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Staying Single
Millie Criswell






Dear Reader,

I’m very excited to be writing the launch title for Harlequin Flipside. Harlequin has taken the best of the genre known as “chick lit” and combined it with the enduring appeal of romance. The result is stories with a little edge and attitude, but with the happily-ever-after ending that most readers, including myself, insist on and love.

I hope you enjoy reading Francie and Mark’s story, Staying Single. And I hope you liked meeting the wonderful and wacky Morelli family, whom you’ll be seeing more of in Lisa Morelli’s story coming in 2004. Lisa definitely marches to the beat of her own drum, and I hope you’ll follow along behind her as she tries to unravel the mess her life has become.

As always, I would love to hear your comments on Staying Single, so please write to me at P.O. Box 41206, Fredericksburg, Virginia 22404 or visit my Web site at www.milliecriswell.com.

Best always,

Millie Criswell




“It looks big enough for two. It even might be queen-size.”


Mark’s gaze switched between the sofa bed and Francie, as if trying to gauge her reaction.

Optimism was all well and good, but she didn’t think this was the time for it. It was one thing to be stranded in a small apartment overnight, but another thing entirely to have to share an even smaller bed.

“As much as I’d like to accommodate you, Mark, I don’t think it would be a good idea to share this bed.” How would she ever keep her hands off him?

“Tell you what. I promise to be on my best behavior. You can go in the bathroom and change. I’ll close my eyes until you’re safely under the covers, then I’ll hop in. How does that sound?”

It sounded indecently delicious, but she wasn’t about to tell him that.

“I don’t know….”

“Please? I’m too old and too much of a wuss to sleep on the floor.” He reinforced his plea with a persuading grin that she was incapable of resisting.

She was so in trouble….




Staying Single

Millie Criswell





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Stef Ann Holm:

Thank you for your friendship and support.

And for being my dieting buddy!




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Millie Criswell, USA TODAY bestselling author and winner of a Romantic Times Career Achievement Award and a National Readers Choice Award, has published over twenty-three romance novels. She began her writing career when her husband uttered those prophetic words: “Why don’t you try writing one of those romances you’re always reading?” Knowing that her dream of tap dancing with the Rockettes wasn’t likely to materialize—due to a lack of dancing talent—Millie jumped on the idea with both feet, so to speak, and has been charming readers with hilarious stories and sparkling characters ever since. Millie resides in Virginia with her husband and loveable Boston terrier.




Books by Millie Criswell


HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

810—THE WEDDING PLANNER

863—THE PREGNANT MS. POTTER

HARLEQUIN HISTORICALS

508—THE MARRYING MAN

579—A WESTERN FAMILY CHRISTMAS

“Christmas Eve”


Dear Reader,

Welcome to Harlequin Flipside! If you love a dash of wit and cleverness with your romance, then this is the line for you. These stories are for readers who appreciate that, if love makes the world go around, the ride is a lot more fun with a few laughs along the way.

Leading off the launch, we have USA TODAY bestselling author Millie Criswell with Staying Single. This heroine is determined to remain single—three almost weddings is enough for one girl, isn’t it?—no matter what her marriage-focused mother says. But after meeting a certain photojournalist, she just might have second thoughts….

Rounding out the month is Stephanie Doyle’s One True Love? Believing that each person has only one true love, our heroine is in a bit of a dilemma. Turns out that the guy she picked isn’t the same guy who’s captured her thoughts. This calls for some rearranging…fast!

Look for two Harlequin Flipside books every month at your favorite bookstore. And check us out online at www.HarlequinFlipside.com. We hope you enjoy this new line of romantic comedy stories.

See you next month!

Wanda Ottewell

Editor

Mary-Theresa Hussey

Executive Editor




Contents


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1


IT WAS A BAD DAY for a wedding.

Francie Morelli gazed down the red-carpeted aisle toward the altar, where her handsome husband-to-be, Matt Carson, all smiles and nervous perspiration in a black Armani tux, awaited her arrival, and knew this with a certainty.

Though unlike Matt, Francie wasn’t nervous, just panicked. The kind of panic you get when you can’t catch your breath or feel as though you might throw up.

Okay, so maybe she was a teensy bit nervous.

Even though she’d done the wedding thing twice before and knew what to expect. Not that she had ever actually made it all the way to the altar and said her “I dos.”

Not that she would get that far this time, either.

Swallowing with some difficulty at the dangerous thoughts going through her mind, she tried to ignore the “Run, Francie, run!” mantra currently playing to the tune of “Burn, Baby, Burn” from Disco Inferno, the song so popular in the 70s.

The choice of music was a bad omen. Burning in hell was a likely possibility if she didn’t go through with this wedding, which was probably the lesser of the two evils, because she knew Josephine Morelli’s punishment would be far worse. Traveling on her mother’s guilt trips was like taking a go-cart tour of hell.

Through her blush veil—flapping like a leaf in high wind due to her labored breathing—she could see her mother, dressed in a lovely, silk, teal-blue dress, hands locked in prayer and supplication, pleading with the Almighty to let her daughter have the courage to go through with the ceremony this time. The older woman’s tear-filled eyes—Francie knew there were tears because her mother liked to make a good showing at public events (funerals were her specialty)—were fixed on the massive gold crucifix hanging above the altar, as if by sheer will alone she could command God to do her bidding, as Josephine had commanded Francie so many times before.

Fortunately for the world at large, God seemed to have a stronger backbone than Francie.

A hushed silence surrounded her as those in attendance waited to see if she would actually go through with the ceremony. Aunt Flo was biting her nails to the quick, while Grandma Abrizzi had her rosary beads clacking at top speed. No one could recite the rosary faster than Loretta Abrizzi, who was a definite contender for the Guinness Book of World Records.

Francie’s sixteen-year-old brother, Jack, had taken perverse delight in explaining that several of the male guests, her uncles in particular, had placed bets on the outcome of today’s event. The odds were five-to-one that she would never see her wedding night.

Ha! A lot they knew!

She’d already had several wedding nights, though she hadn’t bothered with the wedding part. She likened it to eating dessert before dinner—the yum without the humdrum.

Not that Francie had anything in particular against matrimony. It just wasn’t right for her. She had no desire to become an extension of a man and to cater to his whims.

Though Josephine was a strong woman, who came across as an independent sort, the woman lived for her children and husband. And even though John Morelli was a great guy and a terrific father, he liked things just so—like dinner on the table promptly at five o’clock every evening, his boxers ironed without creases and no interruptions during his weekly poker game with the guys.

Of course, Francie had a theory about her mother’s catering to her family’s needs. It was Josephine’s way to control, to retain the upper hand with her husband and children, and she did it extremely well. Just as she had turned meddling into an art form.

Meddling, like marriage, was another one of those M-words that Francie hated: meddling, marriage, menstruation, menopause, milk of magnesia—Josephine’s remedy for every childhood ailment—and last but not least, Matt, the last in a long line of M fiancés.

No. M-words were definitely not good. She’d have to remember that the next time she dated, if there was a next time. At the moment that seemed remote…redundant…and oh, so ridiculous.

She would not allow her mother to bully her again.

Period.

Standing beside Francie, John Morelli clutched his daughter’s arm in a death grip, trying to keep her steady and on course. But Francie knew, just as he did, that it wouldn’t. She was in collision mode and there was no way to avoid it.

Still, he had to try. His wife would expect no less. And John, like most of the Morellis, wasn’t going to buck Josephine’s wedding obsession. Not if he wanted a moment’s peace.

Josephine was in no way, shape or form a passive-aggressive personality. The outspoken woman just came out and told you exactly what she thought and what she expected you to do about it. There was never a moment’s doubt where you stood with the overbearing woman, lovingly nicknamed “The Terminator” by her three children.

It wasn’t that the Morelli kids didn’t love their mother; they did. It was just that Josephine was not an easy woman to deal with. Forget about living with her!

Francie’s toes began to tingle—a surefire indication that flight was imminent. She wiggled them, hoping and praying that the urge to flee would pass. If not, the white satin shoes she wore would, like Dorothy’s ruby slippers, whisk her away from the solemn occasion to her favorite place of refuge: Manny’s Little Italy Deli. There she knew the owner, former high school classmate, Manny Delisio, would be waiting for her with a pastrami on rye and a large diet Coke.

Okay, so stress made her hungry!

Her roommate, Leo Bergmann, suitably armed with a packed suitcase and a train ticket to an as-yet-unknown destination, would also be there to offer moral support and a stern lecture. He was almost as good as Josephine when it came to offering opinions and advice that no one wanted, only he did it with a bit more finesse.

Francie and Leo had agreed that if it looked as though she was going to bolt, Leo would leave the ceremony early, head down to Manny’s and proceed with the travel arrangements he’d previously put into motion.

The last time Francie had run, Leo had chosen New York City as her escape destination. A great choice, in her opinion, for she’d been able to lose herself among the throngs of people, become invisible, and get her head back on straight before returning to face the music—translation: Josephine’s ranting about what an ungrateful daughter she had.

Unfortunately the time before that—the first time, when Francie had fled the arms of the unfortunate Marty Ragusa, “Philadelphia’s only undertaker with panache,” as he called himself on those stupid TV commercials he appeared in—Leo had picked Pittsburgh. It hadn’t been far enough away from Philadelphia or her mother, who had tracked her down like a bloodhound with a nose bent on revenge.

Josephine’s anger had given new meaning to the term “pissed off.” Though Francie wasn’t entirely certain that her mother hadn’t been more upset about losing her discount on funerals and burial plots than losing Marty for a son-in-law.

Patting his daughter’s hand reassuringly, John leaned over and smiled lovingly. The scent of Old Spice washed over Francie, conjuring up many good childhood memories, including her dad pushing her on the backyard swing or helping with division and multiplication problems.

“Don’t be nervous, cara mia. Soon this will be over and you’ll be married and settled down. It’s the right thing to do, you’ll see. And it will make your mother very happy. You know how she’s waited for this day.”

The second coming paled by comparison!

Francie adored her father and wanted to agree with him; she wanted that more than anything. But words of reassurance stuck in her throat like oversize peanuts and all she could offer up was a gaseous smile and a deer-in-the-headlights look.

Behind her, red-haired Joyce Rialto, her best friend since first grade, muttered, “Uh-oh,” and then began cursing obscenities beneath her breath.

Joyce knew Francie a little too well, unfortunately.

“I’m sorry, Pop, but I don’t think I can go through with this. I’m just not ready to get married. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready.”

John’s eyes widened momentarily, then he looked down the long aisle to where his wife was sitting in the first pew, the smile on her face suddenly melting as she noticed his resigned, worried expression.

“Your car’s out back. I gassed it up, just in case, and left some money in the glove box.”

Joyce wasn’t the only one who knew her well.

Warmed by the gesture, Francie kissed her father’s cheek. “I love you, Pop. Thanks! I hope Ma doesn’t give you too bad a time of it.”

John glanced quickly at his wife again and groaned inwardly, noting that her frown had deepened and she was staring daggers at him. “Don’t kiss me again! Your mother will think I’m in on this, and then there’ll be hell to pay. Now go, if you’re going. I’ll handle your mother. I’ve been doing it for thirty-five years, haven’t I?”

Francie knew her father spoke with more bravado than he felt. It wasn’t that her dad was a coward; it was just that…well, he was married to Josephine.

“Yes, and you’re still relatively sane. I love you!”

Despite his warning, she kissed him again, then turned and, with an apologetic smile at Joyce, her younger sister, Lisa, who was grinning widely at her, and the other two bridesmaids, who merely groaned before waving and wishing her good luck, hightailed it out of the church and into the warm September sunshine.

MARK FIELDING was late.

He should have been at St. Mary’s Catholic Church twenty-five minutes ago for his stepbrother’s wedding to perform his duties as best man. Matt was counting on him.

But his flight from the Philippines, where he’d been on assignment as a photojournalist with the Associated Press for the past six months, had been delayed, and the traffic on Interstate 95 from the airport into the city had been horrific. And to complicate matters, his cell phone wasn’t working. Mark cursed his stupidity in not remembering to recharge the battery, though lack of sleep had played a significant role in rendering him temporarily stupid.

Spotting the brick church up ahead, he looked for a place large enough to park his SUV and shook his head at the impossibility of the situation. As he did, the heavy walnut doors to the church flew open and a woman dressed in full bridal regalia, veil blowing back to reveal dark hair and a very pretty face, ran out and down the steps.

This had to be his new sister-in-law.

What was her name? Frances? Fiona? Florence?

Applying the brake, he reached out to grab the camera on the seat next to him, rolled down the window and began snapping photos, while he recited all the F names he knew.

For the life of him, Mark couldn’t remember her name. He’d never met his little brother’s fiancée and hadn’t been enamored of the idea that Matt was getting married so quickly after meeting the woman just three short months ago.

Hell, he knew dogs who’d had longer courtships!

And what was that saying? Marry in haste…

“Shit! I’m too late. I missed the wedding. They’re already married.”

A thousand apologies raced through his mind until the realization hit him that his brother hadn’t followed his bride out of the church, nor had any of the relatives, including his dad and stepmother. They should have been waiting on the church steps to greet the happy couple with rice or birdseed or whatever the hell it was that folks used these days to pelt happy couples all in the name of good luck.

Setting the camera aside, he double-parked his green Ford Explorer and watched his brother’s new bride lift her wedding dress off the ground, displaying a pair of rather nice legs, then disappear around the side of the church, looking over her shoulder a few times as if to make sure no one was following.

Why was the bride so anxious to leave?

And where the hell was his brother?

Suddenly, Mark got a really bad feeling in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with the dry turkey sandwich he’d eaten on the plane a few hours before. He made it a point to always heed his gut instincts; they’d never steered him wrong in the past.

And Mark knew his brother to be the sensitive sort, who wore his heart on his sleeve and romanticized every little thing about his relationships. Hadn’t he warned Matt that wearing rose-colored glasses would get him into trouble one day?

Marry in haste…repent at leisure.

He’d been the romantic once, before he’d woken up to the fact that women of today weren’t interested in commitment or long-term relationships, and that they didn’t know their own minds.

It was slam, bam, thank you, mister!

Mark’s recent relationships had left him unfulfilled. The sex had been great. But sex without commitment was just…well, sex.

He wanted more than that. He wanted what his parents had—love, trust, someone to share a life with.

But all he’d gotten so far was a swift kick in the butt and feeble explanations of the “I’m not ready to commit yet” sort. Mark was all kinds of a fool to even think he’d meet anyone interested in making a life with him.

Women, he’d discovered the hard way, were duplicitous, selfish and self-serving. And he was damn sick and tired of it. So much so that if he found out that his brother’s new bride was of a similar ilk, there was going to be hell to pay. He’d make damn sure of that.

“YOU NAUGHTY GIRL! I had a sick feeling that something would go wrong today. Of course, I base that on three years of living with you. Cold feet again, huh?”

Leo’s familiar face warmed Francie’s heart as she ripped off her veil, pulled aside the voluminous folds of white organza and lace that made up the skirt of her wedding gown and sat next to him at the small round table, waving and smiling at Manny, who was across the deli preparing a customer’s order.

“Hey, Francie!” Manny called. “What’s this one make? Number three, right? And you call your mother The Terminator.” He threw back his head and laughed, then added, “I’m just glad I got over my crush on you when I was seventeen, or I’d have ended up a ruined man.”

Francie smiled weakly. “You got my pastrami on rye ready? I can’t stick around here long. My mother will be on my trail in no time.”

“Leo’s got everything. I’m just finishing up his take-out order. It’ll be just a few more minutes.”

Francie’s roommate reached out and clasped her hand, his touch as comforting as always. Next to Joyce, Leo was her best friend. Not only did they share an apartment, they shared confidences, relationship problems and Leo’s obsession with dining out.

“Tell me what happened, sweetie. I really thought Matt had a chance. He’s just so adorable. But I digress. Apparently you don’t find him as attractive as I do.” He grinned and the cleft in his chin dimpled.

Heaving a sigh, Francie replied, “Matt’s wonderful. I like him a lot. He’s handsome, successful—a great guy. But I don’t love him, and that’s the problem. I’m just not ready to take that final step. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with someone I don’t love.”

If she ever decided to get married—and that was a big if, and not at all likely, especially after today—she wanted to find a man who would knock her socks off, sweep her off her feet and make her fall madly in love. Since no such man existed, on this planet anyway, Francie felt relatively safe from the strangulation…um, bonds of matrimony.

“I take it there was no spark between you two.”

“His kisses were nice, but…” She shook her head, wondering if her expectations were too high. Maybe those tingles, that quickening of the heartbeat and sweaty palms she’d been reading about didn’t really exist.

“Bells and whistles didn’t go off?”

“Exactly. I’m just glad Matt was willing to wait to consummate our relationship. I sort of insisted we delay until the honeymoon and…”

Leo’s grin was lascivious. “Hey, maybe he’s gay.”

“You’re incorrigible, Leo. Matt seems very straight to me. He’s just a nice guy, who made the mistake of falling in love with the wrong woman…namely me. And now I’ve hurt him terribly, and I hate myself for it.

“I should have never let my mother browbeat me into marriage. This obsession she has about me getting married is unhealthy…for both of us.”

Josephine’s greatest aspiration in life was to see her two daughters married and settled down, preferably with five or six children that she could dote on, but she’d take two if push came to shove.

Her mother had spent years saving for Francie’s wedding—now weddings—making elaborate plans, buying not one, but three fabulous dresses, finding not one, but three perfect, in her estimation, grooms. And knowing how much all this meant to her mother, Francie had a difficult time bursting her bubble.

Did she say Josephine had turned meddling into an art form? Try manipulation. She was even better at that.

“So, just say no.”

Francie rolled her eyes at the absurdity of Leo’s suggestion. “Have you ever tried saying no to my mother? Josephine is like a steamroller, leveling everything in her path. She never gives up, just keeps at me until all I want her to do is shut up and leave me alone. In the end I always relent, and she knows it. I’ve done it all my life. I’m programmed for it. Twenty-nine years old, and I’m pathetic.”

Nodding in understanding, Leo squeezed her hand gently. “I know, sweetie. But there’s going to come a day when you’ll have to stand up to Josephine. I think if you do, she’ll back down.”

“Really?” A tiny kernel of hope blossomed in Francie’s chest, reflecting in her voice. “Do you think so, Leo?”

Apology filling his dark eyes, he shook his head. “No. But it sounds like good advice. You can’t keep allowing your mother to control your life, Francie. These trips to the altar are not only emotionally taxing, they’re expensive.”

She sighed at the truth of his words, knowing her job with Ted Baxter Promotions didn’t pay that well. Not enough to keep up with recent expenditures, anyway. “Where am I going this time?”

“Niagara Falls. I thought there was a nice irony to it.”

Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Niagara F…You’re kidding, right? I’ll be hanging out with honeymooners, couples making cooing noises at each other. I may have to throw up.”

“It was the cheapest destination I could find. Your Visa is about maxed out, thanks to all that junk you purchased for your honeymoon.”

“It was expensive lingerie, not junk. And that just goes to show you that I had every intention of going through with the wedding. I never set out to hurt Matt and ruin his life, not to mention my own.”

“He’ll get over it. They all do. Marty Ragusa is marrying a former Victoria’s Secret model, so I think his heart has mended.”

“That’s good. I’m happy to hear it.” And relieved. It lessened the guilt she felt a wee bit. “I’m not sure Michael Maxwell has fared as well. Last I heard the poor man was wandering the Australian Outback, trying to find himself.”

“He’ll probably find a kangaroo instead, which will match his personality to a T. What you saw in that bozo is beyond me. The man was dull, dull, dull.”

Francie shook her head and sighed. “I’m a terrible person, Leo. I’ve hurt so many people.”

“Not terrible, sweetie, just spineless. You’ll do better the next time.”

She shook her head adamantly, and with a mutinous expression plastered on her face, said, “I’m not doing this again! I will never let my mother push me into another marriage. I have almost married for the last time. I’ve decided to remain a bachelorette. I’ll date, have sex, just enjoy the hell out of my life, but I’m never going to walk down the aisle again.”

No more engagements. No more weddings. No way!




2


IT WAS THE MOST depressing wedding reception Mark had ever attended, and he’d been to some strange ones in his thirty-four years.

Of course, unhappiness tended to set in when there was no bride in attendance.

But Steve and Laura Fielding had decided that since the reception at the Hyatt Regency was already paid for, thirty pounds of fresh shrimp stood to go to waste—not to mention massive amounts of liquor—and Matt hadn’t wanted to disappoint his high school and college buddies, many of whom had traveled great distances to be with him on his special day, the reception would go on as planned.

Mark’s stepmom had always been a practical woman—practical, loving and wise. After his mother had died in a tragic car accident, Mark had lucked out the day his father had found such a wonderful woman to marry and to make a new life with.

Mark had been four years old at the time of Helena Fielding’s death, and six by the time his dad had re-married his former secretary, Laura Carson. And he had never felt anything but love and kindness from the pretty petite blonde.

Laura had stepped into her role as his mother with enthusiasm and caring, giving Mark all the love and attention he craved. And even though she had a son of her own, two years his junior by a previous marriage, Mark had never felt slighted or the need to compete with his stepbrother. In fact, he and Matt were as close as or closer than brothers who’d been delivered from the same womb.

Spotting his brother seated at a table across the large ballroom, the lights of the crystal chandelier glittering down upon him, illuminating his cheerless expression, Mark moved to join him.

Sympathetic friends and family had surrounded Matt all evening, making it impossible for Mark to have a serious discussion about the flighty woman in white satin who’d deserted his little brother.

Trisha Yearwood’s version of “How Will I Live?” blared from the DJ’s oversize speakers, and Mark thought it a fitting tune for the occasion—maudlin without being overly sickening.

Pulling out a chair, he sat. “I’m sorry as hell about all this, Matt, but I guess you already know that.”

Matt, who’d already consumed four beers and was halfway through his fifth, looked up and nodded, his slightly crooked smile sad. “I never saw it coming, Mark. It was love at first sight, a whirlwind courtship. Francie seemed so perfect for me. I thought for sure that she loved me as much as I loved her.” He heaved a deep sigh. “Guess I was wrong.”

Noting the hurt in his brother’s eyes, the slump to his shoulders, Mark cursed softly under his breath, wishing he had Francesca Morelli in front of him at that moment.

Didn’t the woman have a conscience?

Didn’t the selfish bitch know how much she had hurt Matt?

Didn’t she care?

Obviously the answer was no, on all three counts.

Grabbing one of the Bud Lights, he popped it open and downed the liquid in one gulp. “I haven’t had much luck with women, bro. I find them to be heartless creatures with a phobia to commit.”

“You’re probably right. Francie’s run before. A mutual friend told me that she’d left her two previous fiancés at the altar. Even so, I never expected it to happen to me. Guess I was stupid to think it’d be different this time.”

Mark’s look was incredulous. His brother was even more naive than he thought. “You knew this about the woman and still you wanted to marry her? Unbelievable.”

“I loved her. Still do, as a matter of fact. Love is funny like that. It blinds you to people’s flaws, makes you do crazy things. You’ve never been in love, so you wouldn’t know what I’m talking about, Mark.”

Wrong! Mark knew in spades. He’d been in love once, with the faithless Nicole Gordon. The woman had cheated on him, lied about it, ripped out his heart and stomped all over it with her four-inch heels, then married the bastard with whom she’d been having the affair.

Mark knew all he wanted to know about women.

“You shouldn’t have rushed into marriage, Matt. Three months is not long enough to get to know someone you intend to spend the rest of your life with.”

“You’re not trying to give me advice, are you?” Matt shook his head. “Not with your track record and failure rate? Unfriggingbelievable.”

“Touché. But you looked like you needed some advice and cheering up, so here I am.” Grinning, Mark knocked his brother on the arm. “Come on, bro. Buck up. You dodged a bullet today, if you ask me. Obviously this Francie isn’t in her right mind if she’s willing to give up a great guy like you. And what do you really know about her?”

“She comes from a large Italian family. Josephine and John Morelli are nice people, though the mother is a bit controlling.”

“I take it Josephine was the harridan in the blue dress that kept screaming and wailing that this couldn’t be happening again, then crossing herself in front of the altar and vowing revenge?”

Matt finally smiled. “That’s the one. Josephine’s a bit high-strung. She drives Francie nuts. I admit I was a bit apprehensive about having her for a mother-in-law, but Francie assured me that her mom’s bark is worse than her bite, which is good, because the woman seemed a bit rabid at times.”

“I take it Francie doesn’t live with her parents, then?”

“She’s got an apartment near Rittenhouse Square. Lives with some guy named Leo Bergmann. He has money, apparently.”

Mark’s brow lifted. “Maybe he’s the reason she’s hesitant to wed. Maybe they’ve got something going.”

“I’ve met Leo. He’s a really nice guy, but women aren’t his thing, if you get my drift.”

“Gotcha. So, what does Francie do for a living? Does she have a job?”

“She works at a small public relations firm downtown.”

“Which one?”

Matt’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Why are you asking so many questions about Francie? It’s a bit moot at this point, don’t you think? It’s over. I only allow myself one public humiliation in a lifetime.”

Sipping his beer, Mark tried to look nonchalant. He had his reasons for asking the probing questions. If he had anything to say about it—and he was pretty sure he did—Francie Morelli had dumped her last groom.

Of course, he didn’t intend to let his lovesick brother in on his plan, which was just starting to take shape.

It was time someone taught this Morelli woman a lesson, gave her a bit of her own medicine, so she could experience just how rotten it was to play with other people’s emotions and lives.

At the moment he wasn’t sure how, but he intended to extract a pound of flesh for what his brother had gone through.

An eye for an eye. A wedding for a wedding. A bride for a groom.

THE DOORBELL BUZZED three times and Francie froze, a sick feeling forming in the pit of her stomach.

“Please, God, don’t let it be my mother!”

Her mother knew, by osmosis, voodoo or tarot readings that Francie was back in town. How she knew, Francie wasn’t certain. The woman had a sixth sense when it came to her children, and Francie lived in fear that Josephine was standing on the other side of her apartment door, waiting to pounce.

“Francie, it’s me. Open up. I know you’re in there.”

Releasing the breath she was holding, Francie unlocked the door to find her sister in mid-knock. Lisa was wearing jeans and a red T-shirt, her long black hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looked understated and chic. Not that Lisa would care. Her sister wasn’t into fashion. And she had no idea how attractive she was, which was a big part of her charm.

Smiling smugly, Lisa, all one hundred and ten pounds of her, pushed her way in with the same determination as a three-hundred-pound linebacker. “Thought it was Ma, huh? Well, that’s what you get for sneaking out of town and letting the rest of us take the heat. Dealing with The Terminator wasn’t pretty, I can tell you that. This past week has been pure hell. It’s a wonder Dad still has his hearing. I had no idea that Mom’s vocabulary had grown so much. She used curse words that even I’ve never heard of.”

Francie sighed. “Sorry to put you and Dad through that, but I’ve had my own week of hell.”

“Oh, well, that makes me feel a bit better then. Not!” Lisa plopped down on the red leather sofa studded with brass tacks and reached for the bowl of toffee peanuts Leo always left on the coffee table.

Lisa ate like a pig and never gained an ounce: Francie thought it was extremely unfair. She had cellulite in places she didn’t want to think about.

“How come your week was so bad?” Lisa asked between munches.

“Niagara Falls. Need I say more?”

Her sister burst out laughing, nearly choking on a nut in the process. “Leo’s got a great sense of humor, I’ll give him that. Got any diet Coke? These nuts are making me thirsty.”

“In the fridge. And I don’t see anything remotely funny about it,” Francie called after her sister, who had headed off to the kitchen in search of a soda. “I didn’t laugh the entire time I was there.” Though she did a great deal of crying and soul-searching.

Being surrounded by happy, loving couples had been torturous for Francie, who didn’t believe she would ever marry someone she loved, much less make it to the honeymoon portion. Not that she wanted to. But still…

She’d had three opportunities and blown them all—the opportunities, not the…

Whatever!

And she still had mixed feelings about the matrimonial state. The idea of living the rest of her life alone was depressing, but not enough to make her want to saddle herself to some man just for the sake of companionship or, God forbid, to make her mother happy.

Not that such a thing was possible!

Josephine rained down gloom and doom wherever she went and could always find the negative in any given situation.

At any rate, Francie thought, staying single wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. She still had her health, friends…a good job.

Oh, God! She was starting to sound like her mother!

Shoot me now!

So what if she never met Mr. Right or had children? The whole marriage and family thing was entirely overrated. She knew hype when she heard it. Since working in publicity and promotion, she could B.S. with the best of them.

And twenty-nine wasn’t exactly spinsterish.

Okay, so Aunt Flo wasn’t married and had turned into a miserable shrew, which was a nice way of saying that the woman was a raving bitch.

But that didn’t mean anything.

Aunt Flo probably hadn’t had sex in a billion years, which no doubt accounted for her sour disposition. And she had that knuckle-cracking thing going against her.

Francie’s dry spell had been long, but not that long.

“I leave you alone for two minutes and you look like you’ve lost your best friend. What’s wrong?” Lisa handed Francie a soda, then sat back down on the sofa. “I’m all ears, if you care to share the ugly details.”

Francie heaved a dispirited sigh. “My life’s a mess, Lisa. I’ve ruined three relationships and hurt some very nice men in the process. I’m confused about what it is I want from life, mad at Mom for putting me in this situation, over and over again, and I’ve gained three pounds. I’m miserable, not to mention, bloated.”

“So you’re a bitch. Get over it.” Grinning at Francie’s blossoming outrage, Lisa added, “Just kidding.” Stuffing a throw pillow behind her head, she reclined on the sofa, not bothering to remove her shoes.

Where Francie was a neatnik, Lisa was somewhat of a slob. Sharing a bedroom with her as a teenager had been a nightmare. Francie had never known where candy wrappers and soda cans were going to show up.

“First of all, those men entered into their relationships with eyes wide open,” Lisa went on. “Okay, maybe not the undertaker, since he was the first victim, er, I mean, prospective groom, but the other two knew of your penchant for running and they still proposed.

“You’re no Julia Roberts, but you have given her a bit of competition as the Runaway Bride.

“Second, Mom is never going to change, so you need to stand up to her or accept that she’s going to meddle. And you wear a size ten, so I’m not at all sorry for you.”

Easy to say from someone who wore a six, Francie thought.

“And finally, I hope you do get married one of these days because then Mom will get off my back.”

“Don’t count on it.”

“Isn’t that the truth? I was looking through her dresser drawer for a scarf the other day and found a list of prospective grooms she’d been making for me.” Lisa made a face, then a gagging noise. “Alan Swarski was on the list. Can you imagine? Alan Swarski! The man is almost sixty and has grandchildren. What can she be thinking? He has nose hair, not to mention a gut, for chrissake! What am I, desperate? I do have some pride, after all.”

“If he’s breathing, he’s an eligible candidate.”

The front door opened and Leo strolled in carrying a white bakery bag. He smiled widely when he spotted Lisa. “Hey, girl! You’re looking good. I bought bagels and cream cheese, if you’re hungry.” He held up the bag and the enticing aroma of freshly baked bagels clouded the room.

Francie’s stomach rumbled. “I am. Hand them over.”

“Bagels.” Lisa’s face fell. “I was hoping for a ham sandwich.”

“On Sunday morning? I always buy bagels for Francie and me on Sunday. It’s tradition. And since she just got home late last night I figured she’d need refueling before facing your mother.”

He turned to Francie, a worried look on his face—though not as worried as Francie’s—and handed her the bag. “Has Josephine called?”

Francie shook her head. “Not yet. Ma’s got a bar mitzvah this afternoon that’s been on her schedule for weeks. That’ll keep her busy for a while. She’ll be mentally calculating all the money the Goldstein kid receives, then comparing it to the other bar mitzvahs she’s attended to see how the Goldsteins stack up in popularity.”

Popularity in her parents’ neighborhood was often gauged by the amount of money that was taken in at religious events such as weddings, christenings and bar mitzvahs. And God forbid if small flower arrangements or a poor showing at a viewing occurred during a funeral. You might as well pack up and leave town in that case, for it meant you were persona non grata.

Francie didn’t fully understand the hierarchy, rules and social strata that comprised an ethnic neighborhood, but she knew they existed.

“You’re only postponing the inevitable, Francie. You know that, don’t you?” Leo leveled a disappointed look at her. “At some point you’ve got to face your mother. Now is as good a time as any.”

Lisa, having noted Francie’s horrified expression, quickly changed the subject, much to Francie’s great relief.

“So, who’s your latest love interest, Leo?” Lisa asked in her usual tactless manner.

Francie knew her sister was not known for her finesse. In fact, Lisa was enough like Josephine to be scary.

“I saw you at Club Zero last night,” she went on. “The guy you were with was cute. To tell you the truth, it made me rather jealous. There aren’t enough men out there, as it is. Damn shame all the good ones are either married or gay.”

The blond man, who resembled a young Elton John, grinned. “I’m taking that as a compliment, sweetie. Phillip’s his name and he’s an architect. We exchanged phone numbers. Nothing more.”

“Well, that’s better than I did. Molly and I struck out. No wonder they call the place Club Zero.”

“Consider yourself lucky,” Francie said. “Men, present company excepted, are more trouble than they’re worth. You’re better off alone.”

Lisa rolled her eyes. “I don’t want to get married. I just want to get laid. It’s been so long I’m going to forget how to do it. And don’t tell me it’s like riding a bike. Even bike parts rust.”

“Why didn’t you just ask some guy for his phone number?” Leo took a seat on an overstuffed chair. “This is the new millennium. You’re entitled.”

“Quit trying to lead my baby sister astray, Leo. I don’t want her hooking up with a serial rapist.”

“Ha!” Francie’s sister rolled her eyes. “Fat chance of that happening. I usually attract serial geeks, not rapists.”

The phone rang and everyone froze, staring at it as if it were an evil entity out to do them harm.

“It’s Mom,” Lisa said.

Shaking her head, Francie took several steps back, wishing she had a string of garlic around her neck, or at the very least, a gold crucifix. “I’m not taking her call. Tell Mom I died, that I fell over the falls. Tell her anything, but don’t tell her I’m here.”

“Coward,” Leo said, reaching for the portable phone. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Morelli. Yes, Francie’s right here. Hold on. I’ll get her for you.”

“Bastard!” Francie took the phone from Leo’s hand, none too gently, and shook it at him. “I’ll get you for this.”

Lisa popped more nuts into her mouth and, like any good sibling, enjoyed watching her sister squirm.

Francie prayed that the floor beneath her feet would open up and swallow her whole. A trip straight to hell would be preferable to explaining to Josephine why wedding number three had been a no go.




3


TWO WEEKS AFTER what Mark always thought of as the “wedding from hell,” he stood outside the offices of Ted Baxter Promotions and adjusted his red silk tie.

Normally he didn’t wear suits and ties—he didn’t need to dress up in his profession—preferring jeans and T-shirts or sweatshirts.

But today was special.

Today he intended to put his plan into motion for seducing Francesca Morelli.

With a nod of thanks to the young, dewy-eyed blond receptionist, he entered the inner office to find the surroundings not nearly as attractive as the woman seated behind the massive oak desk.

She was wearing a red cashmere sweater set that hugged her firm breasts. On the ring finger of her left hand his brother’s diamond-and-ruby engagement ring was noticeably absent, bringing his mind back to the matter at hand.

“May I help you?” she asked, looking up from the papers spread out in front of her and gathering them up into a neat little pile before pushing them to one side.

Gazing into the warmest, most beautiful brown eyes he’d ever seen, Mark’s jaw nearly dropped to his chest. Long lashes, full lips, high cheekbones and a pert little nose made up a very arresting, exotic face.

Damn! His brother’s ex-fiancée was a knockout. He had thought that from a distance the day of the wedding, and the photos he’d taken had certainly proven that out, but seeing Francesca Morelli up close and personal cemented his earlier opinion.

And it was something he hadn’t planned on.

“I’m Mark Fielding. I was hoping to see Mr. Baxter. I’d like to arrange a publicity campaign to promote my first book, but I haven’t a clue how to go about it. I was hoping he might be able to help me out.”

She smiled sweetly at him and he sucked in air. “I’m sorry, Mr. Fielding, but Ted…Mr. Baxter isn’t here at the moment. Is there something I can help you with? Perhaps answer some questions? I often assist with clients when Mr. Baxter’s out of the office.”

Yeah, you can tell me why you dumped my brother.

And why you’re so damned attractive.

Pasting on his most charming smile, he heard her sharp intake of breath. Her reaction pleased him, on more than one level, for it made what he had to do a whole lot easier. For some reason, women had always found him attractive. They just didn’t want to have long-term relationships with him.

“I’m a photojournalist. My first book of photographs will be published next spring, and I thought it might be wise to do some pre-publicity and promotion for it. My publishing house isn’t likely to shell out any money, since I’m new a new author. I figured if I want the book to succeed I’d better do it myself.”

“That’s very wise, Mr. Fielding. May I ask what made you choose Baxter Promotions? We’re not a very large company and not widely known outside of the local area.”

Mark had rehearsed what he intended to say, and the lie rolled easily off his tongue. “A friend of mine recommended it several months back. I believe you handled some public relations matters for his law firm.”

She nodded. “That’s entirely possible. We have many satisfied clients. Baxter Promotions is proud of its reputation in the community.”

“Good to hear. There’s nothing worse than bad word of mouth for a business such as yours.”

Her eyes widened momentarily, then the phone buzzed and she excused herself to answer it. Apparently, Ms. Morelli was the only employee in the small firm, aside from the receptionist out front.

Francesca Morelli grinned at something the person on the other end of the line was saying and two charming dimples appeared; Mark’s gut responded with nine bars of “Hot! Hot! Hot!”

Damn her for being so attractive!

And damn you for noticing, Fielding.

Francie Morelli was a tight little package. Nice boobs—not too big, yet not small, either. Her legs, he recalled, were quite shapely, and he supposed that if she stood, he’d find that her ass was equally as appealing as the rest of her.

Taking Ms. Morelli to bed and making love to her wasn’t going to be much of a chore, that was for damn certain. Mark intended to enjoy every minute of it, before dumping Little Miss Fickle on that cute little ass and saying, “Hasta la vista, baby!”

“YOU BREAK a mother’s heart, Francie. I don’t know how you can treat me this way. Three times you have been to the altar in front of God, not to mention all of our relatives and friends, and three times you have disgraced me and your father.” Josephine crossed herself and then murmured a little prayer, clearly hoping for a little intervention from on high.

Seating herself at the ancient red Formica table in her parents’ kitchen, Francie sighed at the hurt flickering in her mother’s dark eyes, then filled both of their cups with strong, hot coffee.

Josephine’s coffee was so strong you could stand a spoon up in it. And coffee did seem to make bad news digest better, though chocolate was better, of course. But this morning wasn’t a good time for chocolate. It wasn’t a good time for conversation, either. But like Leo said, now was as good a time as any. Francie couldn’t run from the truth indefinitely. She’d already tried that these past two weeks.

“Ma, I never wanted to hurt you or Dad. But you keep harping on me to get married and have babies, and I’m just not ready to take that step.” Not that she’d ever be ready, but there was no sense in dashing all of Josephine’s hopes in one fell swoop.

“What do you mean, you’re not ready? You’re twenty-nine, Francesca, practically an old maid.”

Francie did her best not to wince.

“Your aunts talk behind my back about how you’re never going to have a husband and children. And your sister is no better. She doesn’t even date nice men. Soon they’ll be saying that both of my daughters are lesbians.” Josephine crossed herself again, on the off chance that it might be true.

Her mother tolerated Leo, but Francie didn’t think for a minute that tolerance would extend to any of her children or family members should they choose an alternative lifestyle.

Francie was a tried and true—not to mention, proven—heterosexual woman, but she thought there was a lot to be said for the lesbian lifestyle.

First, if you were lucky enough to find another woman who wore the same size, you could expand your wardrobe. That couldn’t happen with a man, unless you were built like a fullback. A woman didn’t care about another woman’s lack of makeup or weight gain. And they had oodles more experience when it came to knowing what women wanted in the sex department.

Some of the men Francie had dated hadn’t known which end was up and could have benefited from a sex education class. Lesson One: Orgasms We Have Known and Loved.

“My heart is breaking from this, Francesca. I want to see you married and settled before I die. Is this too much to ask? I’m not getting any younger and neither are you.”

“Before I die” was one of Josephine’s favorite expressions. It was conjured up whenever guilt was needed to make her children toe the line. No matter that she was as healthy as the proverbial horse, in Josephine’s mind death was imminent if she didn’t get her way.

“Stop it, Ma! You’re not going to die.” In the immortal words of Billy Joel, “Only the good die young.” Francie left that unsaid, however. Her mother had never been a Billy Joel fan, preferring Placido Domingo instead.

“You can’t keep trying to run—” make that, ruin “—my life. Yes, I’m twenty-nine years old. But I’m very happy being single. I don’t need a man to complete me, and I’m not a lesbian.”

Josephine seemed inordinately relieved by that admission.

“Someday maybe I’ll meet someone.” Mark Fielding’s face flashed before her eyes, but Francie blinked it away, wondering why she suddenly thought of the handsome photographer, a man she hardly knew—a man who set her toes to tingling.

Sipping her coffee, she wished fervently for chocolate and issued a cease and desist order for her toes to stop misbehaving.

“But I’m not ready now. There are things I want to do with my life—travel, meet interesting people—” men who worked for the Associated Press were definitely interesting “—achieve success in my career. I’m just not ready to settle down.”

Eyes raised heavenward, Josephine clenched her hands and shook them. “All meaningless things. Without a husband and children, a woman’s life is nothing. Why would you want to work when you can find a good man to take care of you? You women of today don’t make any sense at all.”

“These are different times, Ma. Women don’t need to be married to feel fulfilled. You’re happy doing for Dad, and that’s great. But it’s not what I want.

“Didn’t you ever just want things for yourself, without thinking about how it would affect other people? I know it sounds selfish, and maybe it is, but so what? Since when did it become a crime to want independence? It’s what this country was founded on.”

Josephine stirred more sugar into her cup. The spoon hit the sides, clanking and clanking as she formed her answer. “I would not have done anything to disappoint my mother and father. It was expected that I marry, and I did. In my day children were dutiful.”

In your day women were orgasm-less.

“But what about falling head over heels in love?”

Looking somewhat insulted, her mother sat back in her chair, her mouth opening and closing like a floundering fish. “I love your father. Don’t talk crazy. You young people have too many romantic notions in your head. You watch movies, read those romance books, and you think that is what real life is supposed to be. But it’s not.

“Real life, a good life, is taking care of others, making sure your husband has clean underwear in his drawer and hot food on the table when he gets home tired from work. It’s taking pride in your children’s accomplishments, like when you made your first communion, or when Jackie pitched the no-hitter in Little League, remember?”

Francie did, and she smiled at the memory of how thrilled her parents were for her little brother. Her mother celebrated the event with a cake and a party for all of Jackie’s friends. “You’re the best, Ma. We kids couldn’t have asked for a better, more caring mother. But you shouldn’t expect any of us to lead the same life as you. That’s not fair.”

Josephine grunted her disapproval. “What’s fair—growing old alone?”

“I’ve tried to be the daughter you want. I’ve gone along with these weddings, to make you happy. But it’s making me very unhappy. Not to mention the poor grooms in question. I’m sure Matt Carson will never speak to me again. And I truly liked Matt, as a friend.”

“His mother said there were no hard feelings. She’s a lovely woman, that Mrs. Fielding. She would have made you a good mother-in-law.”

A good mother-in-law! Now there was an oxymoron if ever she heard one.

“I agree. Laura is a lovely woman, and a very gracious one to have said that. I know the Fieldings spent a lot of money on the reception and I feel terrible about it. And that’s just what I’m talking about. These weddings have hurt a lot of people, including you and Dad. Your savings account has got to be suffering. And you need that money for your retirement. Dad can’t sell appliances forever.”

In fact, her dad had been talking retirement for the past two years, but had never gotten around to it. She wondered now if it was because he couldn’t afford to.

Francie’s guilt multiplied.

“I have money put aside for such things, Francie, you know that. And I will make you another wedding when you come to your senses. An even nicer one. We’ll pick out a new dress, make our own arrangements for the reception, hire a better caterer…”

Francie knew that her mother hadn’t heard a word she’d said, and probably never would. It was useless arguing with the headstrong woman. But she could be just as stubborn as Josephine, now that her mind was made up to remain single.

Francie would not be coerced into another wedding. And nothing or no one would convince her otherwise.

“IT WAS NICE OF YOU to have lunch with me today, Ms. Morelli, especially on such short notice. I found after returning to my hotel yesterday afternoon that I still had a lot of questions that needed answering, being new, as I am, to the publishing and promotions game.”

“That’s understandable, Mr. Fielding.”

Francie and Mark were seated at the City Tavern, the oldest dining establishment in Philadelphia, located down by the waterfront, and Francie wondered at her acceptance of the luncheon appointment.

Of course, it was a business lunch. And she wanted Mr. Fielding’s business for the company. But still…She didn’t like mixing business with pleasure, especially when that business was over six feet tall, had deep blue eyes and a face that could rival Pierce Brosnan’s.

Mark Fielding was definitely eye candy.

Francie was definitely addicted to candy.

Francie needs candy like a hole in the head!

“I was happy to oblige,” she went on. “Baxter Promotions prides itself on being a very hands-on company.”

His right brow shot up and she felt her face heat at what her words implied.

Way to insert foot in mouth, Francie!

“Really? How interesting.”

Ignoring his teasing grin, she said, “As I explained, our firm is a small one, so we’re able to give our clients more individualized attention. Details are very important in this business, as you are certain to find out, no matter who you decide to sign with.”

He smiled that devastatingly sexy smile again. It was a sin for a man to have such straight, white teeth. Francie had paid a fortune to have hers fixed. In fact, she was still paying the orthodontist, would probably be paying Dr. Rosenblat until the day she died, or needed dentures.

“I like the sound of that, Ms. Morelli, or can I call you Francesca, since there’s a good possibility that we’ll be working together? I hope you’ll call me Mark.”

“How did you know my—”

“The brass plate on your desk.”

She nodded. “Ah, of course.” Francie was dying to ask Mark about his last name. Though Matt’s last name was Carson, his parents’ last name had been Fielding, due to a divorce and remarriage in his family. He had never mentioned anything about having a brother.

Matt had made a habit out of surprising her with all sorts of things—romantic gifts, tickets to concerts she’d been dying to see—so when he refused to give her the name of his best man and had insisted on issuing the invitation himself, saying only that it was a big surprise and she would have to wait until the day of the wedding to find out, she didn’t insist.

Most grown men were really just little boys at heart, and Matt had been no different.

At any rate, Fielding was a pretty common name in the Philadelphia area, so she wasn’t going to start getting paranoid about every person she met with that moniker. And Mark Fielding didn’t look a thing like Matt, who was at least three inches shorter and had brown curly hair, not black waves that tempted a woman’s touch.

Stop it, Francie! This line of thinking is only going to get you into trouble, and you have plenty of that already.

Not to mention that Mark starts with the dreaded letter “M,” Francie reminded herself.

What is it about M names anyway? First Marty, then Mike, Matt, and now Mark. She had a serious alphabet problem.

“Was it something I said?”

Her cheeks filled with color again. “Sorry. I have a bad habit of zoning out. And yes, you may call me Francesca or Francie, if you like, which is what most of my friends and family call me.”

The waiter came to take their order. Francie decided on the crab cakes, which was the chef’s special for the day, while Mark opted for scallops in white wine sauce. They shared a bottle of chardonnay.

“So what kind of media coverage can I expect, if I decide to sign with Baxter? I was hoping to get on some talk shows, maybe a few radio spots.” Mark forked salad into his mouth as he spoke, and Francie had a difficult time concentrating on his words and not his lips.

“There’ll be book signings, of course. And with your affiliation with the Associated Press, I don’t see a problem getting the TV talk shows interested. From the little you’ve told me, your work sounds fascinating, not to mention topical.”

“It can be. But it can also be heart-wrenching at times. There’s a lot of poverty, death and disease in this world, and I’ve seen and photographed most of it.”

Over their main course, Mark told her what he’d seen in Africa—the deaths from AIDS, the famine—and detailed many other atrocities he’d witnessed in the countries he’d visited and photographed.

“I admire your ability to be able to deal with such things. I don’t think I could.”

“It’s been difficult at times,” he confessed, sadness filling his eyes. “I’ve had the opportunity to photograph some of what’s been going on in North Korea, and it sickens me. The children look like prisoners in a concentration camp. They’re so undernourished and badly treated. I wish our government could do something about it.”

“You talk with a great deal of passion, Mark. That will be an asset when you’re interviewed.”

“It’s not just talk. I feel very passionate about my work. I’m passionate about a great many things, actually.”

His gazed dropped to her lips and Francie reached for her water glass, trying to quench the heat she suddenly felt between her legs.

What on earth was wrong with her? She’d just broken off her engagement, left her groom at the altar, and here she was affected by yet another man!

Not good, Francie. Definitely not good.

“Is there a problem? You look a little flushed.”

She pasted on an innocent smile. “Why, no. I just think it’s rather warm in here, don’t you?”

“Not at all. I think it’s perfect, as a matter of fact. Great food, a charming companion. What more can a man ask for?”

Think about work, Francie, she told herself. “What made you decide to become a photographer?”

“It was something I’d dabbled with in high school. Once I knew I was pretty good at it, there was no holding me back. I snapped photos of everything, almost drove my parents nuts.”

Noting Mark was finished with his lunch, she asked, “How was your meal?”

“I enjoyed it very much. This restaurant was an excellent choice.”

“Would you care for dessert? The pastry chef is very good here.”

“No thanks. I need to stop by my new apartment, make sure the furnishings have been delivered as promised.”

“You rented an apartment? Does that mean you’re planning to stay on awhile? I thought Associated Press photographers were on the road a lot.”

“We are. But I requested assignments closer to home. I’m a bit travel weary and like the idea of putting down roots for a while. With my seniority, it wasn’t a problem.”

“So, where’s your new apartment?”

“It’s called The Stones at Rittenhouse Square. Do you know of it?”

Francie’s mouth fell open, and her eyes widened. “But…but that’s where I live.”

Mark smiled, his right brow shooting up. “Really? What a nice coincidence. I guess that means we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, then. I hope so, anyway.”

Warning bells clanged in her ears and red flags waved wildly in front of her eyes, but as she gazed into Mark Fielding’s big blue eyes, so filled with promise and passion, Francie ignored them completely.




4


PUSHING the rented sofa to a position beneath the bay window that overlooked the park across the street, Mark stood back, hands on hips, and surveyed the room.

Depressing at best, he decided.

It didn’t come anywhere close to his elegantly furnished room at the Ritz-Carlton. But hey, it was temporary. Which was good. Because if he had to spend any significant amount of time with the red-brocade sofa and green-velvet wing chairs he might have to commit himself to an asylum for the criminally design challenged.

This had been a last-minute arrangement, so he couldn’t afford to be too picky. Plus, it accomplished an important goal—living in close proximity to Francesca Morelli. Beggars can’t be choosers, his stepmom always counseled, and she was usually right.

As if conjured up by his thoughts, the cell phone rang, and it was Laura on the other end. “Mark, are you okay? We haven’t heard from you in days.”

It had only been two, but he knew his mom was a worrier. “I’m fine, Mom. How’re you doing? Hope you and Dad have recovered from the wedding.” He knew they’d been exhausted by the ordeal, both physically and mentally.

Francie had a lot to atone for.

“You don’t sound like you’re in Afghanistan, Mark. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were just a few blocks away. Very impressive technology. How do they do it?”

Mark felt heat rising up his neck at the lies he’d told his parents and brother. But it was a necessary fabrication if he was going to pull off his scheme. Matt was still too smitten with Francesca to be included in his plan for revenge. He’d have to go this one alone.

“Yeah, these digital cell phones work great, don’t they? So how’s Dad? And Mark? He was pretty depressed the last time I spoke to him. Is he doing any better since the wedding?”

“Not really.” There was a great deal of worry in those two words. “That’s why I’m calling, dear. Your father and I have decided to take a trip to Maui, and we’ve convinced Matt to go with us. I think the change of scenery will be good for him. For all of us, actually. We liked Francie very much, and this has been a difficult situation to deal with.”

“I totally agree,” he replied, trying to keep the anger he felt out of his voice. “When do you leave?”

“First thing tomorrow morning. Because of our last-minute booking it’s costing us a small fortune for the plane tickets and hotel. But your dad thought it a necessary and worthwhile expense, so we’re going. I wanted to let you know, in case you tried to call. I didn’t want you to worry that something had happened to us.”

Laura was like that, always so considerate of others—a total opposite to his brother’s self-centered ex-fiancée. Oh sure, Francie came across as nice, because she wanted his business. But he knew what the woman was really like—a heartbreaker, ball-buster, selfish to the bone. She was no different from all the other women he’d known.

“I’m glad you called to let me know. Tell Matt I said to have a good time, and you do the same. You and Dad never really had a honeymoon, so make the most of this trip. Maui is a very romantic place. Try to relax and enjoy yourself.”

Laura’s embarrassed laughter filled his ears, making Mark smile. It was such fun to tease her. Because of his stepmom’s fair complexion, her face always turned beet red whenever she got self-conscious about something.

“Always the romantic, son. It’s one of the things I love best about you.”

“Only one? When I have so many wonderful qualities,” he quipped.

A knock sounded on the door just then, and Mark cursed softly under his breath, hoping his mother didn’t grow suspicious.

“Did I just hear a knock, Mark? Where on earth are you?”

He thought quickly. “Ah, yeah, Mom. I ordered room service. This hotel is the pits, so I don’t want to keep the guy waiting. He might decide to spit in my food. They’re not real fond of Americans here.”

“I understand. Call us when you can. And please be careful. Your dad and I worry about you when you’re over in those dangerous places.”

Mark reassured her he would, then clicked off to answer the door, where he found a handsome blond man with a wiry build standing on the other side.

His visitor was impeccably dressed in a very expensive suit—Armani would be his guess—and he was holding a bottle of wine, which Mark accepted from his outstretched hand with a thank-you.

“I’m Leo Bergmann, Mark. Francie told me you were new to the building, so I’ve come by to welcome you. We’re mostly a friendly group, except for Mrs. Hunsaker three doors down,” he said, indicating the hallway to his right. “She’s got inflamed hemorrhoids. A real nightmare, that woman. I’d try to stay clear of her, if I were you. There’s not enough Preparation H in the entire world to cure what ails her. She gives new meaning to the term ‘a pain in the ass.’”

Mark chuckled, warming quickly to his new neighbor. “Come on in. I’m still getting things sorted out, so don’t mind the mess.”

Leo’s gaze swept the room and he couldn’t hide his disgust. “I see you’re going for a retro look. I’m not sure it’s working. The couch really sucks. I won’t bother commenting on the chairs. But the word hideous comes to mind.”

“This stuff is rented. I’m not usually in town long enough to worry about furnishings. I live mostly in hotels when I’m on assignment.”

“So Francie said. The couch would look much better facing the fireplace. And perhaps you could flank the wing chairs on either side of it.” Leo tapped his chin with his forefinger, mentally rearranging the room. “You’re not going to be able to hide the ugly things, so you may as well make them the focal point of the room. Sort of an in-your-face statement.”

Seeing the wisdom of the suggestion, Mark nodded. “Thanks. Are you a decorator, by any chance?”

“Not all gay men are decorators—that’s just a vicious rumor being circulated by followers of Jerry Falwell.” The blond man grinned mischievously. “Some of us are hairdressers. But I do dabble in both, from time to time.

“Actually, I don’t have a full-time job. I live off a trust fund, which allows me to indulge my hobbies, one of which is interior design. And I do haircuts free of charge. If you’re game, drop by sometime. But not too early. I’m a late sleeper.”

Mark plowed fingers through his hair, knowing he needed a trim. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. Care for a glass of wine?” He liked Leo. The man was refreshingly honest, very charming and utterly outrageous.

Leo nodded. “Wine is my passion. Another hobby, I’m afraid, and a very expensive one. I’m into vintage wines. I collect them. Mostly California cabs and merlots. I’m a bit of a snob. Don’t care much for the French bordeaux. Highly overrated, in my opinion. Their soil’s depleted from years of doing business as usual. They need to get into the twenty-first century and quit resting on their laurels. Food? Yes, definitely. They can rest all they want. But wine? I think not.”

Mark’s brow shot up at the man’s unorthodox opinion. He didn’t know much about wine, but he’d always heard that French wines were the best.

Opening the gift bottle of Joseph Phelps’ Insignia, he handed Leo a glass of the deep red wine, then offered him a seat on the ugly sofa. “I guess Francie told you about my job with the Associated Press?”

“She did. I must say I’m impressed. I’ve always been a nut about photography, though I can’t take a decent photo to save my life. They’re either overexposed, underexposed or totally out of focus. Maybe I need glasses.”

“Perhaps I can give you some hints, to thank you for the wine. It’s simple, once you get the hang of it.”

“I’d appreciate that. I’ve been thinking about buying one of those digital cameras.” He sipped his wine, sighed with pleasure, and then asked, “How do you like Francie? She’s a very special woman, our Francie, though a bit flighty when it comes to men. She hasn’t met the right one yet, I suspect. Though I can tell you that if I were straight she’d be one female I’d lob on to. A more loyal woman you could never ask for. And she’s a real sweetheart, too.”




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