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Cinderella's Midnight Kiss
Dixie Browning
Will You Dance With Me?Orphaned Cindy Danbury's heart beat faster when John Hale Hitchcock invited her into his arms. He was back–the handsome prince she'd adored from afar–and still beyond her reach. In fact, she should be serving at her stepcousin's wedding, not dancing with the best man! But something in Hitch's gaze coaxed her to say "Yes!" and gave fuel to her dreams.Not only gorgeous, rich and eligible, Hitch was gentle, kind and thoughtful. But could he see beyond Cindy's poor-relation facade to the vibrant, loving woman inside? Perhaps Cindy should wake her Prince Charming with a kiss of her own….


Dear Reader,
Isn’t it amazing how swiftly the years have flown past? I marvel at all the changes, yet one thing has never changed: the satisfaction to be found in reading a good romance. Twenty years ago our romances were somewhat different. They mirrored the times, as popular fiction usually does. In many ways they were more naïve, as were we. It seems in retrospect as though the edges were softer, but then, maybe that’s only in my imagination.
I’ve written a Cinderella story. The old fairy tales, the legends and myths still persist, don’t they? Is there anyone among us who doesn’t long for a happy ending?
Here you have it. Always, in a traditional romance. It’s a given. And I give this one to you with my blessings and my hopes for all our happy endings.
My thanks to you, the readers, to the wonderful people at Silhouette, to the many friends I’ve made both there and among my fans—and the many more I hope to make in the future.
Sincerely,


Dear Reader,
From the enchantment of first loves to the wonder of second chances, Silhouette Romance demonstrates the power of genuine emotion. This month we continue our yearlong twentieth anniversary celebration with another stellar lineup, including the return of beloved author Dixie Browning with Cinderella’s Midnight Kiss.
Next, Raye Morgan delivers a charming marriage-of-convenience story about a secretary who is Promoted—To Wife! And Silhouette Romance begins a new theme-based promotion, AN OLDER MAN, which highlights stories featuring sophisticated older men who meet their matches in younger, inexperienced women. Our premiere title is Professor and the Nanny by reader favorite Phyllis Halldorson.
Bestselling author Judy Christenberry unveils her new miniseries, THE CIRCLE K SISTERS, in Never Let You Go. When a millionaire businessman wins an executive assistant at an auction, he discovers that he wants her to be Contractually His…forever. Don’t miss this conclusion of Myrna Mackenzie’s THE WEDDING AUCTION series. And in Karen Rose Smith’s Just the Husband She Chose, a powerful attorney is reunited in a marriage meant to satisfy a will.
In coming months, look for new miniseries by some of your favorite authors. It’s an exciting year for Silhouette Books, and we invite you to join the celebration!
Happy reading!


Mary-Theresa Hussey
Senior Editor

Cinderella’s Midnight Kiss
Dixie Browning


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to Silhouette
and twenty wonderful, memorable years.
And to two tough guys who did their best
to keep me from finishing it.
Hurricanes Dennis and Floyd!

Books by Dixie Browning
Silhouette Romance
Unreasonable Summer #12
Tumbled Wall #38
Chance Tomorrow #53
Wren of Paradise #73
East of Today #93
Winter Blossom #113
Renegade Player #142
Island on the Hill #164
Logic of the Heart #172
Loving Rescue #191
A Secret Valentine #203
Practical Dreamer #221
Visible Heart #275
Journey to Quiet Waters #292
The Love Thing #305
First Things Last #323
Something for Herself #381
Reluctant Dreamer #460
A Matter of Timing #527
The Homing Instinct #747
Cinderella’s Midnight Kiss #1450
Silhouette Special Edition
Finders Keepers #50
Reach Out To Cherish #110
Just Deserts #181
Time and Tide #205
By Any Other Name #228
The Security Man #314
Belonging #414
Silhouette Yours Truly
Single Female (Reluctantly) Seeks…
Silhouette Books
Silhouette Christmas Stories 1987
“Henry the Ninth”
Spring Fancy 1994
“Grace and the Law”
World’s Most Eligible Bachelors
‡ (#litres_trial_promo)His Business, Her Baby
Silhouette Desire
Shadow of Yesterday #68
Image of Love #91
The Hawk and the Honey #111
Late Rising Moon #121
Stormwatch #169
The Tender Barbarian #188
Matchmaker’s Moon #212
A Bird in the Hand #234
In the Palm of Her Hand #264
A Winter Woman #324
There Once Was a Lover #337
Fate Takes a Holiday #403
Along Came Jones #427
Thin Ice #474
Beginner’s Luck #517
Ships in the Night #541
Twice in a Blue Moon #588
Just Say Yes #637
Not a Marrying Man #678
Gus and the Nice Lady #691
Best Man for the Job #720
Hazards of the Heart #780
Kane’s Way #801
* (#litres_trial_promo)Keegan’s Hunt #820
* (#litres_trial_promo)Lucy and the Stone #853
* (#litres_trial_promo)Two Hearts, Slightly Used #890
† (#litres_trial_promo)Alex and the Angel #949
† (#litres_trial_promo)The Beauty, the Beast and the Baby #985
The Baby Notion #1011
† (#litres_trial_promo)Stryker’s Wife #1033
Look What the Stork Brought #1111
‡ (#litres_trial_promo)The Passionate G-Man #1141
‡ (#litres_trial_promo)A Knight in Rusty Armor #1195
Texas Millionaire #1232
The Bride-in-Law #1251
§ (#litres_trial_promo)A Bride for Jackson Powers #1273

DIXIE BROWNING
celebrated her sixty-fifth book for Silhouette with the publication of Texas Millionaire in 1999. She has also written a number of historical romances with her sister under the name Bronwyn Williams. A charter member of Romance Writers of America, and a member of Novelists, Inc., Dixie has won numerous awards for her work. She lives on the Outer Banks of North Carolina.

Contents
Prologue (#u1584afc1-a089-54dc-8966-c9f2502e6675)
Chapter One (#u9b14e152-bd2c-534c-bf6c-494c26d01198)
Chapter Two (#u03310fd7-031c-5602-9766-401ad5daf80f)
Chapter Three (#ua22eb66c-f0fb-5ef3-a50e-ce139c9ab20d)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue
“This is my first diary, and I don’t know exactly where to start. Mama always kept one, but I never did. She told me to read hers after she was gone so I would understand, but her personal things were packed away and I couldn’t get to them for a long time.
“My name is Cynthia Danbury. I am fourteen and a half years old.”
Fourteen and a half. Ten years ago. How very young I was then, she mused now.
“I’m called Cindy, which probably should be spelled Sendy because people are always sending me on errands. In case anyone ever reads this, I want it on record that Daddy was an inventor. He died before he could invent anything important that people would pay money for, but that didn’t mean he never amounted to anything. Mama worked real hard at the truck stop to earn money for Daddy’s experiments. She was not a worthless shantytown tramp who ruined a perfectly decent boy, like Aunt Stephenson told Uncle Henry she was, which is one of the reasons I’m writing this. To set the record straight.”
Looking back, Cindy could remember as if it were yesterday the first time she’d met her aunt Stephenson, her father’s sister. Cindy had been about seven years old. They had just moved to Mocksville. Her father had taken her to a large white house, with a wide porch and stained glass panels beside the front door, to meet her aunt Lorna.
They’d been standing in the front hall, only now it was called a foyer. Her father had introduced her to a large woman in a black silk dress and told Cindy that this was her “Aunt Lorna.”
“You may call me Mrs. Stephenson,” the woman had corrected coldly. Her father had been furious. Cindy remembered hiding behind him and clinging to his hand. Over the years they had reached a compromise, she and her father’s sister. Cindy called her Aunt S.
Picking up the diary again, she skipped a few pages and continued to read. “Mama never went with us when we visited. I didn’t understand why until years later, when I read her diary a long time after the accident.
“The accident was when Daddy and I were taking Mama to work, and this tank truck blew a tire and ran us off the road. Daddy was killed instantly. My hip was damaged. A nurse said it was crushed, but if that had been the case I’d have had to have a new one, and I didn’t. Just a patch job.
“Anyway, Mama and I were both in the hospital and couldn’t even go to Daddy’s funeral. Aunt S. saw to everything, and I guess I’m grateful, but I resent it, too. I don’t like to think about those days, so mostly I don’t.”
Cindy’s hip never had healed properly. She still limped when she was tired, but the scar was barely visible. She’d been about eleven then. It had happened in November. She could remember starting her period the next May and thinking it had something to do with her hip, until her mother explained.
“Mama was surprised I didn’t already know, and I guess I sort of did. They teach all about it in school, only it’s different when it actually happens to you. Besides, whenever I have to listen to embarrassing stuff, I design hats in my mind. Big, fancy hats. The romantic kind with lots of nice floppy flowers.”
Yes, and she still did, only now she did more than merely design them in her mind. Skimming a few more pages, Cindy marveled at how naive she’d been ten years earlier.
“Who I Am. In case I have children of my own one day and they need to know about their lina—lineage, I can’t really help with it very much. I do know Mama’s folks, the Scarboroughs, came from out near the coast somewhere, and there aren’t any left closer than third cousin, once removed. But maybe this will be a starting place.
“Mama was real sad after Daddy died, and when she didn’t get over it, it turned out that she had leukemia. I stayed with a neighbor while she was in the hospital, and when I’d visit her she tried to pretend everything was going to be all right, but we both knew better.
“Those were really bad times. I remember we played double sol and watched silly cartoons on TV. Sometimes we just sat and held hands. Once we laughed together over what she called my tacky taste, and she said I must have inherited it from her because we both liked big, gaudy hats with tons of fake flowers.”
Cindy reached for the framed photograph on her bedside table, an out-of-focus snapshot of a very young woman wearing bell-bottom pants, a halter, a floppy-brimmed hat trimmed with sunflowers, and a broad, happy smile. Mama at age nineteen, holding her precious old Gibson guitar.
“I’m not going to talk about all that because it still hurts too much, but if anyone ever reads this, I want you to know that Aurelia Scarborough Danbury was the sweetest, bravest woman in the world. That’s all I’m going to say about that.
“Anyway, after Mama died I went to live with Aunt Stephenson and Uncle Henry and my stepcousins, Maura and Stephanie, because in a town like ours, where everybody knows everybody’s family all the way back to Year One, even when some of them live in big fancy houses like Aunt S. does and some live in trailer parks like we did, the whole town knows who’s kin to who. (Or as Aunt S. would say, whom.) So when the social services lady said if the Stephensons wouldn’t take me in they’d have to find me a foster home, poor Aunt S. didn’t have much choice. I guess she could’ve explained, but people would still have talked, and Nice People don’t get themselves talked about, according to Aunt S.
“Uncle Henry was more like family than Aunt S. Actually, neither of them was real family, but you know what I mean. He used to call me Radish on account of my hair, and give me a box of chocolates and a twenty-dollar bill every Christmas. I saved half the money for the Future and spent the rest on gifts, but the candy never lasted through the holidays. Steff and Maura both have a sweet tooth.
“I didn’t really want to live there, but I didn’t know what else to do, and anyway, when you’re only twelve and a half, people don’t listen to you. But I sort of liked Maura and Steff. Maura is two years older than I am, Steff three and a half years older. We’ve never had much in common. Since I’m smaller than either of them, I never have to worry about clothes, though. Maura always buys her jeans a size too small, and when Aunt S. catches her in them, she makes her give them to me. Same with T-shirts. Tight. Maura likes to show off her boobs, but I don’t have any yet. I don’t really like jeans very much, they’re hot in the summertime and cold in the winter, but I guess they’re pretty practical.
“Steff never wears jeans. She gives me dresses she doesn’t want, usually the fancy kind that have to be dry-cleaned. Definitely not practical! Luckily, I’m good at mending and spot-cleaning, which they almost always need by the time I get them.
“You might have noticed I tend to ramble a lot. Mama used to say I had a brain like an overgrown flower garden. There’s good stuff in it if you can ever find it under all the weeds.
“For the record, though, I’m truly grateful for Aunt S.’s kindness, which is why I can’t just walk away and get on with my life, as much as I’m tempted to.”
Oh, how many times she’d been tempted, but soon now…very soon, she would be ready.
“Well, Diary, here comes the hard part. It concerns something Aunt S. knew all along, but I didn’t find out until years later when I finally got up the nerve to read Mama’s diary. Which is one of the reasons I’m doing this—to set the record straight so my children and grandchildren, if any, will know what’s what.
“I’m not a real Danbury. My biological father was a navy pilot who crashed on a training mission before I was even born. Mama said his name was Bill Jones and he was from somewhere in Virginia, which doesn’t help much, but there it is, anyway.
“When Daddy married Mama, he gave me his name, which is probably why Aunt S. took me to live with her. Uncle Henry didn’t mind. About Uncle Henry—he wears three-piece suits and walks to the office every morning and walks home every afternoon for a cigar, a drink and a nap. Maura looks a lot like him, but she’s not as kind.”
With a sigh, Cindy laid the diary aside and stared out the window at the house next door. Hitch was coming back. Which was why she’d dug out her old diary in the first place—because John Hale Hitchcock had figured in so many of her girlish fantasies back in her diary-keeping days.
When Mac had told her Hitch had agreed to be his best man, she’d nearly drowned in all those old daydreams. She would die of embarrassment if he ever found out, but he probably wouldn’t even recognize her. She wasn’t sure he’d really noticed her in those days, yet even after ten years she could remember him as if it had been only yesterday.
Of course, he’d have changed—he might even be married, although Mac hadn’t mentioned a wife. But then, she herself had changed since the days when she’d thought he hung the moon. Not a whole lot, but at least she was no longer built like an ironing board.
Skimming over the middle part of the worn diary, Cindy picked up at her eighteenth birthday.
“Uncle Henry gave me my own car! I can’t believe it! Now instead of bicycling all over town to do my Monday errands, I can drive. Maybe I should paint a sign on the side—something like Send Cindy, She’s Fast, Reliable and Cheap.
“Aunt S. would have a hissy-fit.”
Her uncle had died before her next birthday. She still missed him. “I think Aunt S. knows anyway,” Cindy had written all those years ago. “The reason she doesn’t say anything is because then she might have to give me an allowance to buy the stuff I absolutely have to have. I’ve done my best to earn my keep all these years by making myself useful, but I’ll tell you this much, Diary. I might end up an old maid, but no way will I ever let Maura or Steff fix me up with another blind date. The one last month nearly tore my dress off. The one last week told dirty jokes and laughed when I blushed, and last night’s date was so boring I nearly fell asleep while he was telling me about every job he ever held, from bag boy right on up to produce manager. I might not be rich or well-bred or pretty, but I deserve better than that.”
That was one thing that hadn’t changed, Cindy told herself, laying the diary aside again. She deserved whatever she could make of her life. Once Steff’s wedding was over, she was going to find a tiny apartment she could afford and turn her Monday job into a full-time thing until she saved enough to launch her dream career. One day, women would go back to wearing gorgeous, feminine, romantic hats, and when that happened, she would be ready.
If she still had enough energy left after this blasted wedding!

Chapter One
John Hale Hitchcock quietly hung up the phone and began to swear. He’d finally said yes, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have serious reservations. All his adult life he’d made it a policy to stay as far away from weddings as possible in case they were contagious. Especially weddings that required his active participation. What was it the shrinks called it? A defense mechanism?
Yeah, it was that and more.
He’d always had a feeling his own parents hated each other’s guts, but were far too well bred to mention it. Add to that his mother’s sporadic attempts to pair him up with one of her colleagues and it was no wonder he’d developed a jaded outlook on marriage.
He’d eventually learned to handle such things tactfully. In spite of his parents’ dismay when he’d chosen engineering over law, Georgia Tech over Yale, he wasn’t a barbarian. At least he’d had the good manners not to come right out and admit to harboring a deep-seated aversion to pinstripes, brogans and button-down brains, a description that summed up those among his mother’s younger female colleagues who considered her a role model. Now a highly esteemed federal judge, Janet Hale Hitchcock had never, not even in her junior-partner days, been a hands-on type mother.
Once she’d given up trying to hand over control of her only son to one of her right-minded colleagues, her matchmaking efforts had ceased. Now it was only his married friends who were forever trying to pair him up. Hitch put it down to the theory that misery liked company. His method of dealing with it was both tactful and efficient. Smile politely and run like hell. Having spent his formative years under the thumbs of domineering parents, in a home that had all the warmth of a refrigerator truck, he wasn’t about to get caught in the marriage trap.
Mac’s call had caught him at a weak moment. He’d just come back from a memorial service for another old classmate, dead of heart failure at the age of thirty-three, a year younger than Mac.
Life was risky business.
After pouring himself a drink, Hitch had been wallowing in a rare moment of philosophical nostalgia when Mac MacCollum had called to tell him about his upcoming wedding and ask him to act as best man.
“No thanks, my friend. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m severely allergic to weddings.”
“Aw, come on, Hitch, you’re my closest pal. I couldn’t ask anyone else.”
The two men had gone through four years at Georgia Tech together, Hitch on a football scholarship as his parents, both Yale law school graduates, had refused to condone such heresy. The day after graduation Mac and Hitch had joined the army together. Mac had then tried on half a dozen careers, while Hitch went to Harvard for his MBA. Through it all they’d never lost contact, due mostly to Mac’s friendly persistence.
“You know, Mac,” Hitch had remarked, “whining was never one of your more attractive traits.”
“I’m not whining, man, I’m begging. Begging has more dignity than whining.”
“Do I know the lucky lady?”
“You remember Steffie Stephenson? Lives next door to our house?”
Hitch would never forget the many weekends during their college years he’d spent in the rambling, friendly, comfortable old house in a small North Carolina town. The MacCollums’ place, messy, noisy, filled with the aroma of Mama Mac’s good cooking, was as different from the house he’d grown up in as night from day.
He also remembered the Stephenson sisters next door, Stephanie and…was it Mary? Marnie? Something like that.
And hadn’t there been a third sister? He’d never actually met her, but he seemed to recall a red-haired kid scurrying around in the background.
“Yeah, I remember Steff,” he said, sipping the one drink a day he allowed himself. “Word of advice, Mac. Get out before it’s too late. Women need marriage. Men don’t. Don’t bother to question my logic—logic never was your strong suit—just take my word for it. Get out of Dodge.”
But Mac had talked him into it. Good old Mac, with his big ears, two left feet and ready grin. The guy could talk a dalmatian out of his spots. Hitch had hung up, having reluctantly agreed, and spent the next few minutes wondering how the devil Mac and Steff had ever got together. Unless she’d changed considerably since he’d last seen her, Stephanie Stephenson was a shallow little snob with a cover girl face and a one-cylinder brain.
Could she have finally wised up to the fact that Mac, for all he might act the clown, was a terrific guy? Or was it because, through a lot of hard work and some lucky breaks, he had parlayed the rundown ski resort he’d bought a few years ago into a thriving chain stretching all the way up into West Virginia?
Hitch polished off his drink, rose and stretched. He’d been working flat out for the past couple of years establishing his own business, JHH Designs, a small Richmond, Virginia, industrial design firm with a big future. He could use a break, and where better to take one than with the family who had treated him like one of their own?
That meant he’d be passing close to his parents’ place on the drive from Richmond to Mocksville. Might as well make an effort to mend a few fences. It had been nearly a year since he’d seen them, and that last scene had not been pleasant.
Maybe, he thought with bitter amusement, he could break the ice with a bit of gallows humor. Hey folks, whaddya think, if Mac’s marriage goes south the way most marriages seem to do these days, can the best man be nailed as an accessory after the fact?
Oh, yeah, that would really crack ’em up.
Both his parents were lawyers with strong control tendencies. The trait had caused problems from the time Hitch was old enough to leave small, sticky fingerprints on every polished surface in the somber old house.
His mother, a small woman with iron-gray hair worn in a knot at the back of her head, could get more mileage from a lifted eyebrow than most people could from a loaded gun. His paternal grandfather had been a Supreme Court judge. Most of his cousins were lawyers or judges. Hitch had been slated to follow the family calling, only he’d had ideas of his own.
Major hassle. There was still a lot of residual bitterness, but one thing he’d inherited from both sides of the family was a streak of stubbornness a mile wide. He’d never actually won an argument with either of his folks, but at least he’d learned to minimize the damage by biting his tongue and walking out.
Matter of fact, the driving force behind his present success might easily be his determination to prove something to his parents.
Talk about childish.
“Two things I’ll never be,” Cindy muttered as she carted a stack of bone china to the kitchen to be washed, “are a caterer or a professional wedding planner.”
She’d already broken the handle off one of the cups and had spent far too much valuable time on the phone to Greensboro to see if the china replacement center could match the pattern. Lucky for her it could.
Unlucky for her, it would cost her an arm and a leg, plus a drive to Greensboro at her own expense.
“Cindy, did you call the florist?”
“They’re coming tomorrow to go over final plans.”
“Cindy, is my dress back from the cleaner?”
“Be here in about an hour.”
“Cindy, for goodness sake, I told you to air out my luggage! It smells like mildew!”
“It was cloudy when I got up, so I thought I’d better wait. If it doesn’t clear up, I’ll open all your cases and put them up in my room—that’s always dry.” And hot as Hades, as the attic wasn’t air-conditioned.
The wedding was still days away, and already the guest rooms were filled with family here for the occasion, plus Steff’s two attendants, both former college classmates. Cindy had run her legs right down to the nub trying to get all the rooms aired and made up, and all the china and crystal, which had to be hand washed and dried, ready for the rehearsal party, which had gone from a simple buffet to a combination ball and banquet.
Mac’s folks were supposed to host the party but this was Aunt S.’s first wedding, and she was pulling out all the stops. What had started out to be a small, elegant home wedding was rapidly turning into a three-ring circus, in Cindy’s estimation. A small thing like wedding protocol never stopped Aunt S.
All that in addition to trying to keep up with the ordinary demands of a demanding family, and Cindy was pooped. Just plain frazzled. And it was barely midafternoon, with three days to go until the wedding, after which there would be all the undoing and cleaning-up-after.
It was a good thing she was used to it, else she might have blown her redheaded stack.
“One of these days,” she muttered, catching a glimpse of a cupcake wrapper under the hall table. One of these days she would have enough saved up to move out, and this would all seem like a crazy dream.
Meanwhile, it was a good thing she had the hide of an elephant and the backbone of a—well, whatever had the strongest backbone, which was what it took to survive when you had only yourself to depend on.
“Cynthia, have you been messing with my roses again?” Lorna Stephenson called out from the back parlor, where she was currently nursing a headache with a lavender-water-soaked cloth and a glass of medicinal brandy.
“No, ma’am, I haven’t. I think Charlie was playing ball out there earlier, though. You might mention it to his mother.”
If Cindy had had her way, she would have cut every flower in the yard and begged more from the neighbors, and done the wedding flowers herself. At least that way Aunt S.’s precious roses would be appreciated instead of trampled underfoot by a six-year-old hellion who didn’t know the meaning of the word no.
But Aunt S. preferred the stiff, formal arrangements of the local florist over Cindy’s big, cheerful armfuls of whatever happened to be blooming, all intertwined with wild honeysuckle and flowering blackberry vines.
Three days and counting. The house was gleaming. Cindy unexpectedly felt a surge of nostalgia—either that or the half sandwich she’d grabbed on the run for lunch hadn’t settled properly.
Well, no, it was nostalgia, because while indigestion made her stomach burn, it didn’t make her throat ache and her nose turn red. And after all, it was some sort of milestone, she supposed. The courtesy cousin she had practically grown up with was about to marry and leave home. Even though they’d never gotten along particularly well, she would miss her.
The wedding gown. Oh, yes, she reminded herself as she dashed up the back stairs—she really did need to offer a bit of advice, the thing was so blessed plain!
“Steff, about your gown,” she said, rushing breathlessly into the big corner bedroom that had once been Aunt S. and Uncle Henry’s. “It needs something, don’t you think?”
“Don’t you dare touch my wedding gown! It’s a designer original!”
Steff described it as elegant. Cindy called it drab. “It won’t take much,” she said earnestly. “Just a little dab of lace at the neckline, maybe your something old? Or I have some white velvet roses, the really good kind, not the junk from the craft store. I could sort of arrange them—”
“No.”
“You’ll need something borrowed, and they’d look super at the waist. You probably wouldn’t even need to bother with a bouquet.”
Steff rolled her eyes, and Cindy flushed. She knew what they all thought of her hats, even though she’d explained they were only working designs and that the real models, when she could afford to make them, would be far more beautiful “I just thought I’d offer to…you know. Help perk it up a bit.”
It was probably fortunate that Aunt S. called upstairs at that moment. “Cin-dee!”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m coming.”
It was Charlie again. He hadn’t been invited, but his mother, lacking a baby-sitter, had brought him along anyway. Cindy was right on his heels as he went whooping and hollering down the front stairs. Charlie was quick as a weasel, out the front door before she could grab onto his shirttail.
“Go on outside and don’t come in again until he’s thoroughly worn out,” ordered Aunt S., who was of the children-should-be-seen-and-not-heard school of child-rearing.
Cindy’s sympathies were with Charlie. She’d been only slightly older than he was now when she’d first met her courtesy aunt. Old enough to recognize a dragon in a black silk dress, but not old enough to deal with one. Little had changed since then.
They played ball until Charlie smacked one into the rose garden, then they switched to guess what color car passes by next. It was a slow game. At this time of day, there wasn’t much traffic.
“Hey, a squirrel! I’m gonna catch him and put him in a box and take him home!”
“Charlie, leave that animal alone, he’s got teeth that can—Charlie!”
The car came around the curve so fast there was no time to think. Cindy practically flew forward, tackling the heedless child and rolling them both into the azalea hedge across the street.
“Idiot! You blooming idiot!” she screeched at the driver of the luxury car, which had swerved to the curb and come to a tire-squealing stop. Breathless, she was still sprawled across Charlie’s body when the car door swung open and one long, khaki-clad leg emerged.
“Hey, you’re squashing me,” Charlie protested. At least he was still in one piece. Just to be sure, she quickly felt his arms and legs before allowing him to squirm away from her. “You wait right there. Don’t you dare move an inch from this spot,” she warned, and such was her tone of voice that the child gulped and nodded.
“But you scared that old squirrel away,” he accused. Pale, on the verge of tears, he was determined not to let on how frightened he was.
Cindy, still on her hands and knees, was torn between hugging him and shaking some sense into him. “Good thing I did,” she growled. “He’d have bitten your finger off and likely died of food poisoning.”
Struggling stiffly to her feet, she caught her breath as pain sliced through her from an assortment of minor ailments. Gravelly asphalt and hard, rocky earth weren’t exactly kind to tender flesh, even when wearing jeans. She’d raked the skin off both knees and the heels of both hands.
“You little fool, don’t you know any better than to run out into the street without looking?” a man’s voice said. “Wait—don’t move, you might be hurt.”
Fear caught up with Charlie and he began to sob just as Cindy opened her mouth to let fly with a few choice phrases. She closed it again in deference to tender young ears. Charlie didn’t need his already impressive vocabulary expanded. Fortunately she’d had years of practice in the art of swallowing her temper.
The reckless fool from the car had his hands on her thigh. “Stop that! Don’t you know any better than to drive like a bat out of he—heck in a residential neighborhood?” Eyes blazing, she went to shove him away.
“Stand still. Oh, God, your hands are bleeding.” Manacling her wrists, he lifted them for a closer look.
Cindy peered at her stinging palms, then lifted accusing eyes to his face. “You were—”
Oh, no. Oh, please no, not him!
“You’re right. I was driving too fast. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t tell me, tell that poor child you nearly ran down!”
“Can you bend your knee?”
She’d already flexed both knees. They stung like the very devil, but at least they both worked.
“You didn’t hit your head, did you?” He had the kind of voice that ought to be labeled hazardous to a woman’s health. Or her whatever. It set off nerves she didn’t even know she had, and that was saying a lot, because at the moment most of her nerves were busy registering acute pain.
Charlie was sniffling, clinging to her thigh and wiping his nose on the leg of her jeans. She gave the star of a thousand daydreams one long, glowering look and jerked her hands free of his grasp.
This was not the way she’d planned it. She’d planned to be wearing her yellow cotton, with her hair in a French braid, with eye shadow and lipstick and enough powder to disguise her freckles.
Instead she was standing here in thin, worn out jeans, every trembling cell in her body awash with pain and embarrassment, not to mention fright and the dregs of an ancient crush. “Oh…blast!” she cried. Sweeping Charlie up in her arms, she marched across the street, leaving John Hale Hitchcock staring after her.
Actually, march didn’t exactly describe it. Charlie was a lot heavier than he looked, and her hip hurt. She’d already given it a good workout what with the wedding and all the extra work and chasing after Charlie. A five-yard dash followed by a flying tackle hadn’t helped matters.
Hitch stared after the woman he’d nearly run down. Something about that wild red hair and that stubborn little chin snagged at his memory, but he couldn’t quite place her. Not too surprising, since it had been years since he’d last visited Mocksville. She’d royally chewed him out, and with just cause. He had been speeding. The signs said 35. He’d been doing at least 45. The stop-off at his parents’ place still had his gut tied in knots. After all these years, you’d think he’d have learned how to deal with the doubts, the frustrated feeling of being a kid who’d done something unforgivable. The feeling that he was somehow responsible for the fact that his parents would rather retreat to their separate studies than spend five minutes with their only son.
One of these days he’d wise up and stop trying. They had his phone number, in case they should ever want to reach him.
Hitch sat in the car for several minutes, still shaken, before starting the engine and creeping the remaining few yards to the MacCollums’ driveway. He owed the little firebrand an apology. If she hadn’t been right on the kid’s heels when he burst out of the hedge, Hitch would have struck him, sure as the world. It was a wonder he hadn’t hit them both, driving with his mind on other matters. At that speed, he’d have passed right by Mac’s place without even slowing down.
He’d have to check on her later, to be sure she wasn’t seriously hurt. She’d been limping when she’d disappeared into the Stephensons’ house next door. Mac might know who she was—a pint-size redhead with blazing blue eyes and a tongue like a whipsaw. A wedding guest, maybe. Possibly a baby-sitter. Whoever she was, she deserved a proper apology, and before he left town he would see that she got one.
A day later, Hitch was actually beginning to unwind. In the process of putting in a couple of killer years trying to get his business up and running, he’d nearly forgotten how to relax.
The MacCollums taught him all over again. No way could anyone stand on ceremony in a house that was casual to the point of sloppiness, in which meals were taken in the big family kitchen with everyone wanting to know all about his business, and what it was, exactly, that an industrial engineer did, and how his folks, who lived in Lynchburg, Virginia, were getting along. And incidentally, when he was going to settle down and raise a family. Knowing that the MacCollums’ interest was prompted by genuine caring, Hitch couldn’t resent it.
The friendly inquisition eased off whenever a friend or neighbor would drop in. Someone would bring over a watermelon or a bucket of tomatoes or a basket of figs, and talk would shift to the wedding and Mac’s ski resorts, and where the happy couple planned to live.
Mac spent as much time as possible at the Stephensons’ house with his fiancée. The poor guy was besotted. Steff spent considerably less time at the MacCollums’ place. Hitch wished them both well, but didn’t hold out much hope for a long and happy union.
“Who’s the redhead next door?” he asked Mac after the last straggler had left. “If I remember correctly, Mary—or Marnie?—had dark hair.”
“You mean Maura. Yeah, she does, only she’s got it all streaked up with blond now. Ask me, it was better the way it was, but you know women.”
Actually, Hitch didn’t. At least, not beyond a certain point. “Redhead. About yea high.” He gestured appropriately. “Blue eyes a size too big for her face, freckles, pointed chin, tongue like a machete.”
Mac chuckled. “You must’ve tangled with Cindy. She’s been in high gear ever since Mrs. S. talked Steff into having a simple home wedding instead of using the church and the club.”
From the level of activity next door, all the vans coming and going, simple was the last word Hitch would have used to describe it. “Cindy who? Cindy what?”
“Danbury. Lorna Stephenson was a Danbury before she was married, so I guess Cindy’s some sort of cousin or something. Came to live with them when she was only a kid.”
“That’s why she looked so familiar,” Hitch mused. “I don’t think I ever actually met her until yesterday, when I nearly ran her down in the street.” He went on to describe the brief encounter.
“You wouldn’t have met her, she was only a kid back then, not old enough to hang around our gang. Besides, Mrs. S. kept her pretty busy. Still does. I like Cindy, she makes me laugh, and you know me—I can always use a good yuk.”
Cindy. If Hitch had ever heard her name, he couldn’t remember it. He wondered how old she was. Doing a bit of swift mental arithmetic, he figured she was at least twenty, maybe more. At first glance he’d taken her for a kid, but when she’d raised that heart-shaped little face, so pale her freckles stood out like rust spots, and sizzled him with a blast from a pair of laser blue eyes, he’d realized she was older than she looked.
“Yeah, well…I owe her an apology. Maybe I’ll get a chance to speak to her Saturday during the festivities.”

Chapter Two
At the groom’s house, the prewedding festivities went on from morning until night, from casual drop-in breakfast guests to late-night beery reminiscences. The friendly, easygoing MacCollums knew everyone in town. Pop MacCollum had been the high school football coach and Mama Mac, as she was called, a retired school teacher, was the woman people came to when they needed help, or sympathy, or simply a nonjudgmental ear.
At first Hitch, still uptight after the visit with his own parents, followed by the near miss with the redhead and the kid, had found ways of avoiding the convivial mob scene. By the second day he had unwound to the point where he was actually beginning to enjoy himself. Or at least to enjoy Mac’s enjoyment. The groom-to-be was having the time of his life, being the envy of all his male friends for having landed the most gorgeous woman in three counties.
At least they claimed to envy him, Hitch thought cynically, and it would never occur to Mac to doubt their sincerity.
At the moment, a leisurely game of croquet was under way. Maura, Hitch observed from his lawn chair in the shade of a giant magnolia, wasn’t above nudging the ball with her foot. Steff, resplendent in white silk slacks, a white silk shirt and white, high-heeled sandals, was better at striking a pose than at actually playing the game.
Mac’s besotted gaze followed her as she moved into the sunlight, which made her pale blond hair glimmer like a halo. “She’s sure something, isn’t she? I still can’t believe she’s gonna be mine.”
“Yeah, she’s something.” Without being specific, Hitch would allow that much. “Where’s Cindy?”
“Who? Oh, is that still buggin’ you? Hey, don’t sweat it, man, Cindy never held a grudge in her life.”
“All the same, I owe her an apology and I always pay my debts.”
“Know what I think?” Mac was on his third beer at half past two on a sweltering August afternoon. “I think you’ve developed a thing for freckle-faced redheads in your old age,” he teased. Mac had always been one to tease, but thanks to his unfailing good nature, no one ever took offense.
“What I’ve developed,” Hitch growled, a reluctant grin taking the edge off, “is a guilty conscience. I came down pretty hard on her, and she was completely blameless. If she hadn’t dived after that kid I could’ve hit him. I really would like to apologize and get it off my chest.”
“Man, don’t take it so serious. Cindy’s used to people yelling at her. Not that Miz S. ever actually yells, but that woman can pack a wallop without even raising her voice.”
Hitch replaced his empty bottle in the wire holder beside his chair. “Like mother, like daughter, they say. It’s not too late to back out.”
Mac sighed. “Yeah, it is. It was too late the day Steff was born. She was made for me, man, only I’ve had the devil of a time convincing her.”
Suddenly, Hitch straightened. “There she is now,” he muttered, easing his six-foot-two frame up from the low lounge chair.
Cindy spotted her target and hurried across the lawn. “Steff, you’re wanted on the phone. It’s Wade, about your hair appointment.”
“Well, where is it?”
“Where is—oh, the portable. I guess someone left it out in the back yard and the batteries ran down. Either that or Charlie got hold of it.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” the elegant blonde exclaimed.
“Problem?” inquired a quiet baritone voice.
Cindy whirled, her hip locked and she stumbled. Hitch reached out to steady her and she yanked her arm free. It was bad enough just seeing him again, so close she could see the squint lines at the corners of his slate-gray eyes, the few silver strands scattered through his thick, dark hair.
Feeling the warmth of his hard palm on her arm, it was as if someone had suddenly flushed a covey of quail where her heart was supposed to be.
She managed to say “No problem,” as she stepped back from the path through the hedge between the two houses and waited for Steff to precede her.
And waited. Phone call evidently forgotten, Steff was gazing up at Hitch through her long eyelashes and touching her hair in that way she had that Cindy, no matter how she practiced before a mirror, had never been able to accomplish.
At least, not with the same results.
“Go back and tell Wade the appointment stands,” she directed.
“I’ll tell him,” Cindy said doubtfully, “but he said if you can possibly put it off until Saturday morning—”
“Tell him I can’t, that I’m getting married Saturday, and my rehearsal ball is Friday night, and if he doesn’t do my hair Friday afternoon he’ll be sorry.”
Hitch heard it all, tried to withhold judgment for Mac’s sake and watched the little redhead’s slender shoulders rise and fall in defeat. He pitied Wade. Whoever the guy was, whatever he’d done, he was going to pay through the nose for it.
Hitch told himself if he was any sort of friend at all, he would kidnap this blond witch and hold her hostage until Mac came to his senses.
“Wait a minute, will you, Cindy?” he said when his red-haired quarry headed back through the hedge.
“Don’t have time, I left the iron on.” She had her own style of haughty, and it made Steff look like a rank amateur.
“I won’t take but a minute of your valuable time,” he said before he could check the sarcasm.
But she was gone, and he refused to chase after any woman.
Maura was strolling over to join them. Steff waved her away, sighed and touched her hair again. “Croquet is such a childish game, isn’t it? I don’t know why I bother.” Her Southern accent took on a finishing-school polish, which was absurd considering the school she’d attended, Salem College, was just over in the next county.
Hitch heard the Stephensons’ side door close quietly. Another opportunity missed. Dammit, he didn’t know why he even bothered. As soon as Mac told him who she was, he should have gone over there, spoken his piece, and by now it would be over and forgotten.
Well…maybe not forgotten. Snatches of the past were beginning to return. A redheaded waif watching wistfully from the sidelines like a kid outside a candy store window. He’d given her no more than a passing thought at the time, but now he wondered why she’d never been included.
Because she’d been just a kid? She wasn’t that much younger than Steff and Maura. Probably just naturally shy.
But it hadn’t been shyness he’d glimpsed in those blazing eyes. There’d been fear, followed swiftly by anger that first time. And pain? Yeah, that, too. He’d mentioned her limp to Mac, afraid her mad dive to escape his wheels had caused it, but Mac told him she’d always had a slight limp, especially when she’d been overdoing.
Evidently, she’d been overdoing.
Forget her, man. You told her you were sorry just after it happened. Let it go.
We’re on the final countdown, Cindy thought gleefully as she dashed up the back stairs carrying an armload of clean towels and a heavy tea tray. She was sorely tempted to tell Charlie’s mother, a second cousin whose husband owned a bank or something, that towels could be used more than once without laundering, and that there was a perfectly good kettle and a supply of tea bags in the kitchen.
Tonight was the rehearsal party. Tomorrow was the wedding, and then, glory hallelujah, it would all be over. The guests would go home, Aunt S. would leave for the mountains to recuperate, Steff and Mac would be off on their honeymoon, Maura would be getting ready to head north and conquer New York.
And as soon as she got her car running again, little Cindy would be free to go back to her regular Monday job. The job that actually paid cash instead of just room and board. Another six months and she should have reached her savings goal, if a new alternator didn’t cost too much, and then it would be goodbye Mocksville, hello world!
A few minutes later, after freeing a snagged zipper, collecting a bundle of lingerie to hand wash, a trayful of dirty dishes and an empty pizza box from the room Steff’s friends shared, she headed down the front stairway—the back one was so steep she avoided it whenever she could, even though Aunt S. always frowned to see her coming down into the front hall with a load of laundry or dirty dishes.
“Hi,” someone called softly when she was halfway down. Her carefully balanced load tilted precariously.
“Steff’s not here, but I think Maura might be around somewhere.” Maura was always around somewhere if there was a chance of seeing Hitch. Cindy had heard them talking about him last night—Steff, Maura and Steff’s girlfriends. The consensus was that he was a real catch, a certified hunk and sexier than what’s-his-name who had starred in that hit movie that Cindy had never got around to seeing.
She could have added her own opinion, but she didn’t think it would be appreciated.
“Watch it—here, let me take that tray.”
“I’ve got it,” she said, and grudgingly added her thanks.
“You need a dumbwaiter.”
It stumped her for a second, but then she blinked and said, “Oh, you mean one of those elevator gadgets. If they come in mahogany with stained glass windows, I might get Aunt S. to have one installed. She doesn’t care for modern conveniences.”
“But then, she’s not the one being inconvenienced, is she?”
Cindy couldn’t help herself. Her eyes sparkled, her lips twitched and she bit back an irreverent retort. Hitch was grinning openly. Had anyone mentioned that he had gorgeous teeth?
And a sense of humor?
Would that crew even recognize, much less appreciate, a sense of humor?
She knew in explicit detail what they thought of his narrow behind and his broad shoulders, and the way his slacks rode low at his waist and sort of bunched up at the fly. Maura said she’d seen him in swim trunks, and he more than lived up to his advertising.
They’d all groaned and then giggled—even Steff, who wasn’t a giggler, and who shouldn’t be thinking that way about her fiancé’s best man.
Cindy, who’d been delivering another round of diet colas at the time, was tempted to mention his nasty disposition and his recklessness behind the wheel, but she’d learned a long time ago to keep her opinions to herself.
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you about what happened the other day,” he said when she reached the bottom step.
At close range he was even more lethal than he was behind the wheel of a car. Funny how she could remember so much about him after all these years. Such as the way he’d always been so patient with the pesky kids from across the street. Such as the way he’d always risen whenever Mama Mac came into a room.
Such as the way all the girls, herself included, had been in love with him then. Not that he’d ever even noticed her.
And while the intervening years might not have improved his driving skills, they’d done nothing but enhance his dark good looks. Fortunately, Cindy had long ago outgrown her brief infatuation, since the days when she used to gaze at him through the hedge whenever Mac brought him home from college.
“Look, I’m sorry, but I really don’t have time to talk now. Besides, there’s nothing to talk about. You’re a rotten driver, and I’m lucky as the dickens, and that’s the end of that, okay?”
“Not okay. I’m usually an exemplary driver, but—”
“No excuses, I told you I don’t have time.” She edged past him and headed for the kitchen.
He was two steps behind her. Where in the world was Maura? she wondered. Where was everyone else? Usually, the house was brimming with people, all with their separate demands. “Shouldn’t you be practicing your role as Mac’s best man?”
“Tonight’s the rehearsal.” The festivities were being held immediately following the rehearsal instead of after the ceremony, as the bride and groom had to leave right after the wedding to make their connections to Bermuda. “Tell you what, save me a dance at the party afterward and we’ll call it even.”
She gave him an exasperated look that in Hitch’s estimation did nothing at all to diminish the effect of those steady blue eyes. “I never—”
“Never say never.” Hitch’s smile, meant to be disarming, faltered as it occurred to him that she might not dance because she was self-conscious about her limp. He started to tell her it was barely noticeable, and thought better of it. “Look, we could just sit and talk, maybe share a glass of champagne and some cake—how about that?”
Cindy always hated it when people were embarrassed by her limp; otherwise, she seldom even thought about it. More often than not when people noticed they assumed she’d hurt her ankle, or had something in her shoe. Sometimes she said she had. It was no big deal. Didn’t even bother her except when she was rushed off her feet, as she had been lately.
“I really do appreciate the offer, and there’s nothing I’d like better, but I’ll be far too busy to join the festivities. You wouldn’t believe how much work is involved in a simple home wedding.” And if that sounded condescending, then it was just too bad. It was a wonder she was able to put two coherent words together, the way he affected her brain.
“It’s being handled by a professional, right?”
“Not even professionals can do everything.” Especially not with Aunt S. second-guessing their every move and Steff constantly changing her mind about details.
“Caterers handling the rehearsal dinner?” he persisted. He happened to know the Macs were footing the bill, although there was no preventing Mrs. S. from running the show.
“We have a houseful of guests. They have to eat three meals a day—more like seven, if you count snacks. And then there’s Charlie….”
“Oh, yeah, I do remember Charlie. How is he?”
“Still into everything, which is one more reason I’ll be too busy to take you up on your kind offer. But thanks.” Looking directly into his cool gray eyes, she smiled, confident she had handled the matter tactfully and efficiently, and that would be the end of that.
Mercy, it had better be! She couldn’t take too many more up-close-and-personal encounters with John Hale Hitchcock.
With the end in sight, Cindy was fervently looking forward to the moment when everyone was busy dining and dancing downstairs and she could have the big old claw-footed tub to herself for more than five minutes. As large as the house was, there were only two and a half baths—none at all, of course, in the attic. She had plans for a long, peaceful, lilac-scented soak followed by an evening spent reading in bed while everyone else was downstairs partying.
Sheer, hedonistic luxury.
Steff poked her head into the laundry room where Cindy was folding sheets. “You put him up to it, didn’t you?”
“Put who up to what?” The last time she’d seen Charlie he’d been pestering the caterer’s helper for samples.
“As if you didn’t know. He wants you to go to the party.”
“Charlie?”
“Not Charlie, Hitch. He told Mama you’d promised him a dance.”
There went her heart again, doing aerobics. “I did no such thing. Besides, I’ve got a date with a good book.”
“Break it. You can put in a brief appearance without dancing. Tell him your feet hurt.” For all her arrogance, Steff could be generous in her own careless way.
“Well, they do, but that’s not the problem. I don’t have anything to wear. I don’t think Aunt S. would be real happy if I turned up in jeans and one of my fancy hats.” She smiled, picturing her aunt’s reaction. Still, it was nice to be invited, even if she had no intention of going.
“Look, I’ll lend you a dress and you can sit on the sidelines. At least you’ll be handy if one of us needs anything.”
Oops. I smiled too quickly.
If Steff had genuinely wanted her there, Cindy might have considered going, but a grudging, last-minute invitation prompted by someone else…
“Thanks, Steff, but I’ll pass if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, the last thing I need is to have Hitch and Mama on my back. Look, I’ll pick out something you can wear and leave it on my bed. Now don’t argue, I don’t have time, and besides, you know how Mama is when things don’t go according to her plans.”
Oh, yes, Cindy knew how Mama was, all right. It was easier to go along than to argue. “Then thanks, I’ll pick up the dress when I go upstairs next time.”
“Great. Is my blue suit back from the cleaners?”
“In your closet. Do you want me to pack it?”
“No, on second thought, I don’t think it’s right for Bermuda. Pack the white linen, instead. It’ll wrinkle, but they’ll have maid service.”
The gown was a sophisticated designer model with matching shoes that Steff had spent a fortune for several years ago. Complaining that the color made her look pasty, she’d worn it only a few times.
Cindy had a feeling the odd shade, somewhere between peach and ecru, wouldn’t do much for her own complexion, either. Instead of basting up the hem, which would have left marks, she shortened the straps, gave up on the waistline and had just slipped the garment over her head when Steff came in to ask which suitcase her jewelry had been packed in. “Speaking of jewelry, I guess you’ll need something. You look sort of drab.”
“A new car?”
Steff actually smiled. “Something smaller. Earrings, I guess. With all those freckles a necklace would be wasted.”
Thank you, ma’am, I really needed that.
“Try to do something with your hair, will you? You should’ve made an appointment with Wade.”
“Twenty-five bucks plus tip for a trim? No thanks.”
Her hair was impossible. She could French braid it and within minutes, curly strands would work loose. Hair spray only made it look like a fright wig. “I could wear a hat,” she said hopefully.
“Don’t you dare.” Cindy’s hats were a joke among the Stephensons, but she no longer took offense. One of these days, she promised herself. One of these fine days…
It was Maura who provided the earrings. “Steff said I had to lend you these. Don’t you dare lose them—they match my favorite ring.” She tossed a pair of sparkling diamond-and-pearl studs on the dresser and left. Evidently she’d heard that Hitch had had something to do with Cindy’s being invited to the party, and resented it.
As if Cindy would be any competition. Maura wasn’t in Steff’s league when it came to looks, but she had her own style of beauty. Compared to either of them, Cindy wasn’t even in the running.
The earrings were for pierced ears. Cindy’s weren’t. Not wanting to make an issue of it, she returned them, leaving them on Maura’s dresser beside her jewelry case, which was always kept locked.
Slipping on her tennis shoes, she hurried down the back stairs and out into the garden, cut two large pink roses and shaved off the thorns. Then, hiking her heavy satin skirt up over her knees, she dashed back upstairs and carefully fastened them to the French braid.
“At least no one can call you drab,” she told her mirror image.
Not that anyone would even spare her a glance, with the likes of Steff and Maura and all their glamorous friends around. The house was already overflowing with men in penguin suits and women in every color of the rainbow, all sparkling and laughing and flirting.
Last of all, she stepped into the shoes that matched her gown. Taking a deep breath, she carefully held up her skirt to keep from tripping, and made her wobbly way down the front stairs, half expecting Aunt S. to confront her and send her back to her room.

Chapter Three
Madam S. was everywhere, keeping an eagle eye on the wedding party, the half dozen or so servants hired for the occasion and the invited guests, who started arriving before the rehearsal was even finished. Hitch actually found himself sympathizing with the woman, who had obviously taken on more than she’d bargained for by insisting on having both the wedding and the party—she called it a ball—at home. She’d have been better served to limit the size and scope, and then turn over full control to the professionals instead of trying to oversee every phase of the production personally.
He felt sorrier still for Mac, but then, after living next door to the dragon and her two fledgling dragonettes all his life, Mac knew what he was getting into. He might look like a harmless hayseed, but he was a lot sharper than most folks gave him credit for being…which often worked to his advantage.
Nothing like being underestimated to give a guy an edge.
The house was a large one, the living room, dining room and front parlor, empty of furniture, spacious. But the space was rapidly filling up with dancers, and the linen-draped buffet was under serious siege. The air conditioner had already surrendered. A few black ties had been tugged askew and several of the ladies were noticeably glowing.
Mac was having a ball. Literally. Even Steff had unbent enough to kick off her four-inch heels and dance.
Maura came up behind Hitch and tucked her hand in his arm. “Where are you going?”
“Forgot something,” he improvised quickly. “Save me a dance later, will you?” He had to get out of here. The acoustics weren’t designed for modern amplifiers. With everyone straining to talk over the band, the effect was deafening.

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