by Jo Leigh
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Dear Reader
Title Page
Dedciation
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
Epilogue
Copyright
Dear Reader,
We’re so glad you could join us in beautiful Hawaii for what promises to be another perfect wedding! But wait—let’s hear it from the mother-of-the-bride herself, Babs Brewster:
“As if it’s not bad enough that Stephanie is missing her wedding, now my other daughter is driving me crazy. Bentley’s got everything a girl could ask for, and is she happy? No! She isn’t the least bit grateful for her wonderful husband—at least he sounds wonderful. We haven’t met him, or seen pictures of him…and how long do I have to wait for a grandchild? And if that’s not enough to worry about, there’s the hurricane and we’ll probably all be washed out to sea! I ask you, what’s a mother to do?”
You’re about to find out as we bring you the second of THREE WEDDINGS & A HURRICANE, a hilarious new trilogy from friends Debbi Rawlins, Jo Leigh and Karen Toller Whittenburg. Be sure you don’t miss out on a single minute of the fun. Watch for the next book—Please Say “I Do”—coming to you next month.
Happy reading!
Debra Matteucci
Senior Editor & Editorial Coordinator
Harlequin Books
300 East 42nd Street
New York, NY 10017
Quick, Find a Ring!
Jo Leigh
This book would not have happened without the wondrous and talented Debbi Quattrone and Karen Crane. You two made it more fun than it had any right to be. Special thanks to Bonnie Crisalli for bringing me into the fold, Huntley Fitzpatrick for her astute editing and kindness, and Debra Matteucci for giving the green light.
Prologue
Mitch Slater quietly checked the area around his desk. Bob Gleeson sat hunched over his computer, his back so curved he looked like a gargoyle. Natch talked on the phone while he tried to look up Loreen Firestone’s skirt. Three or four copy boys scurried around the office like mice in a maze. Jerry’s editor screamed bloody murder about a typo.
It was a little on the quiet side, but all in all, just a typical morning at the Times. No one was paying any attention to him, so he quickly opened the Calendar section and read his horoscope.
Nothing to write home about. Just that he should take his Capricorn butt on a vacation, where, according to the stars, he would find true love. Like that was a possibility.
He folded the paper, checking once more to see if he’d been caught, but another day had begun with his secret vice intact. That alone should have made him happy, but it didn’t.
Darren Colker was too much on his mind. And of course, Bentley. Despite her protestations, he knew damn well she was trying to scoop him on the Colker interview. It was too juicy a piece for her to let it go. She was champing at the bit to get her hands on the most reclusive capitalist since Howard Hughes. His fortune had been estimated at over seventy bil-lion—with a capital B—and he hadn’t been seen in more than ten months. Many speculated that he was dead. Mitch didn’t buy it. Colker was alive. Just hiding. In Hawaii.
At least that was his guess. More than a guess. Just not a fact. If his luck continued to run, he’d get the true skinny in the next couple of days. A few well-placed phone calls and a little bribe dough would work the magic. Then he’d know for sure.
Right now, though, he had an expense report to file. He searched the chaos that was his desk, but no form appeared. He looked over at Bentley’s desk. Neat beyond the endurance of most sentient beings, she would have a form. He knew that without question. She would have twelve, one for each month. They would be in a separate file and they would each be marked with little white tabs. It gave him the willies.
Supposedly, she was running some personal errands. Yeah. Like she had to run her own errands. Her husband, the fabulous Carter DeHaven, made sure she didn’t want for anything. Maids, cars, golden credit cards. The woman had it made in the shade with Rich Boy. Of course she had time to dig around about Colker.
Mitch went over to her desk. He picked up the fancy little nameplate she was so fond of. Bentley DeHaven. The name sounded like something from a comic strip. Actually, she did sort of remind him of Brenda Starr, only with blond hair. Proportioned to kill, with those long Barbie legs. Just the kind of babe that would look great in his pajama tops. Pity he couldn’t stand her.
He leaned back against the side of the desk and slid the front drawer open. She’d warned him to stay away from her stuff. More than once. But surely even Bentley wouldn’t begrudge him a little form, would she? He opened the drawer wider.
When the coast was clear, he glanced down. Nothing, nothing. Wait. An airline ticket. Throwing caution to the wind, he turned and yanked the folded paper out, opening it so quickly the crease tore.
Hawaii.
He knew it. Damn it. She’d found Colker. Her flight was leaving tomorrow. Six days. Paradise Bay Honeymoon Hotel? Clever. Colker was hiding in a honeymoon hotel, the last place anyone would look. How had Bentley found him?
It didn’t matter. He picked up her phone and called the American Airlines 800 number.
“When’s your next flight to Hawaii?”
While the reservations clerk looked that up, Mitch glanced once more at the ticket, only then noticing the yellow paper inside the folder. Her itinerary no doubt. He pulled it loose. And read.
He stopped breathing. His pulse quickened. This was no itinerary. This was dynamite. Nitroglycerin. Better than his wildest dreams!
He folded the paper up, stuck it in place, then slipped the whole enchilada back into her desk.
Mrs. Bentley DeHaven was in for a little surprise.
No one got the best of Mitch Slater. Not even for a lei.
Chapter One
Bentley checked her mascara in her small mirror. Travel didn’t agree with her—especially when her destination was so perilous. It was the first time in nearly three years she was going to face her entire family. Including Aunt Tildy. And, of course, there was the lie.
She tried to patch up what she could on her face, then gave it up and put the mirror in her purse. There was a much more pressing matter.
She’d rehearsed it all the way across the Pacific. “No, Mother, Carter couldn’t be here. Of course he wanted to come. It’s his job.” It sounded so phony. Anyone with a lick of intelligence would spot it for a fabrication. A prevarication. A big fat whopper. But what else could she do? Carter DeHaven had saved her sanity. He’d rescued her from endless dates, blind and otherwise, all hideous.
Her mother’s only passion, the one thing she felt was her real calling, was making “appropriate” matches for her relatives, particularly her children. As the eldest daughter, Bentley had suffered through the Coming Out Process, the Sorority Process, the Church as Heavenly Place to Find a Mate Process, the Your Mother Called My Mother Process and infinite varieties of the torture known as Snagging a Catch.
In her case, a “catch” was quite specific. Blue of blood, thick of wallet and more reactionary than conservative. Personality? Immaterial. Ambition? Just enough to keep the status quo. The ultimate goal? To produce heirs, so that the entire process could be repeated
over and over until the inbreeding created a race entirely separate from the rest of humanity. Homo Neiman-Marcus. He who shops erect.
But Carter didn’t need heirs. Which was the only part of Carter that didn’t fit the bill. He was himself an heir, richer than John-John Kennedy but not as rich as Bob Hope. He was gorgeous—not as gorgeous as John-John but nothing like Hope, thank you. And, more important than any other single thing about him—he left her alone. Entirely alone. Bless his little Republican heart.
She’d made a promise to herself on the day she’d married Carter. No matter what it took, she was going to win a Pulitzer prize for journalism before she turned thirty-five. Nothing, not even a husband, especially not a husband, was going to stand in her way.
It didn’t hurt that Darren Colker was rumored to be in Hawaii. As long as she was there for her sister’s wedding, she might as well dig around. Wouldn’t that just steam Mitch’s coffee. She’d get the interview of a lifetime, and he’d choke on every word. It had been tricky, not letting on about the wedding, but she’d pulled it off. If she could only pull things off with her family, then everything would be just fine.
She closed the small window, leaned her head on the tiny airline pillow and closed her eyes. Visions of Mitch tearing his hair out helped her drift into a blissful sleep.
THE HOTEL WAS a picture postcard come to life. White, huge, airy and lush, it was Fantasy Island, Bali Hai. Even the walk to the front desk was filled with luscious smells and exotic sounds. The foliage was primordial, the air soft and moist against her skin. Her sister sure had taste. What a place to tie the knot.
It wasn’t traditional, especially not for her family, but she’d known Stephanie’s fiancé Jack, most of her life, and for him, this was a perfect setting. He was more accustomed to the Amazon, where he was a safari guide, but when called upon, the boy could relax in luxury with the best of them. It would be nice seeing him again, assuming she had a chance.
She hadn’t had time to discuss this wedding with Steph, but her instincts told her that her baby sister was marrying Jack for the same reason she had married Carter. Good for her.
At the busy front desk, she waited for two honeymoon couples to check in, wishing they’d stop the giggling and smooching and get down to business. She was tired, and she wanted a shower.
“You have a reservation for Bentley DeHaven,” she said as soon as the desk clerk smiled her way.
He was tall, young and dressed in a floral shirt that might lead to astigmatism if looked at too long. But he was friendly and efficient, and the checking in was handled quickly. He handed her the electronic key and gave her directions to her room, then rang for a bellman.
“Can you tell me if Stephanie Brewster has checked in yet?”
The young man hit his keyboard a few times. “Not yet.”
“What about Danforth and Babs Brewster?”
He pressed one key. “That’s right. I thought I remembered that party. They arrived yesterday. Quite a large group, I recall.”
“Yes, I imagine it was.”
He smiled at her, not acknowledging the sigh in her voice or the pain in her eyes. His gaze shifted and she turned to the bellman. This one was young, too, although he was beefy and dark. Native looking. Very handsome. His gold nameplate read Kimo, and he smiled with startling white teeth as he gathered her luggage.
“I’ll take these up for you, miss.”
She nodded.
He led the way to the elevator, and she caught a glimpse of a waterfall with a pool-bar to her right. It was a large bar, covered with a sort of thatched, Tikiroom-looking thing so that the daily rain squalls wouldn’t interrupt the romance between blended liquor and vacationers. The tiny-umbrella business was alive and well here at the Paradise Bay Honeymoon Hotel. Oh, yes.
Kimo smiled again as she entered the elevator. “There’s a storm coming, miss,” he said. “Might be a big one.”
“Oh?”
“It’s already blowing on some of the outer islands.”
“Will it affect the hotel?”
“Never can tell, miss. It might.”
“Swell.”
“Those, too. Big ones. Don’t want to be caught in a boat when the hurricanes come.”
She smiled. “I’ll remember that, thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
The elevator stopped on the fourteenth floor, and Kimo led her down a green-carpeted hallway to room 1457. He opened the door and let her enter before he brought her bags in.
It was a lovely room. One wall had two big windows, and the view took her breath away. The ocean, dark blue against the roiling sky above it, sparkled with light and whitecaps. There were several sailboats dashing across the waves, despite Kimo’s warning, and some brave soul tethered to a sail was flying behind a speedboat.
“The bathroom is in here, miss,” Kimo said, snatching her attention from the parasailor.
She followed him to the large bath, which had a stall shower and a heart-shaped Jacuzzi tub. The commode was judiciously hidden behind a half wall, and there was a double-sink vanity.
The room decor was light, lots of beautiful pastels and palm leaves. Kimo showed her the spacious closet, the king-size bed, the television and, of course, the honor bar. It would be easy to relax here, to forget Los Angeles, the Times and Mitch. She hadn’t had a real vacation in about three years, and this just might be the ticket. That is, if Mother let her alone.
She gave Kimo a nice tip, and he left her with another dazzling smile. Then, although she should unpack, she took out her airline ticket and opened the folder. She pulled her little yellow note out of the side and read it one more time. Then she tore the only tangible evidence of her secret into little bitty pieces and dropped them like confetti into the toilet. She smiled as she flushed. All was right with the world.
BABS BREWSTER ANNOUNCED her presence with the jangle of a dozen bracelets. Bentley had a flash of a jungle movie she’d seen long ago, where the natives beat on drums to flush tigers out of the bushes. Smart tigers ran like hell. She smiled at her mother.
“Bentley, my darling, it’s been so long I hardly recognized you.”
“Hello, Mother.” A couple of air kisses near each cheek signaled the emotional peak of the day. You look great, as always.”
She did, too. Babs subsidized the entire plastic surgery business in the Boston area, all by herself. She was a master sculpture, and except for that not being able to blink all the way thing, she was gorgeous. Someone had once told her that she looked like Joan Kennedy before the Bad Times, and Babs had made it her life’s business to promote the idea. Her hair was shoulder length, blond courtesy of Clairol, and as her crowd would say, “sharp.” Her clothes were nothing but Givenchy or Lauren, no exceptions. Today it was white capri pants, a white T-shirt that must have cost more than two hundred dollars and a whimsically bright sash around her emaciated waist. Babs was ever ready for the Condè Nast photographers.
Her mother was giving her the once-over. Bentley should have been used to it by now, but it still made her feel like a floral arrangement with too many weeds.
“That color isn’t good for you, dear. Go deeper. You’re winter, remember? Reds, vermilions. Bold. Brash.”
“I’ll be bold and brash tonight, okay?”
“Sassy already, eh?” She turned to look behind her, and Bentley saw her father round the corner from the bar. “Danny, our girl’s being sassy.”
“Eh? What?”
Danforth “Danny” Brewster was the ideal mate for Babs, but he was, unfortunately, no Atticus Finch. Silver haired, handsome, slender, he looked great by the fireplace with a pipe in one hand. Today, he was in his sailor outfit, which he wore quite often back home, although to Bentley’s knowledge, he’d never actually sailed in his life. But Babs said the hat worked.
“I said,” Babs fairly shouted, “that Bentley is being sassy.” Then she leaned toward her and whispered, “The hearing aid cost a small fortune, and he’s still deaf as a post.”
“Bentley, girl. Let me look at you.”
She smiled at her father and watched in dismay as more of her relatives oozed from the bar to the lobby. Aunt Tildy with her cane, Uncle Arthur with his hideous toupee. Cousins, nephews, nieces. And that wasn’t all of them.
“So,” Babs said, loudly enough for Danny, and the rest of the world, to hear. “Where is he? We’re all dying to meet your Carter, darling. I can’t believe I’ve never even seen my own son-in-law. I mean, really.”
Bentley opened her mouth, ready with the speech she’d practiced a hundred times. But she didn’t say a word. She just made a small choking sound.
Because just then, Mitch Slater appeared out of nowhere, stepped up to Babs Brewster and said, “I’m right here, Mother.”
Chapter Two
Mitch hadn’t had this much fun since he’d put the pigs in the principal’s office in high school. Just the look on Bentley’s face would give him good memories into his dotage. For a moment he thought she might faint, but hey, you can’t have everything.
“So this is the famous Carter?” Bentley’s mother said, eyeing him like a tennis bracelet. “You didn’t tell us he was this beautiful, Bentley. Oh, the children are going to be stunning!”
Mitch smiled at Mom, then turned again to Bentley. “We’re going to work on that while we’re here, aren’t we, sweetheart?”
Bentley’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. Her face was an odd shade of pink, though. And getting brighter by the moment.
“Let me shake your hand, son,” Bentley’s father said. Mitch recognized him from newspaper photographs, same thing with Babs. He knew Bentley came from old money, from people who made the social registry on a regular basis. So he’d done his homework before getting on the plane. He’d rented three Katharine Hepburn movies and watched them as he’d packed. It didn’t go past him that Carter DeHaven was damn similar to C. K. Dexter Haven, the Cary Grant role in The Philadelphia Story. Bentley had been clever, but not clever enough.
