Книга - The Tycoon Meets His Match

The Tycoon Meets His Match
Barbara Benedict


Mills & Boon Cherish
She ran away with the groom…but she wasn’t the bride! No one was more shocked than Trae Andrelini when her best friend left wealthy Rhys Paxton standing at the altar on his wedding day. Trae was determined to find out what really went wrong – so she joined forces with reliable Rhys to find the runaway bride. As they raced across the country Trae was surprised to learn that the man she once thought boring was anything but…And jilted Rhys was equally stunned that Trae’s infuriating, tempestuous, spontaneous zest for life was tempting his own heart!







So this was life on the edge.

Rhys knew that a single call home could resolve their financial crisis, but logic wasn’t governing his actions this evening. Looking at Trae, he held out their last coin. “This is it.”

She smiled in approval. “Then we’re in this together. How about showing this machine who’s in charge?”

Rubbing the coin for good luck, Rhys dropped it in the slot. He didn’t look at the symbols flash, focusing instead on Trae’s hand on his arm, until all at once she released her grip with a squeal to the accompaniment of a million bells and whistles.

They turned towards each other, excitement overriding all other emotions. As she fell into his arms, Rhys understood that she merely meant to hug him, but between the thrill of winning – and her enticing scent – was it any wonder he wanted more than a simple embrace?


BARBARA BENEDICT

Weaving a story has always been part of Barbara Benedict’s life, from the days when her grandfather would gather the kids around his banjo to the nights of bedtime tales with her own children. For Barbara, starting a story should be like saying, “Come, enter a special new world with me.”

Her ten books and two novellas are set in varied places and time periods, but her heart is really in contemporary romance.




The Tycoon Meets His Match


BARBARA BENEDICT




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



Dear Reader,

To this day I can’t help but feel a certain thrill every time I hear the cry, “Road trip!” Maybe it’s the challenge of it all, the setting off into the unknown, the call to adventure with its promise of fun and laughter. Caught up in the demands of our busy modern lives, when do we have time to escape so impulsively?

In The Tycoon Meets His Match, I’m offering the vicarious opportunity. Join Trae and Rhys as they set off on their cross-country journey. Along the way they’ll hit snags, find surprises and experience how it feels to fall madly, deliriously, head over heels in love.

So buckle up and enjoy the ride.

Lilian Darcy




prologue


It was a dark and stormy night…

Technically, it was a dark and stormy night, but if Teresa Andrelini hoped ever to be a published writer, she couldn’t settle for such a cliché. Trae’s professors, even her classmates, would insist she could come up with a better description.

The word hokey popped into her mind.

The “let’s-make-a-vow” ceremony was Quinn’s idea. Trae wouldn’t put it past her drama-queen friend to have brokered a deal with the powers-that-be for the gale now howling outside their living-room window. Talk about atmosphere. Here they stood in this solemn circle, Trae and her three housemates, their faces shadowed behind flickering candles, trying not to flinch with each crash of thunder.

It was hard not to be impressed by everyone’s grim determination. Well, by Quinn and Alana’s determination, anyway. The way Lucie kept avoiding their gazes, Trae figured her poor roomie must be having trouble taking Quinn’s oath.

Heiress Lucinda Beckwith believed in fairy-tale endings. If Lucie were the budding author, she’d write a romance and probably make oodles of money. Trae, though, had found that the guys who seemed to be the real-life charmers had a tendency to turn out to be jerks—the proverbial snake in Prince’s clothing. Jo Kerrin’s husband was a perfect example.

At the thought of their missing friend, Trae felt an uncomfortable pang. Jo would have loved the melodramatic hoopla of Quinn’s ceremony, but she was now on her way to St. Louis to escape her so-called Prince Charming. Poor Jo had bought into the fairy-tale ending, and look what had happened to her.

“Earth to Trae.”

Quinn’s strained voice betrayed her impatience, but then they were all stretched tight after putting Jo on the bus that morning. Looking up to find Quinn frowning, Trae realized she’d been lost in her thoughts again, a habit that drove her roommate crazy.

“I said,” Quinn tried again, “do you so swear?”

“Yes,” Trae said in her loudest, clearest voice. “I won’t get married until I’ve achieved my goal to be successfully published.”

In actual truth, she’d already made the oath to herself years ago. Coming from an Italian father and five older brothers, she’d felt, early on, the need to establish her independence. Trae would not end up like her Cuban mama, an unpaid servant to the males in her life. If and when she hooked up with a man, she’d be the one in charge of her future. No male distraction was going to get in her way.

Satisfied with her answer, Quinn turned to Alana. “Do you, Alana Simms, swear not to wed until you’ve attained your goal of a successful career?”

Alana straightened her spine. “I swear,” she said clearly, despite the soft purr of her Southern drawl. “No man will stop me from establishing my own modeling agency.”

Trae didn’t doubt her. With her black hair and classic beauty, Alana need only walk into a room to stop all male conversation, but she rarely dated. With her understated grace and her slender, gorgeous body, she could snag any modeling job she wanted, yet she was forever turning down lucrative offers to make modeling a full-time career. She only modeled the little bit that she did to pay the bills and learn the industry. She had every intention of putting the knowledge to use. Pity the fool who thought he could seduce Alana away from earning her business degree. Her features might have the delicate perfection of a Dresden figurine, but underneath that beautiful exterior was a core of pure steel.

“Okay, Lucie,” Quinn announced, “that leaves you.”

Seeing her friend’s nervous expression, Trae offered an encouraging smile. Tiny, blond and seeming far younger than her twenty-two years, Lucie often relied on others to make up her mind. She’d become like the little sister Trae never had, and Trae often felt the need to protect her.

What Quinn didn’t know—and what Trae had sworn not to reveal—was that Lucie was all but hitched to her parents’ wealthy neighbor, Rhys Allen Paxton III, a man who, in Trae’s opinion, acted more like Lucie’s older brother than a lover. A strict, disapproving brother at that.

Talk about conflicted. Part of Trae felt a need to shield Lucie from Quinn’s bullying, but a larger part, the one that knew Lucie’s marrying Rhys Paxton would be a disastrous mistake, believed that if the oath should be mandatory for anyone, Lucie Beckwith was the gal.

“I swear,” Lucie started hesitantly, letting the words trail off as she looked away.

“Swear what, Lucie?” Driven by her own ambitions, Quinn had little patience or understanding for anyone else’s hesitation.

“I, uh, won’t get married.”

“Until?” Quinn prompted, tapping her foot. “What do you hope to accomplish?”

Good question. Lucie might have the funds and connections to achieve anything she wanted, yet here she was, nearing graduation, and she still had no idea what to do with the rest of her life.

Which made her doubly vulnerable to her Rhys Paxton arrangement.

“Well, I always wanted to be an actress,” Lucie offered haltingly. “Remember, I got that A in drama class? How about I don’t get married until I get my first movie role?”

Trae tried not to groan. Talk about reaching for the stars. As if Mitsy Beckwith would let her only child get anywhere near Hollywood. It was a miracle Lucie had even convinced her to let her go to college at Tulane—far away from their home in Connecticut.

Quinn didn’t bat a lash. Either she accepted the answer as vintage Lucie, or she was too preoccupied with her own agenda to actually listen. “That leaves me,” she said quickly. “And I won’t marry until I’ve made partner in a law firm.”

A loud clap of thunder rattled the walls, as if in answer to Quinn’s pronouncement. Trae, Lucie and Alana shuddered, but Quinn faced them all squarely. “All those in agreement,” she droned like a high priestess at some sacrificial offering, “shall now place their right hand in the circle.”

With a solemn expression, Alana put her hand over Quinn’s. Lucie gulped, then extended hers, forcing Trae, who still felt ridiculous chanting mumbo-jumbo in the dark, to stand alone outside the circle.

Reluctantly, she placed her hand on top of the others’.

As if they’d been struck by one of those accompanying lightning bolts, Trae could feel a current flowing between the women, filling her with warmth and a sense of belonging. Edifying her with a sense of commitment.

Never mind the melodramatic hoopla. This was what mattered. Them, here and now, joined in resolution, their grasp solid, their unity unbroken. Even with all the Beckwith money, you just couldn’t buy a moment like this.

“When it comes to marriage,” she chanted in unison with her friends, “just say no!”


Chapter One

Six years later…

They can’t think I wanted to catch the bouquet, Trae thought with a frantic glance around her. The stupid thing had just landed in her lap. She wanted to toss the peach and white floral confection to the floor, but her Catholic upbringing wouldn’t allow her to litter a church.

Not that anyone paid any attention to her. Each stunned face was focused on the door Lucie had just slammed behind her, the force of the sound still reverberating in the otherwise silent church.

She did it, Trae realized with a sudden sense of wonder. Little Lucie Beckwith finally said no.

No small feat, either, considering the three-ring circus her mother had assembled.

The picture-postcard chapel was filled to the brim with wealthy relatives, influential guests and a media army lining the walls. Clearly, Mitsy Beckwith had wanted her only child’s wedding to be an event, The Event, talked about by everyone-who-has-ever-been-anyone for years to come.

Looked like Mitsy would get her wish. They’d be talking about this one forever.

Against her will, Trae’s gaze went to the altar, where the groom still stood stiffly at attention. Rhys Allen Paxton III, owner of the Paxton Corporation, was accustomed to having everything go according to his plans. The epitome of tall, dark and handsome, his meticulously groomed appearance—as well as every other aspect of his life—was as well-ordered as a military parade.

Though if you asked Trae, he sure didn’t seem so self-possessed at the moment. Maybe it was all that black—his hair, the tuxedo, the sleek Italian shoes—but all color seemed to have drained from his face.

As if sensing her gaze upon him, Rhys suddenly focused on Trae, his clear blue gaze probing her. Under his intense scrutiny, she felt like a butterfly pinned to the mat. “What?” she almost asked aloud, wondering if he was seeking her help.

But then she noticed the hostility animating his features. With a quick scowl, he sprang into action, leaping down the altar steps to go marching to the door.

It took Trae a few more beats to realize he was going after Lucie.

Sparing a quick “Be right back” for the still-speechless Quinn and Alana, Trae scrambled past her friends to the end of the pew. Lucie might have worked up some gumption at last, but she was a novice at this and she’d need support. No way was Trae giving Rhys any opportunity to bully her friend into a marriage she obviously didn’t want.

As Trae hurried down the aisle, she saw that Hal and Mitsy Beckwith were close at her heels. If it was going to be three against one, Luce really needed her help.

Bursting out of the church, Trae squinted against the sudden bright sunlight as she searched for her friend, but the only remaining evidence of Lucie’s exit was the blinking taillight on a sleek black limo, as it took a hard, fast left at the corner.

Mitsy Beckwith spoke the thought uppermost in everyone’s mind. “She’s gone”. And then, as an afterthought, “I bet she’s going home.”

Luce, no, Trae thought. If her friend retreated to Mitsy’s territory, she’d never get out alive.

Unfortunately, judging by Mitsy’s pursed lips and narrowed eyes, Trae must have uttered the “no” aloud. “All her things are there,” the woman articulated, as if dealing with an imbecile. “She’d never go anywhere without her ATM and credit cards.”

She had a point there. Far too accustomed to the Beckwith resources, Lucie wouldn’t know how to last five minutes without her money. As if recognizing this truth as well, both Hal and Rhys simultaneously dug in their pockets for car keys.

Watching the Beckwiths jump in their Lincoln and peel away, Trae felt a spurt of panic. She’d taken a taxi from the hotel and had no way to follow them. “I’m coming with you,” she announced to Rhys. “To talk to her,” she insisted, trailing behind as he strode to his black Mercedes. “Lucie will need someone to confide in.”

“That would be me.” Yanking open the door, he slid into his car.

Trae reached the passenger door just as he started the engine, but when she tugged on the handle, she found the door locked. Rhys, smiling grimly, seemed more than content to drive off without her.

“Let me in,” she shouted through the window, giving him her “look.” A girl didn’t grow up in the Andrelini household without coming up with a way to let the males in her life know she meant business. Rhys merely narrowed his gaze as he shifted into Reverse.

Desperate, she dug in her purse and pulled out her cell phone. “She’ll probably try to call me. If you leave me here, you’ll never know what she said.”

Though he said nothing, Trae heard the telltale click of the lock. Jamming her phone back in her purse, she yanked open the door and hopped inside. Rhys pulled away before she could completely close it.

Then again, he was smart to hurry. Everyone in the church had begun spilling out the doors, the press included.

Rhys didn’t waste time with words, driving to the Beckwith house as if he were racing the Indy 500. Trae could have been invisible for all the attention he paid her, but watching him stomp on the clutch and jam the gearshift, she was just as happy to remain under his radar.

He did glance at her once—actually, he scowled at the bouquet clutched in her hands—but otherwise focused his gaze on the road ahead. Trae understood that she—not the peach-colored roses in her lap—prompted his irritation. Rhys never could disguise his disapproval of her.

“What did you say to Lucie?” he barked suddenly, downshifting adroitly as he rounded the corner.

“Me?”

He frowned, knowing she knew exactly who he meant, since there was no one else in the car to answer the question. Not willing to give an inch, Trae continued her pose of wounded confusion.

“You must have said something,” he said curtly. “It’s not like Lucie to be so impulsive.”

“Oh, really? Have you forgotten Cancun?”

Apparently not, if his glare were anything to go by.

Cancun had been one of those spring break moments of insanity. Having had enough of the day-to-day grind at Tulane, they’d lit out for sun-drenched Mexico. Maybe it had been the wild college atmosphere, or maybe because Bobby Boudreaux, Lucie’s on-again-off-again boyfriend, had joined them, but one minute Lucie had been quietly sipping margaritas and the next she was dancing on the table. Trae still didn’t know how the fight had started, but in a blink, they were sitting in a Mexican prison, waiting for Rhys to bail them out.

“That wasn’t my fault,” she told him defiantly. “I didn’t get us carted off to jail.”

“And whose idea was it to go down there in the first place?”

“Why do you always…”

“With all the drinking and partying,” he interrupted, “you didn’t anticipate trouble?” Shaking his head in disgust, he skillfully rounded the corner on what seemed to be two wheels.

Trae felt compelled to protest. “Lucie is not a lost little lamb, you know. She’s perfectly capable of making decisions for herself.” She saw skepticism steal over his granitelike features, so she added, “When she’s allowed to.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” In Trae’s opinion, the fact that Lucie had asked three distant relatives, and not her close friends, to be her bridesmaids made all the girl’s choices suspect in the extreme. Including—no, especially—her decision to go against their Just-Say-No oath.

“You expect me to believe that this wedding was all her idea?” she asked.

The car jerked as he popped the clutch. “All I expect from you,” he said tightly, regaining control of the vehicle, “is a little common courtesy. A true friend would back off and let us sort through what is so obviously a private matter.”

The nerve of the guy. “On the contrary, a true friend would look out for Lucie’s best interests. I’ve no intention of backing off until I’m certain she genuinely wants this marriage to take place.”

He looked at her with disbelief. “We will be married, I assure you. There’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

“From the looks of it, Lucie stopped it just fine on her own,” Trae ground out, unable to stop herself from making the dig. She was doubly determined to reach her friend first. She couldn’t let Rhys turn sweet, fun-loving Lucie into the woman he thought he wanted—a perfect clone of her mother, a poised, self-possessed trophy wife he could trot out for public occasions.

It appeared he’d yet to grasp that every female has the will, skill and desire to make a scene and, given the right circumstances, even a control freak like Mitsy Beckwith was perfectly capable of coming apart at the seams.

The evidence of which greeted them as they pulled up the sloped, curving driveway of the Beckwith estate. Mitsy came charging at the car before Rhys could stop; her hands were pulling at her sculpted coiffure. Although her words were muffled, Trae was able to read her lips and make out, “She’s not here. Do you hear me? She’s not here. What do we do now?”

Judging by his continued silence, Trae had to assume Rhys had no ready answer.

Braking with caution, he took his time shutting off the ignition, and as he reached for the door handle, Trae could see a tiny tic beginning to spasm over his right eyebrow. For an instant, as he slowly emerged from the car, she almost felt sorry for him.

Until she got out of the Mercedes and found him as unflappable as ever, his hesitation vanishing as if it had never been. “We’ll wait,” he said firmly to the Beckwiths. “No doubt Lucie is driving around, gathering her thoughts. When she’s ready to be logical again, she’ll return with an explanation. Let’s be calm when she arrives, okay?” Rhys looked from Hal to Mitsy, bypassing Trae entirely. “We don’t want to do anything more to upset her.”

“Upset her?” Misty exploded. “What about me? What am I supposed to do? The orchestra, the prime rib dinners, the melting ice sculptures…” She looked down the road with a horrified expression. “The guests! What if they come here? My God, the press!”

“Take it easy,” Rhys said calmly. “It won’t do any good to panic. Besides, I doubt the guests are going to come here for a wedding reception, considering there was no wedding.”

He could have saved his breath.

“This is a nightmare,” Mitsy barreled on, hysteria fueling her momentum. “People will talk. They’ll snicker behind my back. I won’t have it, do you hear me? Rhys,” she said, grasping his arm with a wild look in her eyes, “you’ve got to do something.”

“Do what?” He didn’t raise his voice, but the words erupted out of him like a cannon blast. “Your daughter just left me stranded at the altar. What in the hell do you think I can do about anything?”

Mitsy blinked, visibly stunned. She was not alone in her shock. Clamping his jaw shut, Rhys acted as if his mouth had just betrayed him. It was the first time Trae had seen him even close to admitting he didn’t have everything under control.

“I can call the police,” Hal offered lamely.

Rhys shook his head. “Let’s hold off calling the authorities. We don’t want to get them or the press involved. Not yet, at least.”

Typical, Trae thought. Poor Luce was out there wandering around helplessly, and he was worried about bad publicity? Disgusted with Rhys, with the lot of them, she thrust the bouquet in his hands. “Isn’t there a phone in the limo?” she asked brusquely as she dug through her purse for her cell phone. “What’s the number?”

Hal Beckwith searched his pockets, unearthing a business card with the company’s information. It took two tries and several minutes on hold before Trae got the number for the phone in the limo. Dialing impatiently, she listened to it ring and ring.

After a few minutes of that, Rhys shook his head. Shoving the bouquet back in her hands, he grabbed her phone.

“Hey, gimme that.” Trae reached for it, but Rhys held the phone against his ear, which, given their height difference, meant she had to jump like an overstimulated puppy to retrieve it.

Suddenly aware of how tall he was, how physically overwhelming, she instead waved the bouquet in his face. “You think you can do better?” she asked. “That Lucie will sense it’s you calling and instantly pick up the phone?”

He eyed her as if she were a buzzing gnat—nothing to take seriously but incredibly annoying just the same. “I’m not phoning the limo,” he announced curtly. “I’m dialing the dispatcher. All I need is their location.”

Mitsy got a smug look on her face, as if she’d been the one to reach that particular conclusion. Trae endured her holier-than-thou attitude in silence, noting that the longer Rhys stayed on hold, the more Mitsy’s smirk waned.

Then suddenly, Mitsy gasped. Following her panicked gaze down the road, Trae saw a car round the corner. With a burst of hope, she recognized the arriving vehicle as Quinn and Alana’s rental. With their help, she still might get to Lucie first.

Yet even as she started toward them, Mitsy, who had the instincts of a bloodhound sniffing out trouble, cut across the lawn to reach her friends before her. Smiling graciously, Mitsy ushered Quinn and Alana into the house.

Hold on Luce, Trae mentally urged as she hurried behind them. I’m on my way.

Just remain calm, Rhys told himself firmly as he climbed the stairs to the family wing. Go through the motions, act as if nothing is wrong. And never mind that half the world just watched you get publicly jilted.

He should have put his foot down and insisted Mitsy limit the invitations. He’d wanted a quiet wedding, not a spectacle of five hundred-plus guests. Worse, Mitsy’s need to dominate the social pages had drawn far too many media ghouls. Rhys suffered no illusions. The fact that he owned several publications wouldn’t grant him immunity. This story would break in all the morning editions.

He glared at the cell phone in his hand. “Just give me something,” he barked into it, despite still being on hold. Then he realized the battery had died. Frustrated, he bit his lip to keep himself under control. How like Trae not to keep her phone charged.

He knew it was useless to rant at dead air, but he hated the inaction, the not knowing. He had to get to Lucie, talk some sense into her. Hadn’t they talked about this, both agreeing that their marriage was inevitable? Her parents expected it, everyone accepted it as a fait accompli. Today’s ceremony should have been a mere formality, the punctuation point of a carefully constructed sentence—only Lucie had suddenly changed the words. Up until an hour ago, she’d agreed that this marriage would benefit them both immensely. What could have changed her mind?

But that was stupid; he knew what had happened. Her friends. More specifically, Trae Andrelini.

He’d seen Trae, of course, talking to Lucie at the back of the church. How could he miss her in that outfit? The sexy, lime suit, the patent leather stilettos, all that red hair. Of course she’d said something, he decided. Ever since the two friends had met at college, Trae had been the devil on Lucie’s shoulder, forever coaxing her into trouble, yet never around when it came time to bail her out. That was his job—the mopping up, the covering over, all the king’s men putting Lucie together again. With a pang, Rhys pictured his fiancée, alone and frightened in some dingy bus depot, her rebellion running out of steam. He had to get to her. She’d expect it. Her family expected it. After all, when had Rhys Allen Paxton ever let her down?

Ah, Lucie, he thought in desperation. Where the hell are you?

“Rhys, you okay? I got here as fast as I could.”

He turned to find his younger brother behind him, Jack’s gold-blond hair and easy good looks so different from his own. “I’m fine,” Rhys said more brusquely than he’d intended. To counteract this, he added a smile, but for once his brother didn’t return it.

“Who am I kidding? This is useless,” Rhys muttered, wanting to fling Trae’s phone against the wall. “I’m wasting time. I don’t suppose Lucie gave you any idea where she might be headed?”

“Me?” Jack shook his head. “I haven’t a clue. Though, if you remember, I did try to warn you that you were making a mistake in pushing her into marriage.”

Rhys bristled. “I didn’t push her. And I don’t make mistakes. I can’t afford to.”

“Whoa. Down, fella.” Grinning, Jack held up his hands as if to ward off a charge. “You know how much you just sounded like the old man?”

An unfair comparison, Rhys thought irritably. If anything, he’d been the bridge between his father and brother. Jack had always called the man TA, as in Tight Ass, while their father maintained that Jack wouldn’t know his head from a hole in the ground.

Which could be why Rhys, long accustomed to dismissing his brother’s view of things, ignored Jack’s vague warnings about Lucie.

Too, Rhys had been distracted by his latest acquisition, a company his father had tried for years to acquire. A major coup, but even were his father still alive to witness it, Rhys wouldn’t get any pat on the back for his efforts. Not after the fiasco at the church. Unacceptable, was how the man would describe today’s events. In the world according to Rhys II, once a goal was set, there was no excuse for not achieving it. In this situation, the goal had been marriage.

“So how do you plan to get her back?” Jack asked, as if Rhys needed the reminder that he didn’t have a bride. “Not call the cops, I hope.”

“No. This is something I need to deal with myself.”

“Okay, then I’ll hold down the fort while you’re gone.”

In truth, the thought of leaving his none-too-reliable brother in charge of the business filled Rhys with dread, which was why he’d asked Sam Beardsley, his father’s right-hand man, to come out of retirement and oversee things while he was away on his honeymoon. Now it would be time away to win back his fiancée.

But the last thing Rhys wanted was for his brother to see his lack of faith in him, so, forcing a smile, he held out his hand. “Thanks, I’d appreciate that.”

Jack beamed as they shook hands, until a sudden trill of female laughter from down the hall had him glancing over his shoulder. “I—I’d better go,” he said, his attention obviously diverted. “Someone needs to calm down the Beckwiths—and anyone else who might have arrived.”

Rhys knew Jack wasn’t checking on the Beckwiths. His brother’s ability to get distracted by the opposite sex was both legendary and inevitable, and a good reason why Rhys couldn’t leave Paxton Corporation too long in his hands.

Shaking his head, he made his way to Lucie’s bedroom. He wanted to change out of the tuxedo and his suitcases were there, since they’d planned to leave from the house for the airport. Then, too, he thought as he frowned down at the useless cell, Lucie had her own private phone line in her bedroom.

He went through the door, leaving it open, feeling claustrophobic amid all the pink. Thanks to Mitsy’s decorating the room was a confection of chintz pillows, poofy curtains and fussy white lace, complete with an oversized, overdressed teddy bear perched on the canopied bed. All that was missing was the placard, Rich Young Girl Sleeps Here.

No wonder Lucie sometimes had a skewed grasp on reality. Even the phone was absurd, a plastic rendition of Cinderella’s glass slipper. Who in their right mind talked into a shoe?

He did, apparently. Tossing Trae’s dead cell phone on the bed, he reached for the slipper. He had calls to make, starting with his housekeeper in the Bahamas. Knowing how Rosa loved to pamper Lucie, he could picture the poor woman combing the grounds to find the gardenias Lucie adored. He could spare Rosa the extra work, if not the disappointment that Lucie wouldn’t be coming.

“But Miss Lucie is on her way here,” Rosa informed him. “She just called from the airport, telling us to expect her shortly.”

He felt a surge of relief, knowing she was safe. Of course Lucie would go to the woman who acted more like a mother to her than her own mother did. Why rattle around on a bus when she could be spoiled rotten at his house in the islands?

At least now he knew she was within reach. With any luck, he might catch up with her at JFK and bring her back home before nightfall. At worst, even if she did fly off without him, he’d meet up with her on the island, where he could easily arrange a quiet ceremony in the local seaside chapel.

It didn’t matter to Rhys where they got married, as long as they were wed by the end of the week. By then, of course, he’d need to be back in the office.

He smiled, happy to have a definite course of action. Within the next twenty-four hours, he would find his runaway bride and bring her back home as his wife.

Aware of the seconds ticking away, Trae raced down the hall, imagining Lucie’s growing desperation. In Trae’s mind, the fact that she hadn’t come home, hadn’t even called home, spoke volumes. Whatever might happen, Trae couldn’t let Rhys get to her friend first.

Desperate to check her messages, she’d left Alana and Quinn with Mitsy to learn what they could while she went to retrieve her cell phone. Unable to find Rhys anywhere, she’d decided to use the private line in Lucie’s bedroom, which meant no one else would pick up while she checked messages. Let Luce have called, she prayed silently as she approached the bedroom. And make sure she says where she’s going.

Rounding the door, she came up short. To her shock, the room was already occupied.

His back to her, much too big, male and overpowering for his surroundings, Rhys began to bark into the phone. The receiver—the silly glass slipper Mitsy insisted went with the cotton-candy decor of the room—looked all the more fragile in his large, capable hands.

“…must follow her,” he said briskly as he pulled at his tie. “I managed to change my booking to a four-thirty flight to Miami. Flight 213.” He paused, shaking his head. “Yes, I know she flew straight to the Bahamas, but there’s not a single seat left on any flight tonight. Get my stuff to the Worldways terminal, at JFK, Bob Ledger’s office. No, wait.” He paused again, holding up his wrist as he checked his watch. “You won’t have time. Just send everything to the boat. Bayside, slip 337. No seats out of Miami tonight, either. The boat’s the quickest way.”

He reached out to undo the cuffs of his shirt. “Make sure to send my briefcase. I’ve got papers to review before the meeting with Stanton, Inc. And I’ll definitely need my BlackBerry. I’ve got to have a reliable phone.”

He paused, scowling down at the cell phone on the bed. My phone, Trae thought, barely resisting the urge to barge in the room and snatch it up.

“Okay, yes,” he continued impatiently. “Technically, I did promise Lucie I wouldn’t work this week. But this isn’t our honeymoon anymore, is it?”

Trae barely heard him, distracted by the man’s ongoing striptease. At the moment, he was in the process of removing his shirt. Hard not to gawk at all that gleaming, taut and surprisingly tanned muscle. Who would have guessed the buttoned-up executive had been hiding such a magnificent body?

She wondered where a workaholic would achieve such a tan. And that physique. Even if Rhys did carve a niche into his schedule for the gym and tanning salon, surely the effort would require swim trunks and sweats. As far as Trae had seen, the man never wore anything but business attire.

Though it seemed she was about to get an eyeful of the real Rhys Paxton. As his hands went to his zipper, she backed away from the door, as appalled as she was embarrassed. Trae Andrelini was not a prude, but this was her best friend’s almost-husband. She shouldn’t be watching him undress, and she sure as hell shouldn’t be getting turned on by him.

“Get started right away,” Rhys finished abruptly. “I’m in a hurry. I’ve got to make that flight.” He slammed down the phone with enough force to crack the slipper had it been made of glass instead of cleverly disguised acrylic.

Hurrying down the hall to find Quinn and Alana, Trae bristled with new determination. Damn Rhys Paxton and all his money and connections. Apparently, he knew exactly where Lucie had gone and he wasn’t sharing.

Flight 213, he’d said, leaving at four-thirty for Miami. And after that, the Bayside Marina, slip 337.

Looked as though they were headed in the same direction.

“Trae?” Lucie Beckwith gripped the phone late that evening knowing she’d reached voice mail, but hoping her friend would somehow sense she was calling and miraculously pick up.

“You’re probably busy cleaning up the mess but I’m sitting here on a stool watching these silly flamingos and I got to thinking that maybe I made a huge mistake.”

No, that didn’t come out right. “I mean, my mistake wasn’t in saying no,” she added promptly—or at least as promptly as three mai tais would allow. “I never should have come here to the Bahamas. Like Rhys wouldn’t look for me here. He knows me so well. He’ll guess in an instant I’d go right to Rosa to get her advice.”

Twirling the little paper umbrella in her glass, Lucie frowned. Call her a coward but she wasn’t ready to face Rhys yet. “He’ll be so…so disappointed,” she said, thinking aloud into the phone. “We made a deal.”

At the time, it had seemed the perfect solution. Rhys needed a Rhys IV and Lucie, well, as her mother constantly pointed out, having children would lend purpose to her otherwise aimless life. All evidence to the contrary, Lucie didn’t enjoy being on the fast track to nowhere.

With her friends having careers and/or families to focus on, lately Lucie increasingly had to fight feeling left out. So when Rhys had suggested it might be time to tie the knot, she could see no reason to argue. Marriage was, after all, what she’d said she always wanted. Hadn’t she always told him as much?

And she couldn’t ask for a better friend, a more worthy champion. For every childhood problem, for every moment of teen angst, he’d been the shoulder she cried on. When she broke her arm falling off a horse her parents had forbidden her to ride, Rhys had gotten her to a doctor, made sure her parents never learned the true cause of her injury. When her date backed out of the senior prom at the last minute, Rhys had canceled his own important plans to escort her.

No doubt about it, Rhys was a wonderful man, a rock in the stormy seas she often made of her life, and lord knew any girl at the country club would take her place in a nanosecond. What more could she hope for when she had no real direction in her life? When she had no means of standing on her own, absolutely no experience in that arena? And when, sadly enough, no one had better claim to her affections….

And there stood Rhys, ready to provide everything a girl could ever dream of, promising the perpetuation of the pampered life her parents had laid out for her. All Lucie had to do was move out of one house and into another, the change of address entailing only one number.

All so easy. So perfect. So why was she sitting here on a bar stool in the Bahamas, as far away from the groom as possible?

“I keep thinking about what you told me, Trae,” she said into the bar’s phone. “You know, about finding myself? You’re right, I do deserve to know how it feels to be madly, deliriously, head-over-heels in love. I want that, Trae. I want it so much.”

She had to stop, emotion bringing tears to her eyes and choking up her throat until she found it hard to speak. To remedy the condition, she took another sip of the mai tai.

As she did, she had a sudden mental picture of sitting on a similar bar stool in Cancun. Only then it had been margaritas and she hadn’t been alone.

“Never mind,” she said firmly into the receiver. “Forget I called. I just figured it out, all by myself, and I know what I have to do.”

Draining the last of her drink, Lucie slid from the stool. “It’s simple, really. I just have to go back in time to when life wasn’t quite so complicated. Back to where I took my first wrong turn. And then I can figure out what the right direction is.”

She sighed, feeling vastly relieved. “Wish me luck, Trae. I’m going to find B—”

Hearing a click, Lucie realized she must have used up the time Trae’s cell phone allotted for messages.

Oh, well, no matter. Who had time for chatting, anyway? Life was waiting. Adventure was waiting.

Time to be moving on.


Chapter Two

Standing on the bridge of his yacht, Rhys struggled not to yawn. What a night. First, the snarl at the Throggs Neck Bridge, backing up traffic for over two hours then the thunderstorms, causing gate hold at JFK until after eleven. By the time he’d gotten out of Miami International airport and over to the marina, it had been the wee hours of the morning. No wonder he could barely keep his eyes open.

Yet as tiresome and frustrating as the night had been, he was now making good time. Barring any unforeseen difficulties, he should reach the island in a little over an hour, just as dawn was breaking. Quite symbolic, when he thought about it. What better time for him and Lucie to start their future together than the start of a fresh, new day.

Smiling, he pictured waking her gently. He’d give her all the time she needed, allay her fears, smooth away the doubts. And when he was done, he’d have them both headed in the same direction. The right direction—straight to St. Mary’s Chapel.

All he had to do was remain positive. Envision success.

Feeling a sudden need for increased speed, he reached for the throttle. Turning dials and flipping switches, he set the course and put the controls on autopilot. He paused a moment, watching for problems, but the yacht plowed on, maintaining a steady course across the calm, placid ocean. Indeed, the only evidence of any disturbance was a sudden sharp growl from his stomach. In all the excitement, he now remembered, he hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s breakfast.

Maybe he’d head below, duck into the galley and make himself something to eat.

He made his way to the master cabin, carrying two suitcases he’d yet to take down, already planning his sandwich. Setting the luggage inside the cabin, he noticed that the closet doors stood slightly ajar. Orderly by nature, he went to close them. Might as well stow the bags inside while he was at it.

He strode to the closet with the bags, expecting a thud as he tossed them but instead heard a telltale “oomph.” Flinging the doors wide, he discovered the source.

Trae Andrelini, clutching his carry-on, blinking the sleep from her startled eyes.

She’d removed her jacket, he noticed as she rose with surprising dignity to her feet. Large portions of her hair had tumbled free of its tightly wound knot, leaving the shiny dark-red strands to bounce on her nearly bare shoulders. Apparently, she was one of those women who were even more attractive in disarray.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he snapped, not liking his sudden strong urge to run his fingers through all that hair.

“You don’t have to shout.”

“Yes, I do. Otherwise, I’m liable to wring your neck.”

She blushed, bringing a pleasant pink hue to her smoothly tanned features. “I’m sorry for stowing away. It’s just that, well, I couldn’t think of any other way to reach Lucie.”

She’d removed her shoes. Without her stiletto heels, her head barely reached his chin. Digging her painted red toenails into the deep pile of the carpet, she seemed so small, so vulnerable, so…

So devious, he reminded himself sternly. He should know better than to soften for an instant. He couldn’t trust her. Hadn’t he just caught her stowing away on his boat?

“Trespassing is a crime,” he said, steeling himself against her wounded expression. “I should turn back to Miami right now and turn you into the authorities.”

“Listen, I can explain.”

“Please, do so.” He stood back, crossing his arms at his chest as he frowned at her. “I can’t wait to hear why you felt compelled to hide in my closet.”

Frowning, she glanced around the cabin. “Do we have to do this here? This bedroom is hardly conducive to true confessions. Let’s go up on deck.”

His gut reaction was to refuse, to make sure he didn’t concede anything to this woman, but following her gaze to the king-size bed, he had to agree that this was no place to conduct an interrogation.

She was blushing again, he saw when he turned back to her. Worse, he now noticed that the top two buttons of her blouse had come undone, revealing a froth of lace and incredible cleavage. Add that to the wild hair framing her heated face, and she could have just stepped out of the bed in question.

A prospect that caused a sudden, unwelcome spike in his pulse.

Sleep deprivation, he insisted to himself. The mind could do crazy things when exhausted, and nothing could be crazier than indulging in such a fantasy. He had to get them both out of this cabin. “Fine,” he told her, marching to the door. “Let’s talk in the galley then.”

“But I don’t want—”

“Frankly, I couldn’t care less what you want.” He paused in the doorway to glare at her. “I’ve had a long, trying day and my patience is virtually nonexistent. Either you come now and explain while I make a sandwich, or you can tell your tale to the authorities. Your choice.”

Leaving her sputtering behind him, Rhys headed for the galley.

Trae would have loved to shout something defiant, had she been able to dream up anything worthy to say. The trouble was, she knew he had every right to be angry, and if the truth be known, a sandwich sounded pretty good to her right now. With a cold beer and maybe a dill pickle.

She could have told Rhys that her day had been no picnic, either. It hadn’t been easy to convince Quinn and Alana that she should be the one to go after Lucie. They claimed she was too impulsive, too emotional and far too inclined to be unreasonable where Rhys Paxton was concand. Only the fact that she had flight benefits—thanks to her brother’s job at Worldways Airlines—tipped the scales in her favor. That and the fact that Vinny could get her on the 3:00 flight well ahead of Rhys’s 4:20 departure.

In the end, Quinn and Alana had each chipped in a couple hundred to her travel fund, after Trae had promised to keep them informed of her progress every step of the way.

Which she might have done, since she had little else to do cramped in Rhys’s dark, cedar-scented closet, but she no longer had her cell phone. All too vividly, she could picture it in Lucie’s bedroom, a small, black stain on that cumulus cloud of a bed. In all the excitement of chasing after Lucie, she’d forgotten to go back for it.

If that weren’t frustrating enough, she’d realized upon landing in Miami how hard it would be to actually locate Lucie. Thanks to Quinn and Alana—via Mitsy—she knew that Lucie had gone to the Paxton vacation home, but the Bahamas comprised hundreds of islands and she hadn’t the slightest idea which one Lucie was on. Rhys could have no idea how much it galled her to rely on him to find her friend.

She shuddered, remembering his threat to call the police. She should have expected his cold, contained fury, she supposed, but then, she’d planned to sneak off the boat as surreptitiously as she’d slipped onto it. She’d never have guessed, on such a short trip, that Rhys would peek inside his closet.

Following him into the galley, she took in the khakis and dress shirt, rolled up to the sleeves, that he now wore. He had great forearms, tanned and powerful, tapering down to large, capable hands. You could tell a lot about a guy by his hands, she’d been told once, and ever since, she’d judged her dates by their grasp. Over the years, she’d found it an amazingly accurate gauge of character.

How would it feel to hold hands with this man? she couldn’t help but wonder, watching Rhys duck his head as he entered the galley.

Not that she’d ever find out. Pointedly turning his back to her, Rhys stormed from cabinet to refrigerator and back to the table, opening and slamming doors in his search for sustenance. Trae knew she should be doubly intimidated by his display of temper, but the collection of meat, bread and fixings he’d amassed had her salivating. Her last “meal” had been the peanuts they’d served on the plane.

She nodded at the cold cuts. “Mind if I have some?”

He blinked at her, as if startled by her temerity. “Help yourself,” he grumbled as he sat at the table and began constructing his sandwich. “Not like anyone can stop you from doing what you want, anyway.”

Trae refrained from snapping back. The object was to get to Lucie, she told herself. Antagonizing the man would get her nowhere. Taking the chair opposite, she reached for the bread.

Unfortunately, Rhys, who had just finished slathering mustard on his two-inch creation, reached for his second slice at the same time.

They shared a startled glance at the unexpected contact, before retracting their hands simultaneously. The only difference being that Rhys came away with the bread. All Trae got was a vague impression of strength and warmth and a renewed—albeit unhealthy—curiosity about how it would feel to actually touch him.

Slapping the bread on top of his sandwich, he looked up with a scowl. “Okay, I’m in need of a good laugh. Let’s hear your story.”

Annoyed by her reaction to their contact—and his apparent indifference to it—she looked away, concentrating instead on building her own sandwich. “I have to find Lucie,” she said as she slapped ham and cheese on her bread. “You and your boat happen to be my only hope.”

Lifting his sandwich, he stopped halfway, his mouth open as he stared at her. “That’s it? That’s your explanation?”

“Would you prefer I made up something about being kidnapped by aliens?”

“What I’d prefer is that you answer my questions. For starters, how did you know I was coming to Miami? Or to the marina? Not to mention to this boat.”

“I overheard you. When I went to Lucie’s bedroom to use her phone.” Hard not to cower as his sharp, blue gaze probed her. “Technically, it’s your fault,” she said with false bravado. “You stole my cell phone. What was I supposed to do?”

He shook his head in disbelief. “First you eavesdrop, then you trespass, and now you say I’m to blame for it all?”

“Not all of it. I admit I was wrong to hide on your boat.” She bristled when he smiled in triumph, but she tamped down her temper, aware that any display of anger would only make matter worse. “I’m sorry, really I am, but how else could I hope to reach Lucie?”

Having taken a huge bite of his sandwich, he had to be content with glowering at her until he could swallow. “What makes you think you’re supposed to reach Lucie?”

“We’ve been through this, Paxton.” Even she could hear the irritation in her voice. “I have to find her,” she added more calmly, leaning across the table. “I have to help her. It’s the least I can do for my friend.”

She watched his eyes widen. At first, she thought she’d impressed him with her resolve, until she realized his gaze was focused on her chest. Looking down, she saw her blouse had come unbuttoned.

Her cheeks now matching the color of her hair, she sat back and did her best to remedy the situation. “Lucie’s my best friend,” she continued vehemently as she buttoned. “I won’t sit back and watch her get bullied.”

“Bullied?”

“C’mon, Lucie obviously doesn’t want to get married any more than I do. If you’d spend more time listening to her and less to her mother, you’d know that.”

He bit off another chunk of the sandwich, chewing as he spoke. “And you’ve reached this conclusion how? Correct me if I’m wrong, but you two haven’t spoken for six months.”

Did the man know everything?

Before she could explain about busy lives and diverging paths, Rhys quickly added, “Except for your little tête-à-tête in the church. Just what did you say to her, anyway?”

“What makes you think it was something I said that made her run? Believe it or not, Lucie does have a mind of her own.”

He shook his head firmly. “She might have her flighty moments, but she’d never run off like that. Not without encouragement, and certainly not there, in front of her parents and five hundred guests. I think even you would have to agree that it was an act that defied all logic and good sense.”

“Not everything in life is determined by logic, you know,” Trae countered angrily. “Sometimes, you have to go with your gut reaction. And in this case, Lucie’s gut instincts told her to flee.”

“Funny, though, how she didn’t have any such instincts until you showed up.”

How smug he seemed, calmly chewing his sandwich. How proprietary, as if he had sole knowledge of Lucie’s inner emotions.

“Can you really be so sure you know what she’s thinking, Paxton? Maybe she was just so afraid of how you’d react, she told you what she believed you wanted to hear.”

That stopped him. But only for an instant. Narrowing his gaze, he leaned closer. “Goes both ways, Trae. What makes you think you have the hotline to the real Lucie Beckwith? Don’t tell me you knew she would bolt. I saw your face. You were as shocked as the rest of us when she raced out of that church.”

He’d been watching her? “I was surprised, yes,” she said primly, trying to control the flush now creeping up her neck. “But honestly, Rhys, it wasn’t all that unexpected. It’s not like she hasn’t run out on you before.”

He winced, and she suddenly wished she could take back the words. It was a low blow, bringing up the incident, but the man had a knack for getting her riled.

No doubt he blamed Trae for that defection, too, but Lucie swore to Trae that she’d come up with the idea on her own. She’d claimed she had a sudden urge to see London, but Trae knew how little she’d looked forward to her engagement party. “Rhys won’t care,” Lucie had told her blithely, suggesting Trae go to the party and see for herself. Sure enough, Rhys had smiled throughout, acting as if nothing were wrong, telling everyone that a bout with a minor virus had his fiancée confined to her bed.

But to this day, Trae regretted not flying off to England with her friend. The minute the party was over, Rhys had hopped the next flight to London, bringing Lucie back home a few days later with the huge rock still on her finger.

“The point is,” Trae continued with a dismissive wave of her hand, “the poor girl is obviously confused. She needs to talk about this marriage. To someone other than yourself. The minute we reach that island…”

Cursing under his breath, Rhys glanced at his watch. “Damn, what am I doing?” Dropping what little remained of his sandwich, he rose and raced to the door.

“What’s wrong?” Trae called out. “Where are you going?”

“The bridge. At this speed, we’ll be slamming into the island in fifteen minutes.”

Rhys stood at the wheel, watching the sky brighten above the approaching shoreline. Fortunately, he’d had ample time to slow the yacht down before they hit the island. Pulling the throttle again, he brought the engines to a crawl as they hit the harbor limits.

What had he been thinking, letting himself get so distracted? He must be more tired than he thought. How could he get so involved in Trae’s incessant chatter that he’d put his boat—not to mention their lives—at risk?

Then again, had it merely been her chatter that had him so distracted?

Against his will, he recalled the sudden rush of desire as his hand had touched hers over the bread. He’d been caught off guard by how slender her hand had been, how soft and warm. Just like he’d been surprised by the unexpected view of her full white breasts, which had left him wondering if they were as soft and warm as her hands…

“Here.”

Wheeling around, he found Trae behind him, holding two mugs. He hoped she didn’t plan to make a habit of popping out at him from unexpected places while he was engrossed in his thoughts. Especially those thoughts.

Ignoring his frown, she smiled as she offered him one of the mugs. “I made coffee. I figured we both could use it.”

He took the mug. As the rich, aromatic steam teased his nostrils, he could feel his anger dissipate. Trae was right, he decided after a long, reviving gulp. He did need it.

He did not, however, need her on his boat. Or interfering with Lucie. Studiously ignoring his unwanted passenger, he concentrated on bringing them into port.

“I thought of something while I was below,” Trae said, oblivious to his displeasure. “In all the confusion, I had no time to grab my passport. Will there be trouble when we dock?”

“We’ll be mooring at my place.” Keeping one hand on the wheel, he gestured to the cove on the starboard side. “No one should question you there.”

What he didn’t bother to add was that while getting onto the island should be easy enough, getting off again might pose a problem. For her, anyway.

He had no intention of sticking around to find out. Once they docked, she was on her own.

Misinterpreting his smile, she returned it with one of her own. “This coffee sure hits the spot, doesn’t it? I know I needed it. I took this pill for seasickness and it’s got me feeling so groggy, I could have cotton balls jammed in my head. I guess it’s made me a tad grumpy. I blurted out things I probably shouldn’t have.”

Man, the woman could talk. “Your point is?”

He saw the flash of anger, just for an instant, but she clamped down on it with an impressive exhibition of will. “My point is, I’m sorry. For getting in the way, for hiding in your closet, for everything.”

“Everything?”

This time she wasn’t quite as successful at hiding her temper. Green eyes flashing, she glared at him over the top of her coffee cup. “I’m not apologizing for wanting to help Lucie, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“All I’ve ever asked is that you stop interfering in my life.”

“I’m not…” Her hands tightened around the mug, but with a sigh, she tried again. “Look, Paxton, I’ve said things and you’ve said things, some justified and some downright nasty. But right now, this is about Lucie. About her safety and future happiness. Can’t we put aside our differences until we’re sure she’s all right?”

“Are you suggesting a truce?” he asked, incredulous. The woman barged in on his boat, berated and insulted him, and then expected his help in ruining his life?

“Yes,” she said, beaming as she held out a hand.

Studiously ignoring it—as well as her question—he shut down the engines. “Hit that switch, will you?” he said, hoping to distract her. “We need to lower the anchor.”

Gazing around them, hand still extended, she looked as if someone had just yanked the rug from beneath her feet. “We’re stopping here? In the middle of the water? Not at the pier over there?”

“It’s for smaller boats. If I take this yacht any closer to shore, she’s likely to run aground. I generally use the skiff to get to the beach.”

“Oh.” Grinning sheepishly, she pulled the switch. “Don’t mind me. I’m not very nautical.”

No kidding, he thought, eyeing her fitted green skirt and bare feet. “It won’t be easy climbing in and out of the skiff in that outfit,” he told her. “Why don’t you look through Lucie’s bags? I took then down to the cabin earlier. Maybe you can find something more suitable. You can change down below while I finish docking.”

“Good idea. Thanks.”

He said nothing as she went below, knowing that in truth, he wasn’t being helpful at all. While she was below, he planned to get the skiff in the water. If he hurried, he could get to the island—and, more important, to Lucie—before Trae realized he was gone.

It took less than five minutes to get the skiff in the water. He was about to shove off when he heard Trae behind him. “Oh, here you are. For a minute, I thought you’d left without me.”

Rhys saw no reason to grace that with an answer.

Besides, he was robbed of speech when he saw her new outfit. Riding low on her hips and high on her thighs, the red shorts showed off an alarming expanse of smooth, tanned leg. The white T-shirt left even less to the imagination.

He didn’t help her into the skiff, knowing better than to risk coming in contact with all that exposed flesh. More to the point, Trae didn’t allow it. Dragging a suitcase behind her, she stepped over the rail and dropped into the boat before Rhys could recover his wits. “I figured Lucie might want her things,” she offered in explanation.

Cursing her soundly under his breath, he shoved off and motored their way to the beach.

None too happily, either. Having Trae around changed everything. How could he hope to talk Lucie out of what was so clearly a case of cold feet with her so-called best friend chattering in her other ear? That they’d eventually get married wasn’t in doubt—he and Lucie had talked about and planned for this far too long—but Trae’s interference could cause a lengthy and costly delay. Look at the damage she’d done already.

Frowning, he thought about their engagement party. Trust Trae to bring that up—he’d known for years that she’d been behind Lucie’s “impulsive whim” to visit London. How like her to toss it in his face, as if he were to blame for Lucie’s erratic behavior. Mitsy Beckwith had always maintained “that Andrelini person” was a bad influence on her daughter, and in this one thing, Rhys was in total agreement.

He had to get rid of her. For Lucie’s sake, if not his own.

Trae sat on the other side of the skiff, also thinking about Lucie and how she was going to help her. That Rhys would do his best to stop her efforts, she didn’t doubt for a second. Look at how he’d tried to sail off without her.

Not that she hadn’t anticipated it. Figuring she had maybe five minutes while he moored the yacht, she’d grabbed the first clothes she could find. An unfortunate choice, it turned out, since she could scarcely breathe in Lucie’s short shorts and T-shirt. There had been no time to change into something else, though, not if she hoped to get to the skiff first. Yet despite her rush, Rhys had still managed to get there before her.

Eyeing his house as they approached the shoreline, she felt her first misgivings. Rising up from the beach, the vast white colonial sprawled along the grassy knoll like a sleeping giant. A collection of structures in assorted pastels—each topped with a red–tiled roof—formed a maze around the main dwelling. So much for the simple vacation cottage she’d pictured. “Wow,” she thought aloud. “It sure is…big.”

“Some structures house the staff, but most are sheds and outbuildings.”

Awed by the vastness of the place, Trae saw how it gave him a distinct advantage. It being his house and all, he’d know exactly where to find Lucie.

While Trae hadn’t the slightest clue.

Hazarding a guess, she decided to try the main building. To reach the wraparound porch ahead of him, though, she’d have to take off running the instant they reached the dock. With any luck she should have a step or two while Rhys had to stop and tie off the skiff.

Poised and ready to leap onto the dock, she was caught completely off guard when Rhys sped past the dock to run the boat up onto the beach. Yanking up the motor in a swift fluid motion, he leaped into the water and took off running.

“You just wrecked your five-hundred-dollar shoes,” she called out as she scrambled after him.

Not that he seemed to care. With all his money, he probably had another hundred pairs waiting upstairs in a closet.

Watching Rhys reach the porch steps, she said goodbye to her last hope of outracing him to her friend. All she could do now was stand outside and yell. “Lucie,” she shouted at the house, hoping her friend would hear her. “Lucie, come outside. We need to talk.”

As if in answer, the door burst open, but it wasn’t Lucie who collided with Rhys. A short, dark, middle-aged woman pulled up short, her alert gaze flashing between them. His housekeeper, Trae assumed, because of the black dress and white apron.

“I heard shouting,” the woman said, looking from one to the other of them. “Is something the matter, Mr. Paxton?”

“No.” His curt, clipped denial clearly surprised him as much as his housekeeper. “Everything’s fine, Rosa. I’m just looking for Miss Beckwith. Is she upstairs?”

“She’s not here, Mr. Paxton,” Rosa said, a frown creasing her weathered features. “Didn’t she call you? She left late last night.”

Rhys turned back to glare at Trae, as if somehow this, too, was her fault. Reining in his temper, he addressed his housekeeper again. “Did she say where she was going?”

Rosa shook her head. “All I know is she told my boy Raymond to take her to Miami in that old fishing boat of his.”

“That’s it? She said nothing else?”

Rosa shook her graying head. “Only that she was sorry. And that she left her wedding dress upstairs. She hoped you’d send it back to her mother.”

Watching his shoulders sag, Trae might have felt sympathy had she not been struggling with her own disappointment. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been counting on finding Lucie here, safe and sound.

Inhaling deeply, she approached the porch. “This changes things considerably,” she told Rhys. “We can’t waste time here. We need to hurry back to Miami and see if we can find her at the docks.”

“You’re right, of course,” he said, running a harried hand through his hair. “Only, just so we’re clear, there’s no ‘we’ about this. I’m returning to Miami alone.” Straightening, he started off for the skiff.

She grabbed his arm. “Whoa, wait a minute. You can’t just leave me here.”

“And why not? I’m under no obligation to transport a stowaway. Besides, you don’t have a passport. You can’t expect me to take the chance that I’ll be stopped by the harbor patrol.”

“That’s low, Paxton. Even for you.”

Shrugging, he removed her hand from his arm. “I’ve no doubt you’ll manage to scheme your way off the island before too long. In the meantime, Rosa will make sure you have food and a place to sleep.”

Watching him walk off, Trae felt the heat rise up in her body. “What happened to working together? I thought we had a truce.”

“Actually,” he said over his shoulder, “if you’ll remember, I never agreed to anything.”

Thinking back, she realized he’d changed the subject by asking her to help drop the anchor. “Why, you…”

“Goodbye, Trae.” He kept going, his long, steady strides getting him into the skiff well before she could reach the shore. Watching him motor off, she wanted to scream. She wanted to stomp and shake her fist in the air, but none of these things would help her one iota. “I thought you were a gentleman,” she called out, anyway. “You didn’t even leave me a change of clothing.”

“Here.” In answer, he tossed Lucie’s suitcase in the water. “Only this time, try to find something that fits.”

She could have told him that she was well aware of how ridiculous her outfit was. She could also flip him the gesture her brothers seemed so fond of, but knew she had better retrieve the suitcase before it sank.

“That man is the devil incarnate,” she muttered under her breath as she dragged the bags to the porch.

“Oh, no, ma’am.” Coming up behind her to take the suitcase, Rosa gently shook her head. “Here on the island, we consider Mr. Paxton a saint.”

Inviting Trae inside while she made coffee, Rosa continued extolling the man’s virtues. Her family would be homeless, she claimed, had Mr. Paxton not helped them after last year’s hurricane. Not only had he provided them with cash, he’d come down there and helped rebuild their homes with his own bare hands.

Trae let her go on for a while because Rosa seemed sweet and it was only natural she’d feel compelled to defend her employer. Besides, Trae needed that second cup of coffee.

However, after fifteen minutes of listening to the woman drone on, not even the lure of caffeine could keep Trae in her chair. Actions spoke louder than words, after all, and that so-called saint had just stranded her on this island. Asking to use the phone, Trae decided it was high time she made her own plans to go after Lucie.

Upstairs, gazing at the huge four-poster bed, Trae realized she should have had the third cup of coffee, after all. Refusing to give in to the temptation to lie down, she made her calls.

Her first was to Quinn, who proved sympathetic after hearing about the night’s events. Technically, a passport was required to get off the island, she said, but fishing boats made the trip from the Bahamas to the States every day. Her advice was to try to charter one and, if worse came to worst, to call her immediately. She had a connection in customs who owed her a favor.

Hanging up, wishing for the hundredth time that she still had her cell phone, Trae decided to check to see if Lucie had tried to call her.

She had four messages. The first had come in late last night—Quinn, demanding to know what was happening. Next was Alana, wishing her luck. Then her mother, reminding her not to miss next Sunday’s family dinner. Rolling her eyes, she wondered how she could ever forget when the woman called twice each week with the same reminder.

On the fourth, she heard Lucie’s soft, breathy voice. Clutching the phone as she tried to decipher the garbled message, Trae felt the first, faint stirring of hope. Surely it was a good thing that Lucie wasn’t heading back to Rhys with her tail between her legs. That she was setting off on her own, determined to find a man she could madly, deliriously, head-over-heels love. The fact that said man wasn’t Rhys, that Lucie was still running away from him, reinforced Trae’s decision to help her.

When she replayed the message, though, her euphoria faded. What did Lucie mean, going back to where she had taken her first wrong turn? When had her life seemed less complicated?

And then with a sudden, sinking feeling, Trae knew Lucie was referring to her college days. And more specifically, to Bobby Boudreaux.

The ultimate bad boy, with his blond, surfer looks and slow, sexy drawl, Bobby was a far cry from the staid and proper Rhys Paxton. To a parent, Bobby might represent the ultimate nightmare, but for a young, sheltered coed like Lucie Beckwith, he’d been walking, talking excitement. For all Trae knew, Lucie might have stayed with him forever, if not for their brief stint in the Mexican jail.

Rhys had meant to leave Bobby there, Trae later learned. It wasn’t until Lucie had promised never to see him again that Rhys secured his release. Lucie had kept their agreement, insisting Rhys knew what was best for her, but she’d never stopped regretting it. She’d been asking herself what if? ever since.

Faced with the prospect of Lucie’s hooking up with Bobby Boudreaux again, Trae raced down the stairs two at a time. She had to get off this island immediately. Alone, vulnerable and naturally impetuous, her poor friend could land herself in a real fix this time.

Trae had to find Lucie before it was too late.


Chapter Three

Rhys glanced at his watch, then up at the gate sign, as if the departure time would miraculously change. Flight Delayed, it continued to flash, the same as the last hundred times he’d checked it. Apparently, they had gate hold at JFK again. Thunderstorms, the scourge of summer travel.

He counted slowly to ten, trying to control his frustration. This, after wasting two-and-a-half days in Miami searching—no, combing—the area near the docks and finding no sign of Lucie. Nor was she registered at any hotel, staying with friends, or, to his relief, making an unscheduled stop at any local hospital. She might as well have vanished off the face of the earth.

As his brother pointed out, Rhys was accomplishing nothing in Miami. He might as well return home to take care of business. Lucie was bound to run out of cash sooner or later, and she’d eventually call for help. Just like she always did.

Jack had carefully omitted all mention of the looming crisis at their Dallas subsidiary, another encouragement to race home. Rhys might have panicked, but, having had the foresight to ship his laptop to Miami, he was able to detect and correct the problem quickly by remote. He’d been working on his laptop while waiting for his flight, but due to his recent lack of sleep, his eyes were now dry and scratchy. Rubbing them briskly, he nearly missed the blur of dark-red hair dashing past.

He blinked hard, certain his weary eyes had to be deceiving him.

But no, it was Trae. Her hips were now adequately covered by a snug pair of black jeans, with a sedate green silk blouse draping her upper torso. She nonetheless managed to exude a sultry sexiness as she raced to the gate across the way.

Sitting up straight, Rhys checked the board for her destination. New Orleans. Departing at ten-fifty-five. Alert now, he watched Trae thrust a boarding pass at the waiting attendant, who ushered her into the tunnel before promptly shutting the door behind her.

Determined not to let her get the advantage, he jumped up and raced to the counter. Too late to get on that flight, but he meant to be on the next plane to New Orleans.

“Bobby? Nah, he ain’t here.”

Stifling a groan, Trae stared at Bobby’s cousin, Beau Boudreaux. From his greasy brown hair and unshaven face, to the questionable stains on his jeans and gray sleeveless sweatshirt, he could be the poster child for Skid Row International. At two in the morning, she found it no easy task to decipher his soft, slurred speech from six feet away—the minimum distance required to prevent his pawing her. “Okay,” she tried again. “Are you expecting him back any time soon?”

Swaying slightly, Beau stared blankly, as if her words couldn’t quite penetrate his fog. “Who?”

“Bobby. Remember, I asked if I could see him?”

“Yeah. Yeah, right. Nah, you can’t.”

“What do you mean, I can’t?”

“I mean he ain’t here. And he ain’t coming home for a while. Went off to Hollywood. Back in May. No, April. May. Yeah, May.” He scratched his head, obviously continuing to debate, in his thoughts, the actual month of Bobby’s departure.

“Bobby’s in California?”

“Yeah, making movies.” He grinned, blatantly happy to move on to a new topic. “Ain’t that a hoot and a half? With his looks and all, most folk hereabouts always thought he’d be starring in pictures one day. Nobody guessed he’d be making them instead.”

He leaned forward, as if to impart an important secret. Trae instinctively took a step backward.

“Film production, that’s his thing now. My little cousin has himself a backer, some guy with more money than he knows what to do with, willing to bank money on his genius. Out there on the coast, that’s where y’all find Bobby. Living the good life, mooching off some rich dude up in Beverly Hills.”

“I don’t suppose you have an address?”

“Matter of fact, I sure do.” Reaching behind his apartment door, Beau grinned as he pulled a ragged piece of paper from a drawer. “Wrote it down to give to Aunt Livie. Says she wants to mail Bobby a birthday present, but ’tween you and me, I’m betting she’s out to snoop. You know Aunt Livie.”

Trae didn’t, but saw no reason to prolong their conversation. Snatching the paper from Beau’s none-too-steady hand, she stuffed it in her pocket. “I don’t suppose he took anyone with him?” she asked, to distract him from noticing that she’d taken his paper.

Beau shook his head, the grin sliding into a leer. “Plenty of chicks wanted to go, though. Especially that blond that came looking for him a day or so back. Pretty little thing. Man, wouldn’t I love to get a…”

“You said blond?”

With visible effort, Beau did his best to focus. “You… her…hey, y’all used to hang around with Bobby years ago. I remember you.”

His leer deepened. Trae edged back another few steps.

“Hey, where ya going? Got a six-pack I’m willing to share. We can, uh, hash over old times.”

“It’s been a blast seeing you again, Beau, but I’ve got to run. Places to go, people to see. Flight to catch.” This last was uttered over her shoulder as she hurried down the street. Behind her, she could hear Beau calling, first pleading then turning increasingly nasty as she rounded the corner and ducked out of sight.

Did he honestly think she’d step one foot inside that dive he and Bobby called an apartment? Hadn’t her quest to find Lucie already been enough of an ordeal?

It had taken her over two days to get here from Rhys’s estate. She’d been forced to wait for Rosa’s grandson, Raymond, to return with his boat. Convincing him to turn around and go back to Florida had taken considerable patience and tact, not to mention a serious depletion of her funds. And then, once she got to Miami, she’d spent the rest of the time in bureaucratic hell while Quinn and her government contact straightened out the mess of her missing passport.

And now she had to grab a flight to California.

Hailing a cab, Trae fought off a growing uneasiness. Her funds—even with Quinn and Alana’s supplement—were rapidly dwindling. She eyed the backpack she’d stuffed with Lucie’s loosest clothes and necessary toiletries, and the three hundred dollars she’d found jammed in a pocket. She’d brought it along, figuring her friend would need the cash, but unless she found Lucie soon, Trae might have to use the money herself.

It would be a loan, used only in an emergency, but it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared. Bad enough to imagine Lucie in New Orleans, a place they knew from their days at Tulane, but the prospect of her friend wandering around the streets of Hollywood was even worse.

And what about once she did find Lucie? Back when she’d started this search, Trae hadn’t thought past the moment they would connect. How there would be two mouths to feed, two bodies needing shelter, two fares for the long journey home…

Then again, Rhys had been in the picture, she realized as the taxi sped to the airport. Rhys, who always took care of everything.

Entering the airport and walking to the gate, she found herself thinking about him, wondering where he was, what he was doing. Probably still spinning his wheels back in Miami, she thought with a grin. His stubbornness would never allow him to admit defeat. She wondered if he’d figured out yet what a mistake it had been to leave her behind, to underestimate her abilities. He would eventually, when she was the first to reach Lucie.

See how you like it then, Paxton, she thought. Not fun, is it, being left in the dust?

Watching her from the other side of the concourse, Rhys felt anything but dusty. On the contrary, he felt at the top of his game. All things considered, he could be pleased with his progress. Okay, maybe it had been sheer luck, spotting Trae on Bourbon Street last night, but the difference between success and failure lay in how a man played out his hand. With skill and decisiveness, he’d tailed her. Undetected, he might add, to the dingy apartment on Esplanade that somehow seemed familiar.

Granted, he’d heard little while she’d grilled the drunk at the door, but he’d been in the perfect position to overhear her instructions to the cab driver when she left. From there, it had been a snap to follow her to the airport, where he’d found her flopped in a seat, waiting on standby for a flight to Los Angeles.

Which still wouldn’t take off for at least another hour. A full hour in which he could be working, he thought in frustration. Hoping to maintain a low profile, knowing even a carry-on would slow him down, he’d opted to check his laptop with his luggage. All he had left was his BlackBerry. And the Times Picayune, which he held up to shield his face.

Peering over the top of the newspaper, he had to marvel at Trae’s stamina. Most women he knew would have given up long ago, or gotten someone else to do the job for them. But there Trae sat, in her tired green blouse and rumpled black jeans, her posture betraying her exhaustion as she continued to gut it out.

He was suddenly reminded of Mexico, when he’d escorted Lucie and her friends back to college. Refusing to be anywhere near him, Trae had sat across the concourse then, too. She’d claimed she didn’t want any more lectures, but he suspected it had had more to do with her pride. She’d hated that she couldn’t afford to pay the fine, that she had to rely on Rhys instead—as evidenced by the check he received five months later. Certainly Lucie had never repaid him, or that bum of a boyfriend, either.

And all at once, Rhys remembered how he knew the Esplanade address, having paid a small fortune to get Boudreaux out of jail.

Sitting up straight, he began to put it together. This changed everything. Clearly, Trae knew Lucie’s whereabouts.

The question was, what to do next?

It wasn’t as if he could become her stowaway. Most likely, he couldn’t even follow Trae. With all the freeways branching out from LAX, all she had to do was hop in a cab. And there would go his only link to Lucie.

Not good.

Rhys resettled himself in the chair, thinking hard. Managing his father’s company had taught him that the key to success often lay in an ability to recognize change, to adapt to it. When you hit a snag, sometimes you had to forge new partnerships. Not permanent ones, necessarily. Make it a brief alliance, make it last only long enough to get what you wanted. And what he wanted—no, needed—was to find Lucie and make sure she was okay.

Eyeing her over the paper, he decided that he and Trae would have a little chat.

Hours later, Trae shifted in her aisle seat, stirred from the strangest dream. She’d been in the jungle, with a bare-chested Rhys Paxton carrying her over a wide, swollen stream. It had been hot, August-in-Miami hot, a nd not just from the humidity. A considerable amount of the heat had been generated between them.

Half-awake, she could still feet the rush, the anticipation, the excitement as they’d gazed into each other’s eyes. “Trae,” she could still imagine him whispering, his breath warm and soft on her cheek and the subtle scent of his aftershave lingering in the air. With a strange reluctance, she opened her eyes.

And there, mere inches from her face, was Rhys Paxton.

She popped up so quickly, she nearly clipped him on the chin. Seeming as startled as she felt, he straightened and took a step backward. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,” he said stiffly. “But it’s imperative that you and I talk.”

Talk? Trying to shake off the effects of the dream, she stared at him. Nothing could be further from jungle attire than the charcoal-gray suit he now wore, with a cobalt-blue shirt and what was, for him, a rather dashing burgundy striped tie. With his freshly shaven face, he looked ready for the office. While she…

With what precious little sleep she’d gotten lately, she probably looked like death warmed over. “What are you doing here?” she snapped.

He wore a self-satisfied smirk as he took the vacant seat across the aisle. “Actually, I was about to ask you the same thing.”

Trae struggled to regroup, her thoughts chasing themselves through her head. Clearly, he’d been following her but how…when…where…

“Miami,” she thought aloud. “You must have been lying in wait for me there.”

He seemed taken aback for a moment—no doubt astounded by her cleverness—but he recovered with a quick shake of the head. He leaned over the armrest. “All that should concern you is that I’m here and not about to go away. We have—” he paused to consult his watch “—approximately one hour and fifty minutes until we land. So, for the time being, you’re not going anywhere, either.”

The last vestiges of the dream evaporated with his brusque words. No matter how he’d gotten there, Rhys Paxton was planted a mere two feet away and she had to deal with him. “Okay, so what do you want?”

He ignored her less than gracious tone. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. A truce might be a good idea, after all.”

“Ah, so now the man wants to make nice. This have anything to do with the fact that I have a viable lead and you’ve got nothing?”

That wiped the smirk off his face. “Keeping score isn’t going to help either of us find Lucie. We can continue to fight, but if we really want to find her, we can increase our chances considerably if we pool our resources.”

Trae shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m trying to save the girl, not deliver her to the Inquisition.”

“And your idea of salvation is to leave her in the clutches of a lowlife like Boudreaux?”

Not good, Trae thought uneasily. Not good at all if Rhys knew about Bobby.

She clung to the hope that he wouldn’t bother talking to her if he had all the pieces to the puzzle, or even any hope of collecting them in the near future. He thought he was so clever, but Trae could see right through him. He planned to use her, then spit her back out once he had what he wanted. “Here’s my problem, Paxton. You’re asking me to trust someone who just left me stranded in a foreign country without a passport.”

“Okay, I admit that was low. But I’d had a rough day and wasn’t thinking clearly. Now, however…”

“The only difference now is that I’ve got something you want.”

He stared at her, frowning. She imagined he wasn’t accustomed to people sassing him back.

“You’re right,” he said finally with a solemn nod.

She hadn’t expected the admission. Oddly enough, it disarmed her.

Until he added, “But keep in mind that I have the funds and connections to prolong my search indefinitely. I think we both know that I’m not about to give up. I will find her, with or without your help.”

“Is that a threat?”

With a shrug, he leaned back in his seat. “No, ma’am. Just a statement of fact. I can guarantee that I’ll bring her home eventually. Can you say the same?”

“My, my, my. Aren’t we cocky?”

“Not at all. I’m being realistic. We both know you’ll run out of funds long before I do.”

She thought of the three hundred dollars in the backpack. A comfortable cushion in the short term, but if this dragged on…

No, she’d worry about that when she had to. “Forget it. Your proposal is all win-win for you, and lose-lose for me. Not to mention poor Lucie. I’m not offering up my best friend to a loveless marriage.”

“Lucie and I have a steady, caring relationship,” he protested, appearing insulted by her words. “You’ve always refused to acknowledge that, but you know it’s true. I’ve been there for Lucie just as much as you have and if you don’t believe me, you can ask her yourself once we find her. I’m confident you’ll find she wants this marriage as much as I do.”

“Yeah, and that’s why she fled from the altar.”

“She panicked. Who can blame her? All those strangers in the church, her mother nagging, her friends stuffing her head with pointless advice.”

“Okay, Paxton,” Trae said, having no wish to confess the part she may have played in Lucie’s bolting. “Say I buy into your theory that Lucie panicked. It’s been days. Isn’t that enough time to come to her senses and head back home?”

“Mitsy just blew a damn fortune on that wedding. Would you want to face her any time soon?”

Good point. “Okay, but why hasn’t she contacted you? You two having this steady, caring relationship and all.”

His jaw was clenched so tight, it was a wonder he got the words out. “It’s complicated. You wouldn’t understand.”

This time, Trae leaned across the aisle. “Try me.”

He stared at her face for what seemed an aeon, as if taking her measure. “I know you want to paint me as the bad guy here, but I swear to you, all I want is to make sure she’s okay. Once I can see that she’s fine, you can talk to her all you want. Say whatever you want.”

“Even if I talk her out of marrying you?”

He shrugged. “You’re welcome to try. But right now, you need me as much as I need you. It’s vital we find Lucie before she ends up in serious trouble.”

Gazing back at him, Trae found it hard to doubt his sincerity. Against her better judgment, she could feel herself soften. “This promise of yours. I want more than simply being allowed to talk to Lucie. I need to speak to her first.”

“And why would I agree to this?”

“Because you’re confident she wants this marriage as much as you. Really, Paxton, what do you have to lose by letting me talk to her first?”

He narrowed his gaze as if suspecting a trick, but nonetheless nodded and held out his hand. “Fine. Then we have a deal?”

She didn’t know that she could trust him, but the more she thought about it, the more joining forces seemed the most practical solution. He had all the money, why not let him pay for the rental car, make him drive into the hills? All she’d have to do was go along for the ride, then whisk Lucie off to safety once they found her. “You don’t go anywhere near Lucie until I’ve had my say?”

“You have my word.”

She still wanted to argue, but really, what was the point? Reaching across the aisle, she clasped the hand he offered.

How could she have forgotten the jolt she got from touching this man?

No, not quite accurate to call it a jolt—more like a readjustment, her trying to get around the awareness that his grip could be rock solid, yet tender and warm and sincere at the same time.

If Trae truly believed she could judge a man’s character by his hands, she had to believe in a man who could hold hers like that.

Even if the man was Rhys Paxton.

Disconcerted, she looked up to meet his eyes, and for an instant got lost in his gaze. She’d never realized how blue his eyes were, how honest and direct. Gazing into them, she flashed back to her dream and found herself feeling heated inside, almost breathless, almost…

Was she out of her mind? This was Rhys Paxton, the most arrogant man she had ever known and, none too coincidentally, her best friend’s fiancé.

That damned dream, she thought, yanking her hand out of his grasp and sitting back in her seat.

She made a shooing motion with her hands, anxious to have him gone. Watching him make his way to the front of the plane, she sighed in exasperation. Figured he’d be in first class.

Okay, he’d gained the advantage in this round, but she hoped, for his sake, he wasn’t assuming he’d always get the best of her. Trae was taking nothing for granted, especially not his so-called word. He might not be as selfish and ruthless as she wanted to believe, but the Rhys Paxtons of this world almost always had their own agendas, and they rarely included standing aside for the Trae Andrelinis. She might have to work with the guy, but it didn’t mean she had to trust him.

Stretched out in the plush leather seat, Rhys knew he should be resting but he felt too unsettled to sleep. He was worried about Lucie—where she was, what she was doing, what kind of mischief Boudreaux could get her into this time.

Contrary to what Trae implied, he did care about Lucie. How could Trae call it a loveless marriage? She’d made it sound like another business acquisition. Granted, maybe their relationship didn’t have all the sizzle of a paperback romance, but he’d been looking out for her for years and couldn’t imagine ever doing otherwise. Everyone knew Lucie couldn’t ask for a more dependable or more devoted husband.

Yet…

The instant he’d touched Trae’s soft, warm skin, something shifted in chest. Holding her hand in his, staring into her deep, emerald eyes, his sense of obligation moved ever so slightly away from Lucie and onto…

He shook his head. He owed Trae nothing more than his promise that she’d get to speak to Lucie first. So why, then, did he suddenly feel guilty about leaving her scrunched up in economy while he luxuriated in first?

This wasn’t about anyone’s comfort—he was here to find Lucie. And if he expected to do so, he had to concentrate on what lay ahead. The wise man—the winning man—always came prepared.

He’d arranged the rental car, convinced Trae—albeit reluctantly—to lead him to Lucie and had two seats reserved for the red-eye to JFK this evening. As long as the Worldways baggage handlers didn’t go out on their threatened strike, he and Lucie would be home and back to business as usual by early tomorrow morning.

Smiling, he sat back in his seat. The ball was in his court again, just where he liked it.

Consulting the map in the glove compartment, Trae stifled a grin at Paxton’s grumbling as she guided them out of the airport. Apparently there had been a mix-up and all the agency could offer was this tiny, well-used Neon. Bad enough not to travel in the style to which he as accustomed, but to make matters worse for him, the baggage handlers had misplaced his luggage.





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