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First Dance
Karen Kendall
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Contents
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
Chapter Twenty-three
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Don't miss the other books of The Bridesmaid Chronicles
First Date (available now)
First Kiss (available now)
First Love (Coming from Signet in September 2005)
Praise for the novels of Karen Kendall
"Sassy and sexy a writer to watch."
Susan Andersen
"Effervescent witty fresh fun."
Christina Skye
"If you find a Karen Kendall book up on the shelves, don't hesitate to grab it. You'll enjoy it, guaranteed."
A Romance Review
"The incomparable Karen Kendall is back with yet another rollicking comical romance, which will have the readers laughing their hearts out [She] is indeed a masterly writer." Road to Romance
"Will leave you howling with laughter."
Affaire de Coeur
" A terrific love story filled with laugh-out-loud humor." Reader to Reader Reviews
"Smart, sassy, and sensational, this is the contemporary romantic comedy of the year."
Romance Reviews Today
"A fast-paced, amusing and heart-warming romp." The Romance Reader's Connection
"Fans of amusing yet serious relationship dramas will delight in Karen Kendall's I've Got You, Babe ."
The Best Reviews
Visit her Web site at www.karenkendall.com
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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, August 2005
10 987654321
Copyright © Karen Moser, 2005
Excerpt from First Love © Julie Kenner, 2005
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARKMARCA 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 book is dedicated to
Displaced Homemakers' Associations and
Greyhound Rescues everywhere.
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Acknowledgments
I could not have written this book without the systematic torture of numerous attorneys who probably still duck and run when my e-mail address or phone number appear! So a huge thank-you to Julie Kenner, Terri Bakowitz, Kim Peterson, Amy Kaye, Kathryn Bell-Moss Campbell, Jason Wakefield and "Mad Max" Hagan. Thanks especially to Lisa Canterberry who read the whole manuscript to identify and weed out bloopers. You guys are the best!
I also want to thank my editor, Kara Cesare, Rose Hilliard, and everyone at Signet who works behind the scenes to produce and market wonderful books. Last but not least, thanks to Sally Franklin, production editor extraordinaire.
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Chapter One
Vivien Shelton kissed the five doggie noses arrayed at varying heights in front of her and backed out of her Manhattan apartment. She clutched a tape roller and her computer bag in one hand, and a tall espresso-strength coffee in the other. Ellis whined mournfully, and Brooklyn gave a sharp, disapproving bark.
She looked regretfully at her gaggle of greyhounds. "I know, guys. But I can't stay and play. Klein, Schmidt and Belker pays me for my legal expertise, not my Frisbee skills. Tabitha will keep you company, okay?" She glanced at the tiny blond walker, still incredulous that the dogs didn't pull her right off her feet.
"Queenie has a two p.m. vet appointment, remember. Just have them send me the billforty-three greyhounds later, they know I'm good for it."
"Will do." Tabitha crunched down on a Granny Smith apple and waved goodbye. "What about the couple who's interested in Brooklyn? What should I tell them?"
"I'm not comfortable with him going to them. There's something 'off' about those people. Tell them he's already been placed."
"Okay. Have a good one, Viv."
"You too!" She dropped another quick kiss on little Mannie's speckled pink nosehe was practically an albinoand he licked her cheek, probably taking off half of her makeup. Mannie was the latest in her long line of rescued greyhounds, and he hadn't left her side all day on Sunday. She felt guilty leaving him, but he was in good hands. Cranky old Schmidt would have a stroke if she brought Mannie anywhere near the office.
Viv glanced at her watch and galloped toward the elevator, madly tape-rolling the little white hairs off her left trouser-clad thigh. She did her lower left leg while waiting for the car
to arrive, and her right leg on the way down from the seventeenth floor to the first. A slurp of coffee, then the right front of her jacket. Another slurp, and the left front.
Mr. Duarte from the eleventh floor watched eagerly as the roller skimmed over her breasts, and she sent him a quelling look. This only made him look hopeful that she might punish him. Duarte gave her the creeps.
Once they got to the ground floor, Viv waited for him to scram. Then she sidled over to Timmy, the doorman, raised a come-hither brow, and dove down the service hallway. Timmy appeared within seconds, she presented her backside, and he tape-rollered her from nape to ankles.
"Oooooh, Timmy. Was that good for you, dar ling?" She winked at him once he was done. "Because, as always, it was sensational for me."
"You're lucky I'm here to service you, Miss Viv." Timmy winked back.
"That I am," Viv agreed. "That I am. Thank you!" She popped the tape roller into her bulging computer bag and rushed out the door just as the firm's car and driver appeared.
Viv had once thought that the chauffeured car was a nice perk of working at Klein, Schmidt and Belker: a luxury. She now considered Maurice and the Lincoln Continental to be her jailer and paddy wagon, respectively. Maurice made sure she was working hard to generate the big bucks for Schmidt and Belker by seven forty-five a.m. each weekday morning, and by nine forty-five a.m. on too-regular Saturdays. (Klein was technically out of the picture, after he'd dropped dead at a urinal in the men's room three years ago. He'd left behind a spectacular courtroom win ratio and an exposed trouser snake that bent even farther right than his politics.)
"Good morning, Maurice," Viv said crisply as she stepped into the Lincoln. "And how are you today?" The usual nauseating smell of wintergreen gum and tropical fruit carpet freshener assailed her nostrils.
The wizened little man looked at his watch and frowned. "Better, now that you're in. Four times around the block today. Miss Shelton!"
"Four, really? How frustrating. Were you early?" Viv was never late. Not by as much as thirty seconds. And tardiness in others was one of her biggest pet peeves.
"Early, schmurly," grumbled Maurice, lurching forward and left in the heavy traffic and cutting off an irate and vocal Middle Eastern cabdriver. Then he floored it for all of eight feet before dodging right again, barely missing a bike messenger, and slamming on the brakes.
Viv took it all in stride. She had a strong suspicion that Schmidt and Belker awarded Maurice an annual bonus for delivering her hundred-and-thirty pounds of flesh before eight o'clock each day. She and the other five attorneys on his run were his responsibility.
She had at least fifteen minutes to kill before the car got from her Upper East Side building to the law offices in midtown, so she checked e-mail on her Palm Pilot.
Please, she prayed, let there not be any more wedding horrors awaiting her. Since the troubling news that her best friend Julia Spinelli was getting married to some redneck she'd only known a month, Viv had tried to digest the fact that she'd have to be a She shuddered, unable to wrap her mind around the concept.
A bridesmaid . Vivien didn't want to be anybody's maid, not even for a day. The whole concept was foreign; it implied servitude and worse; it spanned all the possibilities of polyester.
She'd already had to leave a deposition one day to find a full-length, strapless foundation garment in her bra size. Julia had then commanded that she purchase a pair of satin Manolo evening mules and a flaring petticoat . Viv had never in her life worn some-thing as fussy as a petticoat, and she dreaded seeing the hideous taffeta creation that went over it. Oh, God! Please let her not have to wear anything with a bow on the butt
Under any other circumstances, she'd laugh her ass off at the idea of one of Manhattan's top divorce attorneys moonlighting as a bridesmaid in a wedding. But all the humor went out of it immediately when she was the top divorce attorney in question. Viv had represented some high-profile clients, and she only hoped the papers didn't get hold of this. She could see the headlines now: RAPTOR IN ROSEBUDS! WILL SHELTON SERVE GROOM PAPERS AT RECEPTION?
Viv shook off what she knew were selfish thoughts under the circumstances. She should be a lot more concerned about Julia than she was about herself. She'd already questioned her delicately on the phone about this guy Roman. She'd also told Julia that coin-cidentally she knew his sister, Kiki Douglas. Unfortunately Viv had represented her ex-husband in their Manhattan divorce three years ago.
"Listen, hon," she'd said to Julia. "If Roman is anything like Kiki, you want to be careful."
"Roman is nothing like Kiki!" Julia had exclaimed, even though to Viv's knowledge she'd never met her.
Viv had closed her eyes to ward off a migraine impossibleand sent an urgent e-mail to Sydney Spinelli, Julia's older sister.
Today there was a reply, and Vivien scanned it quickly.
Subject: Re: Your little sister has gone crazy!
From: numbersgeek
To: vshelton@kleinschmidtbelker
Tell me about it! Yes, I've met him, and there's something fishy with the guy. What kind of Texan speaks Italian, wears designer clothes, and has a vineyard??? And Viv, here's the really awful part: the ring he gave her is FAKE!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I think he's marrying her for the $$$. But I can't talk sense into her.
Syd
@
" Fake ?!" Viv said it aloud, with enough force that Maurice squinted at her in the rearview mirror. " What ? She has got to be kidding!"
Viv typed a quick reply. She'd call Sydney as soon as she got to the office.
Subject: FAKE ring???
From: vshelton@kleinschmidtbelker
To: numbersgeek
What do you mean, the ring he gave her is fake?! HOW COULD HE??? I'm speechless, xoxoxo, Viv
@
*This electronic message transmission contains information from the law firm of Klein, Schmidt and Belker that may be confidential or privileged. The information is intended solely for the recipient and use by any other
party is not authorized. If you are not the intended recipient, be aware that any copying, disclosure, distribution or use of the contents of this transmission is prohibited. If you have received this electronic transmission in error, please notify us immediately. Thank you.
Sydney was obviously online at the same time, because before Viv had finished reading one of the work e-mails her reply popped into the mailbox.
Subject: Re: FAKE ring???
From: numbersgeek
To: vshelton@kleinschmidtbelker
Viv, supposedly it's not his fault. The grandmother sold it way back when and he didn't know. (Do you believe this? Not sure, myself.) But it doesn't matter! Our Julia has got it bad: she's STILL WEARING the ring, and says she doesn't care that it's fake. Why? Because HE gave it to her. I give up I'm going home. Can you at least get her to sign a prenup? I'm serious!!!!!!!
Syd
Viv stared in disbelief at the text. Julia was still wearing a fake ring! She logged off and shut her laptop with a snap. This was insane. This Roman guy must be damn good in bed to have her so deluded. He sounded like one hundred percent bad news, and if he was related to Kiki Douglas, whose face had been all over the tabloids lately, then he was a prize schmuck.
Julia needed a prenup, all right. The question was how to convince her of that. People in love and planning a wedding did not want to think about the ugly death of that love and the dissolution of the wedding. You couldn't really blame them.
Viv shuddered at the idea of grabbing Julia and telling her that the fabric, cut and design of her gown didn't matter, because she'd be burning it in a backyard bonfire in less than a year.
"Julia, honey," she saw herself saying, "don't worry that the doves they delivered for the event are both male. You'll be roasting them on the barbecue with veggie kabobs by Christmas." Or
"Sweetie, don't bother freezing the top of that cakeunless you want something heavy and icicle-encrusted with which to brain your husband after he absconds with your
trust fund." Or
"Lacy white bridal lingerie imported from France? Don't spend the moneyunless you've got some red or purple dye on hand. You can transform them for your divorce trousseau."
Viv winced. Julia, the poor thing, wouldn't want to listen to any of this. But Vivien had seen the rough side of marriage. She dealt with it every day: the ugly accusations, the dirty little secrets, the infidelity, the asset hiding, the custody squabbleseven the occasional kidnapping of the miserable couple's children by one spouse.
Viv had seen some strange things. She'd attended a Divorce Dirge for a client of hers and downed a dirty martini as a doll of the ex-husband was burned in effigy.
A caterer client had baked a large, penis-shaped chocolate cake for a luncheon, serving a stunned Viv a good chunk of the balls on a china plate. The client had then thanked her in front of everyone for her great work.
And during one case the cheating SOB of a husband had propositioned Viv right in front of her client, his wife!
But Viv's mistrust of marriage went far deeper than her job. Not only were her own parents divorced, but their parents before them. She simply did not believe in marital bliss.
As the Lincoln pulled up in front of Klein, Schmidt and Belker's building, Viv pulled her things together. She got out with an unenthusiastic thanks to Maurice, who gunned the engine and pulled away before she even had the door closed. Then she schlepped inside.
The first face she saw that morning belonged to grumpy old Schmidt, whose yarmulke hung precariously from a bobby pin attached to one of three final strands of combed-over hair. Now, in Schmidt's favor, he'd been married to the same woman for forty-eight years.
But Viv had a suspicion that Mrs. Schmidt hung around more out of inertia and fear of the man's divorce-law expertise than out of any burning passion for him. And she'd long ago decided that Schmidt stayed with her due to a fondness for her chocolate babka cake and light touch with potato lat-kes. He was also far too fond of his money to part ; with any of it in a divorce.
First Dance - [Bridesmaid's Chronicles 03] Page 1
