desire until he found she was trembling, and he was, too.

  He didn’t ask. He simply pulled her up tight against his body and took her to bed. And she let him....

  Dear Reader,

  This year, 1999, is a special one for Harlequin. It marks the 50th anniversary of the company that each and every month brings you the best in romance fiction.

  And following that golden tradition, we’re thrilled to publish Anne Stuart’s latest novel. This is a special book to Anne, because she wrote it as a tribute to Harlequin’s 50th anniversary.

  The incomparable Anne Stuart has become synonymous with sizzling romance. She published her first book in 1974, and in the over fifty novels and countless short stories since then, she has demonstrated an uncanny ability to touch readers with witty repartee, heartfelt emotional drama and her trademark sexual tension. Anne has won every major writing award, including three prestigious RITA Awards from the Romance Writers of America and, in 1996, a Lifetime Achievement Award. She lives in Vermont, with her husband, daughter and son.

  Happy reading!

  Debra Matteucci

  Senior Editor & Editorial Coordinator

  Harlequin Books

  300 E. 42nd St.

  New York, NY 10017

  Anne stuart

  THE RIGHT MAN

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  Part One—Susan

  Chapter One

  Susan Abbott of the Connecticut Abbotts had always been the perfect daughter. A good, clever, ambitious, dutiful girl, and it had all come down to five days before her wedding to possibly the most eligible bachelor in Connecticut, and she was in the midst of a completely uncharacteristic temper tantrum. “I hate this dress!” She tugged at the frilly white Bounce adorning her hips as she stared in the mirror and bit her lip. She wasn’t used to letting irrational emotions make her snappish, and she never snapped at her mother.

  “Don’t pull at it,” Mary Abbott protested. “If you rip it Edward’s mother will never forgive you.”

  “If I rip it maybe I won’t have to wear it,” Susan said mutinously. “One can only hope.” She turned sideways, looking at her reflection in the godawful dress. She wasn’t one to worry obsessively about her clothes, but this piece of frou-frou was exactly what she didn’t want to get married in. Everything about her wedding was going to be perfect, simple and elegant, except for this monstrosity foisted upon her by Edward’s mother, Vivian. She suspected her reluctant mother-in-law took a perverse pleasure in making her future daughter-in-law look foolish.

  It had hoop skirts, for heaven’s sake! It had layers and layers of polyester lace, so that she looked like an upside-down ice-cream cone. It had short puffy sleeves that were too tight, a neckline that flattened what cleavage she had, and it itched.

  But Vivian Jeffries had worn it forty years ago when she married her poor, henpecked husband, and it was her fondest wish that her future daughter-in-law wear it when she married Vivian’s beloved only child, Edward. How could she refuse? Particularly since Vivian was doing a stalwart job of covering up her sincere belief that Edward was far too good for even an Abbott of Connecticut.

  There didn’t seem to be any way around the problem of the dress—neither Susan nor Mary had been able to come up with a reasonable excuse. Mary Abbott had eloped: her wedding dress was a Dior suit from the late fifties that would scarcely fit her tall daughter.

  And while Vivian now carried an impressive bulk on her matronly frame, she’d been reed slim when she’d married, and Susan would eat nails before she admitted that it was too tight.

  She took a step backward, peering at herself in the mirror. “Maybe if we got rid of the hoop skirts,” she murmured, not hopeful.

  “They need to hold up the train,” Mary said.

  “There’s a train, too? Merciful heavens,” Susan said faintly. “I don’t suppose we could elope?”

  “Vivian would never forgive you.”

  “I don’t think Vivian’s going to forgive me for stealing her devoted son from her,” Susan muttered.

  “Besides, the wedding is less than a week away. You’ve spent an enormous amount of money already—I can’t imagine you’d want to throw it all away at this late date.”

  “The rest of you can stay and party. Edward and I can run away, and I won’t have to wear this horrible dress,” she suggested, knowing it was a lost cause. Despite her protests, Mary deserved to have her daughter suitably wed in a manner that would return them to the forefront of Matchfield society.

  Mary shook her head. “I’ll support whatever decision you make. But this isn’t like you, to get so upset over a silly dress.”

  “I’ve never been married before.” Susan sighed.

  “It’s not that bad, darling. Besides, brides are always beautiful.” For a moment Mary looked misty-eyed.

  “If only you’d had a formal wedding I’d have the perfect excuse not to wear this.” Susan wasn’t about to wonder what else it might give her an excuse not to do—that was far too dangerous. If Mary Abbott had married the right man in the first place, instead of a ne’er-do-well drunk like Alex Donovan, then maybe it wouldn’t matter if Susan married someone a little less suitable than Edward Jeffries, a little less perfect.

  Not that there was anyone else she wanted to many. All her life she’d been searching for stability, permanence. To become a real Abbott once more. Dear, devoted Edward was the key to that. She’d made her choice, set her course years ago. It was too late to change her mind, just when she was about to get everything she ever wanted.

  “You’re five inches taller than I am, Susan,” Mary said, oblivious to her convoluted train of thought. “Even if I had something for you to wear it would never fit. And after your aunt’s death I’m afraid the family wouldn’t have been able to handle another formal wedding, even if they’d approved of my choice.”

  Susan presented her back to her mother. “Maybe I’ll be lucky and die on my wedding day like Aunt Tallulah. Then I won’t have to wear this thing.”

  “Susan!” Mary admonished her, shocked. “She was my sister, you know.”

  Susan bit her lip, ashamed. She spun around. “I’m sorry, Mother. I’m being a spoiled brat, and you don’t deserve it. I know you still miss her after all these years....”

  “She died fifty years ago, sweetie. I was only nine. Yes, I still miss her, but I’ve gotten over it,” Mary sai
d calmly, pulling at the zipper. “Damn,” she muttered. “I think it’s stuck.”

  The polyester lace was giving Susan a rash, the zipper was digging into her spine, she’d been on a diet for two weeks and she was not in a good mood. To top it off, the doorbell rang.

  “Susan!” Mary admonished her daughter’s hearty curse. “Just stay there and I’ll see who it is. Probably more wedding gifts.”

  “More Steuben bud vases and espresso machines,” Susan moaned, tugging at the dress. “Just what I need.”

  She flounced back to the mirror as her mother disappeared, staring at her reflection. She was tall, five feet nine and a half, and her body was lean rather than curvy. Her thick, honey-colored hair was cut short, waving around her strong, angular face, and her green eyes were wary. She wasn’t a soft, pretty woman, she was slender and strong with her own sense of style. She was definitely not made for ruffles and lace.

  She yanked again, getting nowhere, when she heard her mother’s voice, soft and faintly breathless, talking to someone.

  “I’m sure Susan won’t mind if you come along in. We’re having a little trouble with the dress....”

  She saw him first in the mirror, towering over her diminutive mother. For a brief, startled moment she met his gaze, and then she turned, yanking the dress back up around her shoulders.

  He looked like a cross between Indiana Jones and an aging hippie. He was somewhere in his midthirties, deeply tanned, his shaggy hair sun streaked, his blue eyes light in his dark face. He was wearing travel-stained khakis that could probably raise a cloud of dust, he hadn’t shaved in several days, and he wore an amulet of some sort around his neck. Susan just looked at him in astonishment.

  “Susan, this is a friend of your godmother’s, Jake... I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your last name,” Mary said, Mary whose command of social niceties was inbred, Mary who never forgot a name. She was looking oddly pleased to see him.

  “Jake Wyczynski,” he said in a deep, drawling voice. “I don’t blame you for having trouble with it.”

  “And this is the bride herself. Jake’s brought presents from your godmother, Louisa.”

  Susan held out one hand, holding the dress up with the other. “I wish you’d brought my godmother,” she said ruefully. “I’m thirty years old and I’ve never even met her.”

  He had a strong, hard hand and a good grip. “Louisa’s a character,” he said. “Never stays in one place for long, I’m afraid. She wanted to come for your wedding, but she’s still in the middle of her funeral journey, so she sent me in her place.”

  “Funeral journey?” Susan echoed, astonished.

  “Her husband died last year, and she’s scattering a little of his ashes at each of their special places. Considering that they spent their lives traveling the globe, it’s taking her some time.” He tilted his head sideways. “Are you having trouble with that dress?”

  “The zipper’s stuck.”

  “Let me try it.”

  She hesitated. She was only wearing the skimpiest of bra and panties beneath the hated dress, and for some reason she didn’t want his hands on her bare skin. Big, strong hands.

  “Yes, let him,” Mary said. “I’ve given up.”

  With a sigh she presented her back to him, holding her breath. She could see him in the mirror, his shaggy head bent, she could feel his warm breath on her back, his fingers as he touched the dress.

  “Sure is stuck,” he murmured. “The zipper’s a little rusty.”

  “It’s an old dress,” Susan muttered.

  “I figured it must be. You wouldn’t have chosen it if it didn’t have some sentimental meaning.” His fingers brushed against her skin, and she jumped.

  “It doesn’t have any sentimental meaning for me,” she said. “It’s my fiancé’s mother’s dress. I hate it.”

  “Do you?” He smelled like sun and wind, she thought abstractedly. Edward always smelled like designer cologne.

  “I’d give anything not to have to wear it...” Her voice trailed off at the sound of polyester ripping.

  He stepped back, an enigmatic expression on his face. “Sorry,” he said. “I think I ruined it.”

  The dress had fallen down around her, and she only managed to preserve her modesty by clutching it to her. She whirled around to survey the damage.

  It was ruined, all right. Ripped from bodice almost all the way to the hem, and not a nice, neat tear along the seam. He’d managed to destroy it with one yank.

  “Oh, my heavens,” Mary murmured, aghast.

  Susan turned back, stunned, the ruined dress clutched around her. And then she laughed out loud, unable to help herself. “It’s ruined. You’ve just given me the best wedding gift of all. I hope you’re planning on staying for the ceremony?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I promised your godmother I’d give her a full report,” he said in a lazy drawl.

  “Let me make arrangements for a place for you to stay...” Mary began, but he shook his head.

  “Don’t worry about me, ma’am,” he said. “I’ve already taken care of that. I promised Louisa I’d drop off the first present as soon as I got here, but then I’ll make myself scarce.”

  “The first present?”

  “It’s a tradition in one of the nomadic tribes Louisa and her husband used to travel with. The bride receives gifts from a wise woman every day for a week before the wedding. I left the first one in the hallway.”

  “But I haven’t offered you any refreshment,” Mary protested. “What about dinner tonight...?”

  “I’ll just see to myself, ma’am, but thank you, anyway. I’ll come by tomorrow with the next present if you don’t have any objections. Louisa’s counting on me.”

  “And you seem very reliable, Mr. Wyczynski,” Mary said warmly.

  “Call me Jake. It’s a hell of a lot easier on the tongue. Nice meeting you, Susan.”

  He was the epitome of old-fashioned courtesy, distant and charming. “Thanks for the dress,” she said.

  “Anytime.”

  The moment she heard the front door close she let the dress fall on the floor, stepping out of it and kicking it away from her. “There’s no chance it can be fixed in time, is there?” she asked her mother in a hopeful voice when Mary returned.

  “I doubt it. He did a thorough job of mangling it.”

  “Bless his heart,” Susan said cheerfully. “I wonder if he’s got a suit he can wear for the wedding? That big-white-hunter gear might look a little strange for an afternoon garden wedding.”

  “He’s not going to fit in, anyway, Susan,” Mary said with a trace of sharpness in her voice. “I don’t know why you’d worry about such things.”

  “I’m not worried. He’s very colorful.”

  “He’s very handsome,” her mother said.

  “Is he? I didn’t notice.”

  “You never could lie to me, Susan.”

  Susan smiled ruefully. “No, I couldn’t. Yes, he’s gorgeous, but as you know, he’s hardly my type. I tend to go for more civilized men, like Edward. And besides, he didn’t show the faintest bit of interest in me, at least, not as a woman.”

  “You’re engaged to be married, Susan. He’d hardly be flirting with you.”

  “He did rip my dress off. Bless him,” she added. “Don’t look so worried, mother. I’m not about to change my mind about Edward at this late date. He and I were meant for each other, and we’ve known that since we were in college. This is an entirely logical next step in our relationship.”

  “And you’ll give me entirely logical grandchildren before long?”

  “Don’t hold your breath. Edward thinks we should be more settled in our careers.”

  Mary’s smile seemed a little tight. “And Edward’s always right.”

  “Yes, he is. One of his annoying habits.” Susan pulled on a faded pair of jeans and an old cotton sweater. “Don’t worry, I know you adore him. There’ll be plenty of grandchildren soon enough. I’ve only just begun to he
ar my biological clock ticking.”

  “You have?” Mary looked oddly hopeful. “I didn’t know you’d even thought about children.”

  “I’ve thought about them. I’ll be ready when Edward is.”

  “I’m relieved to hear that,” Mary said in an even voice. “In the meantime, what are we going to do about this dress?” She scooped it off the floor and shook it. “I don’t mind telling you I’d rather not be the one to spring the word on Vivian. She’s even more formidable than her son.”

  “She is, isn’t she? Edward’s a pussycat if you know how to handle him, and he absolutely idolizes you, Mother. People only think he’s a barracuda because he’s a Wall Street lawyer. He’s perfect husband material, and we’re going to be deliriously happy.”

  “Of course you are,” Mary said, her back turned.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll find some way to tell Vivian about her dress. Not right away, though—she’s capable of finding someone who can fix the wretched thing on short notice. In the meantime we’ve got to figure out what I’ll wear. I imagine I can find something off the rack if I have to.”

  “Let’s have a cup of tea and see what Louisa has sent you. She always had the most extraordinary taste,” Mary said. “We can worry about a dress later.”

  “We have five days, Mother.”

  “An hour won’t make any difference one way or the other. And I’m making you herbal tea. You’re getting too cranky,” Mary said smartly.

  “No honey,” Susan said.

  “You’re too thin already,” Mary overruled her. “You’ll have honey and cake. I’m your mother and I still have some rights.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Susan said meekly.

  The box was in the hallway where he’d left it. It was flat and rectangular, covered with crumpled brown paper, tied with string, looking rather as if it had been through the wars and back. Susan hefted it, surprised at how light it was.