Dying To Marry

by Janelle Taylor

  DANCING WITH DANGER

  They’re playing our song, Jake thought as he led Holly back into the ballroom. Their first—and only—slow dance at the Troutville Senior Prom was to that song. He wondered if she even remembered.

  He glanced at her, and she met his gaze.

  “They played this at our prom,” she said softly.

  So she did remember.

  She stood very still, seeming lost in thought, and it was all Jake could do not to pull her into his arms and dance her away, far, far away, away from the threats and fear and danger, where they could be alone. It amazed him how his tender feelings for her had come rushing back despite what had happened between them. He should hate her. But he didn’t. Couldn’t.

  She was so beautiful in her black dress, her shiny brown hair in a low knot at the nape of her neck. He could smell a delicate perfume, not the one she used to wear.

  God, how he wanted her. He’d been unable to take his eyes off her all night.

  Keep your distance, man, he cautioned himself. Keep your distance.

  DYING TO MARRY

  JANELLE TAYLOR

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  DANCING WITH DANGER

  Title Page

  Dedication

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  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

  EPILOGUE

  Copyright Page

  Dedicated to my newest and third grandson,

  Ean Michael Joseph MacIntyre

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

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  To learn more about Janelle Taylor, her past works, future releases, and topics special to her, visit the Janelle Taylor website at: www.readersheart.com. It also contains a photo gallery. You can send her e-mail to readersheart@ aol.com or to JnATaylor@aol.com.

  PROLOGUE

  Never before had a wedding invitation wreaked so much havoc in a small town. There were gasps. Confusion. Screams.

  One elderly woman had to reach for her heart medication.

  A young man crumpled up the lovely invitation and burned it on his stove.

  A grown woman threw a temper tantrum and ripped it up into tiny pieces.

  Two hundred and twenty-five invitations had been sent out. And there were two hundred and twenty-five similar reactions. Scorn. Ridicule. Disbelief, mostly. All around town, people were having the same conversation.

  “There’s no way it’s a real invitation.”

  “Maybe it’s one of those joke events where you bring the ugliest girl or biggest loser to the dance!”

  “It’s an awfully expensive joke—the paper and vellum and gold embossing must have cost a fortune.”

  “Please—those two engaged to be married? No way.”

  “Omigod—now I know why he’s been so unavailable—he’s been with her!”

  “I’ll bet she’s pregnant!”

  “His mother must be hyperventilating!”

  “His father must be turning over in his grave.”

  “You go, girl!” (There was only one of those.)

  In another house, there was anger. Red-hot anger. “Engaged?” seethed its occupant, stabbing at the invitation over and over on the kitchen table with a steak knife. “One of you will be dead before you’re ever wed. I’ll see to that.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  An elderly woman wearing pink sweats and white satin shoes with three-inch heels was practicing her dance moves on the sidewalk in front of her house. A shimmy. A shallow dip, despite the fact that no one was dipping her. A twirl. And then her own version of the classic John Travolta move from Saturday Night Fever. Ellie Finnaman pointed her right arm high in the air, then reached it down to her hip and laughed.

  “That was great, Miss Ellie!” Holly Morrow called from her seat on the top step of her house, next door to Ellie’s.

  Miss Ellie Finnaman, seventy-six-year-old bride-to-be, was breaking in her shoes for her wedding tomorrow, and a small crowd of neighbors and the postman had stopped to cheer her on. Some joined her in the Seventies-era moves; others started singing “Night Fever.”

  “See, Holly, dear, I told you I’d show these shoes how to boogie up,” Ellie called, twirling around, her hands high in the air.

  “That’s ‘boogie down,’ Miss Ellie,” Holly called back. She laughed. Holly was Ellie’s self-appointed worrywart. The elderly woman refused to worry about tripping or breaking a leg. Ellie insisted that her groom, eighty-year-old Herbert Walker, would catch her if she fell. “And you were right. I worried for nothing. Those heels are high, but you’re as steady on your feet as you were yesterday in your pink sneakers. You’d think you wore three-inch-high heels every day.”

  Ellie laughed and began shimmying up the street. The neighbors cheered as she twirled and then grabbed the handsome mail carrier for a partner.

  “Miss Ellie, if you’ll dance me to Holly,” the mail carrier said, a few pieces of mail in hand, “I can get in a dance and do my job at the same time.”

  Miss Ellie grinned and tangoed the man up the walkway to Holly. “Ooh, Holly, that big envelope in Michael’s hand looks like an invitation to something fancy, like a wedding!”

  The mail carrier handed Holly a catalog and two envelopes, one of which was a bill and the other of which was indeed some kind of invitation; then he tipped his hat at Miss Ellie and headed back to his cart. Ellie continued her tango, solo, along the grass between her and Holly’s houses, but she was headed straight for her own prized azalea patch.

  Please don’t fall. Please don’t fall. Please don’t fall, Holly prayed to the fates of the universe. “Eyes on the ground, Miss Ellie!” Holly called.

  “And miss the world going round?” Ellie shouted back with a grin as she barely missed decapitating a beautiful flower. “No, thanks.” She twirled back over to Holly and eyed the outsized envelope in Holly’s hand. “Yes, that is definitely a wedding invitation, dear. My, what lovely calligraphy—in gold, no less! And what heavyweight paper this is. Friend of yours?”

  Holly glanced at the envelope and shook her head. “You’re the only bride-to-be I know, Miss Ellie.” As the woman practiced a curtsy, her foot slipping perilously close to Holly’s thorny roses, Holly slipped the envelope into her purse. “Careful, Miss Ellie!”

  The woman smiled and waved dismissively. “Not to worry, dear. Besides, the wedding isn’t in our yards or on the sidewalk—it’s at the boring senior center. You couldn’t slip and fall in that place if you tried.”

  Holly laughed. “You’ve got me there.”

  Still, the formal dining room at the town senior center, despite all its wall railings and soft surfaces, did not have a rubber floor. And with all the tables, chairs, and dancing people to bump into, Miss Ellie couldn’t
be too careful. Especially in those ridiculous heels.

  Holly was so excited about the wedding tomorrow. The staff at the center—where Ellie’s fiancé Herbert lived, and Ellie volunteered (that was how they met)—was decking the halls for the nuptials. Holly was so happy for Ellie and Herbert, both of whom she adored. Miss Ellie, who’d been Holly’s neighbor since Holly had moved to the large town ten years ago, was very much a mother figure, which Holly welcomed as her own mother lived so far away in Florida. And Herbert—smart, kind, gallant Herbert—was very much like Holly’s own father and reminded her every day of the qualities she wanted in her own husband ... if she ever had a husband, that was.

  A boyfriend, even.

  Holly sighed. When was my last date? she asked herself.

  Two months ago. And it had been a disaster. Miss Ellie and Herbert had fixed her up with the grandson of a man in Herbert’s bridge circle. The grandson had reported back that Holly couldn’t have seemed less interested in him.

  That wasn’t entirely true. Not false, but not true. Okay, she hadn’t been attracted to her date from the get-go, but he’d talked nonstop—about himself—and buzzed in her ear during the movie they’d seen, a violent action film Holly couldn’t even bear to watch. And he looked at her lasciviously, his eyes lingering on her breasts as though he wanted her to know he found her sexually appealing from the moment she opened her front door. She’d felt uncomfortable in his presence their entire date.

  She’s too proper for me, the guy had reported to his grandfather, who’d shared it with the entire bridge group. Cares too much about manners and what people think of her. So what if I belched at dinner and knocked over my water glass? She was so embarrassed! Holly really needs to loosen up.

  Loosen up. Holly knew she couldn’t be classified as uptight—well, maybe on dates with guys who thought belching on a first date was hilarious—but no one would ever call her a free spirit, either.

  And she did care what people thought of her. She always had and she always would. She had her own mind, of course, and she was no one’s pushover or fool, but she did take care to project a certain image, and she supposed that prim, unfortunately, did seem an apt word to describe that image.

  A familiar tightening in her chest forced her eyes closed. She willed away the memories of Troutville, New Jersey, where she’d grown up. I’m far, far away from there, she told herself. Far away from that place and people’s opinions of me.

  In Troutville, you were what people said you were.

  “Ooh, it’s almost five o’clock!” Ellie said. She was working on her John Travolta moves by the rosebush. “I don’t want to miss the early bird special at the Rosebud Grill. Herbert’s taking me there for our last dinner as a courting couple.”

  “Miss Ellie, I thought the groom wasn’t supposed to see the bride before the wedding,” Holly said teasingly.

  Ellie wagged her finger. “Dear, Herbert and I are a bit too old to wait for anything.”

  Holly burst out laughing. “That’s all right, Miss Ellie. Anyway, I think it’s only before the ceremony tomorrow that Herbert isn’t supposed to see you.”

  “Oh, too bad,” Ellie said. “I love to break traditions. I’ve already broken the big one of waiting for the wedding night!”

  Holly burst out laughing again and shook her head. Miss Ellie was absolutely wonderful. She was also a little hard of hearing and tended to shout, which meant everyone on the block now knew that Miss Ellie, confirmed bachelorette for sixty years, was no virgin.

  As their neighbors cheered and clapped and laid hands over their hearts and went on their way, Holly watched Ellie walk a la the “Wedding March” to her own house. “Have a good time, Miss Ellie. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow to help you dress.”

  “Thank you, dear. Will you come by at seven? The gang should all be over by nine, and I’d love to have some time to get ready with just the two of us.”

  “Seven, it is,” Holly called.

  Miss Ellie, with no children, grandchildren, nieces or nephews, managed to have quite a network of friends of all ages. Neighbors and people from the various places at which she volunteered loved her dearly. Miss Ellie attended more family functions than just about anyone Holly knew.

  It was very comforting for Holly to see that one could be single their entire life, never have children, and live a very happy and fulfilling life. Miss Ellie had so many interests and she was so happy and she had wonderful friends. Holly was very single and had been for a long time. She was twenty-eight and had never been married, never even been close.

  As the tiny, elderly woman climbed the two steps up to the porch and then headed inside her house, Holly’s own feet hurt just watching her walk in those heels. She kicked off her pumps to massage her insteps.

  Holly took the invitation out of her purse and studied the envelope. It was addressed in beautiful dark gold calligraphy. She slit open the heavyweight envelope, lined with gold foil. Who do I know who’s getting married? she wondered. None of her relatives or girlfriends were engaged. The invitation must be for something else.

  Oh, Lord—please tell me it’s not to my ten-year high school reunion, Holly thought, now eyeing the envelope with dread. A couple of weeks ago, her cousin Lizzie, who still lived in Troutville, had mentioned seeing posters all over town for the reunion.

  Holly would not be attending.

  Despite the warm August weather, she shivered at even the thought of Troutville High School.

  None too gently, she pulled out the contents of the envelope. Inside was another envelope, inside which was a very fancy invitation. It was a wedding invitation. Curious, Holly read the first line—and burst out laughing.

  A belly laugh sent long distance from her cousin Lizzie was just what Holly needed after the long, hard day she’d had at work and the long, hard night she faced ahead of baking and decorating Ellie’s wedding cake.

  As Holly read the first line of the invitation again, she had to slap her hand over her mouth to suppress another round of giggles.

  You are cordially invited to witness the wedding of Lizbeth Morrow and Dylan Dunhill III ...

  Holly chuckled as she read the rest of the invitation, then ran inside to call “Lizbeth,” aka Lizzie Morrow. Lizzie, her twenty-eight-year-old cousin (the daughter of Holly’s father’s only brother), was the funniest person Holly had ever known. Creating a phony invitation to her wedding to the last man on earth Lizzie would ever marry was up there with her cousin’s best jokes.

  It had been two weeks since the cousins had last spoken, and Holly was hungry for Lizzie’s voice, exuberance and comical stories about what was going on in Troutville, where they’d grown up together. Holly wasn’t fond of the small, gossipy town; to say that she hated even the thought of Troutville wasn’t overstating her feelings, but her cousin and aunt lived there, as did Holly’s oldest and dearest girlfriends, and a small part of Holly’s heart was still untouched by all the pain she associated with the town. A very small part, but a part, nonetheless.

  Holly couldn’t wait to hear what was going on in Lizzie’s life, who she was dating, what was happening with their friends Gayle and Flea, how Lizzie’s mother was doing, how business was at the bar that her mother owned (and where Lizzie was a waitress). Holly and Lizzie hadn’t been able to talk much or for long during the past few months. Holly’s job as a high school English teacher kept her away from a telephone all day, and her hobby—which was turning into a true side job—of making specialty cakes for weddings and catered parties was keeping her too covered in flour and icing to get to the telephone at night. And Lizzie, serial dater, barmaid and budding photographer for the Troutville Gazette, had a full plate herself.

  A long, much-needed conversation with her terrific cousin was just what the doctor ordered, and luckily, Lizzie was home. She answered on the first ring.

  “Lizbeth, dear,” Holly intoned in an upper-crust accent, “I simply wouldn’t miss your wedding to Mr. Dunhill for the world. Tell me,
dear, will you be wearing a Vera Wang custom gown or a Chanel?” She laughed. “Oh, Lizzie, you don’t know how badly I needed a good joke. Today was one of those days. My boss, Principal Eggers, has been so—”

  “Holly, honey, it isn’t a joke,” Lizzie interrupted. “I am getting married.”

  “Of course you are, Lizbeth,” Holly droned, still in her lofty accent. “To Mr. Dylan Dunhill, who wouldn’t deign to speak to a Morrow if he ran over one with his Mercedes!”

  No, that wasn’t quite accurate—the Dunhills had spoken to a few Morrows in their long history of living in the same small town; after all, the matriarch of Dunhill Mansion had to give orders to her maids, and two Morrows had worked in that stately colonial up on Dunhill Place.

  Holly tossed the invitation on the kitchen table, shook her head and smiled. “Lizzie, you are too funny! So what’s going on? How’s your mom? And Gayle and Flea?”

  There was dead silence on the other end.

  “Lizzie?”

  “Holly, the invitation isn’t a joke,” Lizzie said. “I really am marrying Dylan.”

  Now there was silence on Holly’s end. Lizzie sounded very serious. Holly waited a moment for Lizzie’s Ha, Gotcha!

  But it never came.

  “Holly, things have changed,” Lizzie said. “Big time. I know the invitation must come as a major shock, but it’s true. I’m getting married. To Dylan.”

  Okay, wait a minute. Lizzie wasn’t kidding? This invitation wasn’t a joke that Lizzie had made on her computer in the back office at the bar?

  “Oh, Holly-Molly,” Lizzie continued, using the pet name she’d given Holly when they were five. “Me, Lizzie Morrow, a bride-to-be! A big church wedding and a fancy reception hall and everything! It’s just like I always dreamed—like we always dreamed!”

  As Lizzie went on without a breath about gowns and floral arrangements and caterers, and whether or not a local Troutville band could do justice to Céline Dion, her favorite singer, Holly sank back into the chair, unable to process the very simple information she was receiving. Her cousin was getting married? And to a Dunhill?