by JoAnn Ross
“Dearly Beloved,” Elvis began.
Letter to Reader
Title Page
Praise
About the Author
Don’t miss these exciting, upcoming books from JoAnn Ross
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Copyright
“Dearly Beloved,” Elvis began.
Sweat beaded on Mitch’s forehead as he heard Sasha promise to take him as her lawfully wedded husband. But not from fear, Mitch assured himself. He just hadn’t expected an Elvis impersonator to marry them.
He was a smoke eater. A hero. Guys like him lived on the edge. They weren’t afraid of anything.
Elvis turned toward him. “And do you,
Mitchel Dylan Cudahy, take this woman...” Little white spots began to dance in front of his eyes.
“I do.” He’d barely croaked out the words before he pitched forward, landing facedown at Sasha’s feet.
“Mitch!” Sasha knelt beside him and gathered him into her arms.
He moaned and opened his eyes. But it was too late. He could only watch as the woman they’d paid to be their witness, clearly accustomed to nervous grooms, calmly plucked the gladioli out of the vase, then tossed the water into Mitch’s face.
Mitch spit water out of his mouth as Elvis proclaimed, “By the power invested in me by the state of Nevada—and the King of rock and roll— I now pronounce you husband and wife!”
Dear Reader.
Love and laughter—what a perfect marriage! And Harlequin owes you the readers thanks for our new, fun-filled, unfailingly romantic series. When we asked you what new stories you most wanted to read about, the answer came back loud and dear—romantic comedies!
What better way to end one of those days—the car wouldn’t start, the boss wanted a huge report finished yesterday, the heel on your best pair of shoes broke on the way home—than with a good romantic comedy?
From classic movie couples like Hepburn and Tracy to the contemporary pairings of Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks, or Sandra Bullock and whomever (who doesn’t look good next to Sandra?), we have always adored romantic comedies and the heroes and heroines in them.
So here it is. The lighter side of love. The first two Love & Laughter books. In I Do, I Do... For Now fabulous JoAnn Ross gives us a nineties twist on the marriage of convenience (Mitch is a guy who just can’t say no). In Dates and Other Nuts Lori Copeland, well renowned for her humorous love stories, tackles the subject of dates from hell (sound a little too familiar?).
Settle back and enjoy. And remember, after you’ve smiled your way through these stories, there’ll be morel Two brand-new books every month. Don’t miss the love and laughter Kasey Michaels and Jennifer Crusie have in store for us in September. (Sneak preview: Fred, part basset, part beagle, part manic-depressive will play a starring role.) So please settle back and enjoy the beginning of a wonderful pairing—romantic comedies and you!
Humorously yours,
Malle Vallik
Associate Senior Editor
I DO, I DO...FOR NOW
JoAnn Ross
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN
MADRID • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
“No one tickles your fancy more joyously than the incomparable JoAnn Ross.”
—Melinda Helfer
JoAnn Ross, the author of over fifty novels, talks about writing one of the launch books for Love & Laughter: “Whenever I’m asked how much of my stories are based on real life, I usually answer that I make them all up. In this case, however, that’s not entirely true. Many years ago the neighbor’s nasty dog chased my kitten up a tree. Although everyone assured me Fang would come down when he was ready, I wasn’t convinced. Hours later, when I couldn’t resist his plaintive, terrified cries any longer, I decided to take matters into my own hands. But I needed bait to lure him down. My husband arrived home that evening just in time to see his very pregnant wife climbing down from the tree, the salmon I’d planned to bake for dinner tucked under one arm. a howling, squirming kitten under the other. So, when my fireman hero needed to rescue a kitten from a tree, I resurrected my plot. Fortunately, my return to earth was a great deal easier than Mitch’s.”
Don’t miss these exciting, upcoming books from JoAnn Ross
From TEMPTATION, The Men of Whiskey River:
605—UNTAMED (October 1996)
609—WANTEDI (November 1996)
613—AMBUSHED (December 1996)
From MIRA: SOUTHERN COMFORTS (September 1996).
And JoAnn’s short story in NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTION: BABY, on sale at Christmas.
Don’t miss any of our special offers. Write to us at the following address for Information on our newest releases.
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
To Jay, who can always make me laugh
1
MITCH CUDAHY was a genuine all-American hero. Although he’d be the first to tell folks that he’d only been doing his job, the twenty-seven-year-old Phoenix fire fighter had a medal from the mayor, a certificate of commendation from the fire chief, and most impressive of all, he’d even received a letter from the President, written on official White House stationery. It hung on the station wall, right beside the crayon drawings from Mrs. Bingham’s first grade class, which were a thank-you to Ladder Company No. 13 for a tour of the firehouse.
In the weeks following his death-defying dash into a burning apartment building to rescue twin infant girls from the flames, Mitch had appeared on “Good Morning America,” “The Today Show,” “Nightline,” “Ricki Lake,” and had even been interviewed by Regis and Kathie Lee, making his very proud mother the star of her neighborhood.
So with all that going for him, what the hell was he doing up a tree, juggling an open can of tuna fish while trying to keep from falling on his butt?
“You’re not high enough,” the aggravated female voice complained from the ground. “You’ll never reach Buffy from there.”
“I’m doing my best, darlin’,” Mitch said through clenched teeth.
He’d just reached for a neighboring limb when the one beneath his feet cracked. There was a chorus of gasps from the crowd gathered below him as he managed to grab onto a branch above his head. As he hung there, dangling high above the desert floor, Mitch didn’t feel much like a hero. He was also extremely grateful that Kathie Lee wasn’t here to see this.
“Now look what you did,” the seven-year-old girl scolded. “You dropped the tuna fish.”
Tempted to suggest the smart-mouthed little kid rescue her own damn cat, Mitch reminded himself that all-American heroes were not allowed to cuss at kids. But that didn’t stop him from cursing beneath his breath—ripe, pungent expletives directed at Buffy the adventurous Siamese, the damn bureaucratic animal control guys who’d decided that rescuing treed cats wasn’t in their job description and yes, even sexy, blond Meredith Roberts of KSAZ, for showing up with her TV cameraman to capture his indignity on videotape.
Yet even as irritated as he was at most of the western world at that moment, Mitch saved his harshest condemnatio
n for himself.
Hero?
How about chump?
The muscles in his arms were about to give out and his hands were sweating. With a mighty effort, he managed to pull himself up on to the limb. Straddling it, he found himself staring straight into the oblique blue eyes of a seal point kitten.
“You realize, of course, that you’ve caused a lot of people a great deal of trouble,” Mitch said to the terrified kitten. The cat’s tail, fluffed up to three times its normal size, was twitching back and forth like a pendulum. “But it’s okay now. We’re going to get all four paws back on solid ground.”
When he reached for the kitten, it backed up, arched its back and began hissing like a burst radiator hose.
“Come on, cat.” He was unable to keep the edge of frustration from his coaxing tone. “Look, there’s a little girl down there who’s got a can of tuna fish with your name on it.”
Inching forward, Mitch forced down his irritation and began talking to the reluctant animal in the same rational, calm tone he’d used on more than one occasion to convince a frightened civilian to jump from a third-story window into the net below.
“And not just any ordinary old cat chow stuff,” he crooned. “This is genuine, water-packed white albacore we’re talking about, Buffy. The caviar of canned tuna.”
The closer Mitch got, the louder the cat’s howling became—a grating, particularly Siamese complaint that affected Mitch’s already touchy nerve endings like fingernails scraping across a chalkboard.
“That’s my girl.” The kitten was inches away. Pasting a huge, false smile on his face, Mitch made a grab for it.
Unfortunately, the cat was quicker. It leapt deftly out of his grasp and as he struggled to regain his balance, it landed, razor-sharp claws extended, smack in the middle of his back.
“Dammit!”
It was a roar, a bellow of fury mixed with pain that only made the howling kitten dig in deeper. Tempted to peel the cat off and fling it into the neighboring county, Mitch remembered—just in time—the television crew filming from the ground.
“You’re just damn lucky we’ve got witnesses, you miserable, mangy fur bag.” Grinding his teeth against the needle-sharp pain, he gingerly made his way back down the tree, the kitten’s strident complaints ringing in his ear.
About ten feet from the ground, the cat bailed out, abandoning the relative safety of Mitch’s back like a teenage dragster peeling away from a red light.
Buffy the Flying Kitten took a patch of Mitch’s skin with her, and his bellowed curse made that scene unsuitable for the TV station’s family audience. Unfortunately, the shot of all-American hero Mitch Cudahy’s three-point landing in a spreading cholla did made the evening news.
Mitch’s mother, always eager to see her famous son on television, was thrilled.
WHILE MITCH was playing the reluctant hero, Sasha Mikhailova, recent émigré to the United States, sat in a government office across the city, scared to death. She was also determined not to show it. Especially to the man who’d been a constant source of aggravation for the past month. Just as Superman had Lex Luther and Batman had The Riddler, Sasha had been cursed with Mr. Donald O.—for obnoxious, she thought—Potter.
Deported.
“You can’t possibly be serious,” she said, but she knew he was. The word tolled in her mind like a death knell. Her lips began to tremble; she managed, just barely, to control them as she looked around the cramped office that offered not a single clue to the man seated across the government-issue black metal desk. There were no family photos, no newspaper cartoons taped to the side of the desktop computer, no personal mementoes of any kind.
“The government doesn’t make jokes, Ms. Mikhailova,” he said, his voice as stiff as his manner.
As she looked across the unrelentingly neat desktop at her nemesis, she couldn’t help thinking what her employer—and friend—had recently called him when he’d first shown up at the diner during the lunch rush hour. Squinty-eyed weasel.
The term, she decided, definitely fit. In all her twenty-four years, she’d never met a more mean-spirited individual. And considering all the bureaucrats she’d had to deal with to get to this country in the first place, that was really saying something.
“A lack of humor seems to be a universal trait where governments are concerned.” Although her nerves were humming, Sasha lifted her chin fearlessly. “However, your government has made a mistake.” She decided, for discretion’s sake, not to mention that the mistake was mostly his. “You cannot deport me.”
He arched a pale blond brow, licked the tip of his index finger and began flipping through the thick pages of her immigration file.
“It states here that when you first requested a visitor’s visa, you declared yourself to be a nurse—”
“I worked as a surgical nurse. In St. Petersburg.” She’d planned to attend nursing school here in the United States, to earn her license to practice, as soon as she’d settled down. Unfortunately that plan, like so many others, had turned out to be impossible, given the fact that she’d moved around like a Ukrainian gypsy since her arrival in New York one year ago.
“And then you were an English teacher?” His voice was thick with disbelief.
“Only part-time.”
They’d gone over the same things the half-dozen other times she’d been summoned downtown to his office. He had all the information in her file. So why was he torturing her this way? Sasha decided he enjoyed toying with her emotions the same way a fat cat enjoyed tormenting a cornered mouse.
“My mother was a translator for the U.S. consulate in Leningrad. She taught me English from the time I was a very young child, so I was able earn the additional money necessary to come to this country by tutoring students after my shift at the hospital.”
She was not surprised when he ignored her explanation as he had so many times before. “And now you’re a waitress.”
The amount of scorn he heaped on her current occupation made her temper flare. Counting to ten, first in her native Russian, then in her adopted English, she overcame her irritation and met his derisive gaze with a defiant look.
“Waitressing is good, honest work.”
“Point taken,” he said, surprising her by agreeing with her. Too late, Sasha realized she’d been set up. “That being the case, you certainly shouldn’t have any trouble finding a job waiting tables back home.”
His thin lips curved into a sneer. “Especially now that McDonald’s has opened up shop in Russia.”
Sasha tossed her dark head, sending the lush waves bouncing. She refused to let him bait her. Not when so much was at stake. “You cannot deport me.”
The nasty smile reached his eyes, confirming her suspicions that he was thoroughly enjoying himself at her expense. “Want to bet?”
She’d studied the immigration laws carefully before coming to this country. When she’d arrived in New York, she’d gone to an attorney who’d taken her money and assured her that she was on firm legal ground. Two days later, he’d moved out of the storefront office and left no forwarding address.
He’d been only the first in a very long line to steal her nest egg. But that was no longer a problem because she’d spent the last of her hard-earned funds on the Greyhound bus ticket that had brought her from Springfield, Missouri, here to Phoenix.
“My father...” Embarrassed when her voice cracked, she felt the hot sting of furious, frustrated tears at the backs of her eyelids.
No. She would not cry! Sasha Mikhailova had the blood of czars running through her veins, along with that of a U.S. Confederate major, who’d reportedly done the O’Brien family proud fighting alongside Stonewall Jackson at the first Battle of Manassas.
Her Russian ancestors were hot-tempered, emotional aristocrats; her Irish ancestors were hot-tempered Celtic rebels who’d escaped County Cork one step ahead of the British sheriff. She would not give this sadistic little bureaucrat—this squinty-eyed weasel!—the satisfaction of making her weep
in public.
She hitched in a deep breath and prayed for calm as she resolved not to crumble. “My father is an American.”
He eyed her uncompassionately over the metal frame of his reading glasses. “Do you have any idea, Ms. Mikhailova, how many people, on any given day, tell me that same thing?”
“In my case, Mr. Potter, it is true.”
“That’s what they all say.” He briskly stamped the manila file that represented a world of hope. A lifetime of dreams. “You have until Wednesday at 10:00 a.m. to compile the documents necessary to prove your case. If you can’t, a deportation hearing will be scheduled for the following day. And then, Ms. Mikhailova, you will be put on the next plane back to Russia.”
After making a notation on his desk calendar, he closed the file and placed it in a metal basket on the filing cabinet behind his desk.
Case closed.
Her life ruined.
Just like that.
“You would schedule this hearing so soon?”
He sighed, took off the glasses and gave her a stern look. “We’ve been through this before. You were granted a temporary visa in order to locate your alleged father—”
“He is not alleged!” Her flare of temper, which she could no longer restrain, brought much needed color into her pale cheeks.
