Kelsey Roberts - Unlawfully Wedded

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my stepdaughter, Bonnie, who has achieved personal and financial independence;

for my stepson, Eric, who is quite adept at selling his plasma when times get tough;

and for my son, Kyle, who will continue to be on the dole for the foreseeable future.

I would gratefully like to acknowledge the assistance of Pat Harding, Kay Manning and Carol Keane of Charleston, South Carolina: my crack research team.

Tory Conway—She’s forced to confront a mysterious past and an uncertain future.

J. D. Porter—He’s a reluctant bridegroom with a few too many secrets.

Rose Porter—She finally gains a daughter-in-law, but for how long.

Wesley Porter—He’s sticking around to see the fireworks.

Shelby Tanner—Co-owner of the Rose Tattoo; about to give birth.

Dylan Tanner—His sleuthing skills are always appreciated.

Chad Tanner—Mischievous, but cute.

Cliff Griffen (“Griff”)—A dear old friend of Tory’s…or so he thought.

Calvin Matthews—He’s made a success of his own restaurant over the years. Is he really just a friendly competitor?

Gloria Burrows—Did she move to Vegas for a fresh start, or was she running from the memories of a stale murder?

Evan Richards—Is he an accountant or an accomplished liar?

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

Chapter Eighteen

J. D. Porter. She knew the initials stood for “Jackass Deluxe,” and he was sitting at a table in her station!

A frown curved the corners of her mouth as she donned an air of false confidence. Brushing a few strands of hair away from her eyes, Tory Conway pushed through the hinged kitchen doors of the Rose Tattoo, a tray clamped tightly to her chest.

With practiced aloofness, she held her breath as she marched past where he sat hunched over a mound of paperwork. The pleasant smell of his decidedly masculine cologne chased her behind the bar, threatening her resolve.

After placing the tray on the polished wooden surface of the horseshoe-shaped bar, Tory bent down and began collecting the salt and pepper shakers.

Her motion was halted in midstream when she felt long, tapered fingers close around her wrist. She rose slowly, trying not to devote too much thought to the devastating feel of his touch.

Their eyes collided—hers wide from the shock, his a deep, penetrating gray, the same shade as a South Carolina summer sky before a violent storm. She swallowed against the irrational belief that those eyes could see through her clothing. His lopsided, sexy display of even white teeth hovered somewhere very near a leer.

“Good morning, Miss Conway.”

Not from where I’m standing, she thought. She didn’t speak immediately, mostly because she had a sinking feeling that her words might come out in a squeaky, helium-high voice.

“No greeting?” he taunted, one dark eyebrow arched questioningly. “You wound me.”

“No,” she returned with a sweet smile. “But I’d be happy to, as soon as I’ve finished my setup.”

“Ouch,” he returned easily, placing his free hand over his heart.

Or, she thought, where his heart would be if he actually had one.

Annoyance crept up her spine when he refused her subtle request to be released when she gave his hand a small tug. “I have work to do,” she insisted through tight lips.

“So do I,” he said in a frustratingly calm voice that was just too smooth, too velvety to have emanated from such a massive man.

“Then why don’t you do it?”

The smile widened, accentuating the chiseled perfection of his angled features. “Would you like to do it? I’m game if you are.”

Tory groaned and sucked in a breath in exasperation. The man was infuriating. “Not in your lifetime, Sparky.”

The sound of his laugh was deep, rich. It caressed her ears and made her skin tingle. “Haven’t you heard of sexual harassment?” she managed to say between her clenched teeth.

“Doesn’t apply,” he returned easily. “You don’t work for me.”

“Thank God and anyone else responsible,” she grumbled. His hold on her wrist was getting on her nerves. She didn’t like being touched, especially by the visiting Neanderthal.

“You aren’t very friendly for a waitress, Miss Conway.”

“Depends on the customer,” she retorted.

“No wonder you can’t live off what you earn in tips.”

She bristled and might have stiffened her spine had it not been for the unfortunate fact that she had not yet fastened the top button of her uniform. The last thing she wanted, or needed, was to give Mr. Deluxe an eyeful of cleavage. Especially since he’d no doubt take it as a come-on.

“I live just fine,” she promised him. “And thanks for asking. Your concern is touching.”

“I’m not concerned, but I’d be happy to touch.” The last half of his statement was delivered in a low, sensual pitch that made her want to scream.

“Come on, J.D.,” she pleaded after a brief pause. “Can the double entendre and let me get ready for the lunch crowd.”

His eyes dropped to where his dark fingers encircled her small wrist. She followed his lead. His tanned, weathered complexion was a stark contrast to her pale skin. The grip loosened until all she was aware of was the feather-light stroke of his fingertip as it traced the pattern of small bones in her hand.

Tory snatched her hand away, feeling her face flush as the sound of his chuckle reached her ears. The man was maddening, she thought, fuming as she slammed various containers on the top of the bar. He was egotistical. He had enough arrogance for ten men, and he was the most attractive man she’d seen in all her twenty-five years.

My hormones are probably suffering from some sort of deprivation reaction, she reasoned as she arranged the half-empty jars and bottles on her tray.

Trying to ignore J.D.’s presence as she worked was like trying to ignore a rocket launch. Her peripheral vision was filled with images of his broad shoulders and that unruly mass of jet black hair he kept raking his fingers through as he quietly studied the piles of documents spread before him on the table. The worn fabric of his denim shirt clung to the definition of well-muscled arms. One booted toe kept time to the Elvis tune playing on the jukebox.

She didn’t like him—hadn’t from that very first day. J.D. was one of those stuck-up, abrupt sorts. His expression was always cool, aloof, giving her the impression that he somehow felt he was superior to the whole world. She guessed his attitude might have something to do with the truckloads of money he earned as one of Florida’s premier architects. Or, she thought glibly, it could just be the result of his being one of the most gorgeous men on the face of the earth.

“Tory!”

She turned in the direction of the familiar female voice, her eyes homing in on her boss’s harsh features. Rose Porter leaned against the kitchen door, her heavily jeweled hand patting the stiff mass of blond hair lacquered against her head.

“Yes?”

“There’s a guy here for you.”