Emily McKay: A Bride for the Black Sheep Brother

There isn’t an us,” Portia retorted.

“So you keep insisting,” Cooper replied. “But I need you to understand something. All that nonsense about men not finding you attractive is just nonsense. You’re gorgeous.”

Portia smiled. “Thank you. But—”

“I’m not done.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“But I need you to understand something else. I’m not a nice guy. I’m not selfless. I’m not softhearted.”

She was confused by this train of thought. “Oookay.”

Well, if she’d been confused before, he was about to make things worse.

He closed the distance between them and pulled her to him. He didn’t give her a chance to protest verbally, but pressed his lips to hers. There was a moment of shock. But she didn’t resist.

Not even for a second.

* * *

A Bride for the Black Sheep Brother

is part of the trilogy At Cain’s Command: Three brothers must find their illegitimate sister … or forfeit a fortune.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

EMILY McKAYhas been reading and loving romance novels since she was eleven years old. She lives in Texas with her geeky husband, her two kids and too many pets. Her debut novel, Baby, Be Mine , was a RITA ®Award finalist for Best First Book and Best Short Contemporary. She was also a 2009 RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award nominee for Series Romance. To learn more, visit her website, www.emilymckay.com.

For my darling daughter, who loves books and reading and stories, despite being bad at “decoding” and being a crappy speller. It’s okay, honey. I am, too.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Extract

Prologue

Portia Callahan lived her life by one simple rule: when all else failed, make a list.

Today’s list was simple, if perhaps a tad more important than most.

Nails

Hair

Makeup

Dress

Shoes

Wedding

Usually, checking items off her list helped her chill out. It soothed her rattled nerves better than a hefty margarita. Not today. Today, she’d checked off the top five items and her insides were still roiling with anxiety. Frankly, she would have ordered the margarita, but a) she was pretty sure smuggling one into the First Houston Baptist Church would put a kibosh on the whole wedding, and b) her hands were shaking so much she was sure she would spill it. If she spilled bright green margarita down the front of the thirty-thousand-dollar gown twenty minutes before the ceremony, her mother’s head would actually explode.

A little extreme, maybe, but this was the woman who had taken a nitroglycerin pill this morning when Portia had nearly messed up her manicure.

And that smeared tip on her pinky was nothing compared to her sudden urge to bolt from the church and run down the streets of Houston ripping this white monstrosity off her body. Maybe if her body was moving, her thoughts would stop racing.

Why was her dress so tight? Why was lace so itchy? Why were hairpins so pokey? Had her makeup always felt this sticky?

More to the point, if she felt this panicky now, if she hated the dress and the hairpins and the makeup so much today, when just yesterday they’d all been fine, was it a sign that what she actually hated was the idea of getting married?

Her stomach flipped at the idea. If she didn’t do something to calm her nerves, she was going to puke.

But what could she do? Her mother paced along the back of the church’s dressing room, critically eyeing every detail of Portia’s appearance. Shelby, Portia’s maid of honor, stood behind her, doing up the last of the hundred-and-twenty-seven buttons that went up the back of her dress. Portia hated those buttons. Each seemed to cinch her in a little more tightly.

Her body-shaping torture wear constricted her ribs so much she could feel them poking into her lungs. She could barely breathe. And she couldn’t help thinking maybe that was the point. Maybe the dress had been designed to squeeze her heart right out of her body.

Just when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore, there was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” her mother barked.

The door cracked open, and Portia heard the voice of her future mother-in-law, Caro Cain. “Celeste, I don’t want to alarm you, but there seems to be a problem with the photographer.”

Portia’s mother shot her daughter a quick glare. As if this was somehow her mistake, even though she’d personally had nothing to do with the photographer. “Don’t move an inch.” She looked her up and down. “You look perfect. Just don’t mess it up.”

And with that, Celeste flounced out of the dressing room to go skewer the hapless person who had created this problem. Portia, meanwhile, sent up a silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity had arranged the snafu.

As soon as her mother left the room, she turned around and grabbed Shelby’s hands. “Can you just—?” Stop trying to strangle me with those buttons! Portia blew out a breath. Then she smiled serenely. “Could you maybe give me a moment alone?”

Shelby, who had roomed with Portia for all four years at Vassar and knew her better than anyone, frowned and asked, “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“I’ll be fine. I just want a moment to meditate.”

“No, I meant—” Shelby gave her hand a squeeze. “Yeah. I’ll go keep an eye on your mother. I’ll make sure she’d occupied for the next—” She glanced at her watch. “The wedding is in twenty minutes. I can buy you maybe ten minutes alone. That’s all.”

“Thanks!”

A moment later, Portia was finally, blessedly alone for the first time in more than nine days. It was almost as good as a margarita. But she felt like every nerve in her body was rubbing against some other nerve and that any second, they might spark and then she’d just—poof—go up in flames.

Her mother had thought the botched manicure was bad. That had nothing on spontaneous combustion.

Alone in the dressing room, she turned slowly in a circle, scanning the room for the distraction she was looking for. Not that there was much room for spinning. Now that she was standing, the acres of white silk that made up the skirt of her dress took up a lot of floor space. She could hardly move in the damn thing. Huh. Was that why her mother had insisted on such a monstrously big dress? Had she suspected that Portia might be besieged by last-minute panic and bolt? Had she wanted to guarantee that if Portia did, she’d be easy to take down?

Portia stifled a hysterical giggle at the image of her mother tackling her on the steps of the church.

Not that Portia actually wanted to bolt.

Because she didn’t.

This was just nerves. Normal nerves.

Dalton was her match in every way. They were financial and social equals. Which meant that for the first time in life she didn’t have to worry about his motives for being with her. She respected him. They got along. And best of all, he was so stable. So steady. And she needed that balance in her life.

They were equals, but opposites. And didn’t everyone always say opposites attract?