Susan Crosby - The Groom's Revenge

Susan Crosby

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Leslie, daughter of my heart, for the joy, love and

friendship you give so passionately. Kevin must have

caught the leprechaun.

Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to

Susan Crosby for her contribution to the

Fortune’s Children miniseries.

SUSAN CROSBY

believes in the value of setting goals, but also in the magic of making wishes. Ascribing to the theory that the “harder you work, the luckier you get,” she has been fortunate enough to receive Romantic Times Magazine’s Reviewers’ Choice Award for Best Silhouette Desire of the Year, as well as being a finalist for the Romance Writers of America RITA Award. Her books appear regularly on the bestseller lists.

Susan earned a B.A. in English while raising her sons, now grown. She and her husband live in the central valley of California, the land of winegrapes, asparagus and almonds. Her checkered past includes jobs as a synchronized swimming instructor, personnel interviewer at a toy factory and trucking company manager, but her current occupation as writer is her all-time favorite.

Readers are welcome to write to her at P.O. Box 1836, Lodi, CA 95241.

FORTUNE’S

Children

Meet the Fortunes—three generations of a family with a legacy of wealth, influence and power. As they gather for a host of weddings, shocking family secrets are revealed...and passionate new romances are ignited.

GRAY McGUIRE: This powerful tycoon is waging his biggest—and most scandalous—battle yet to avenge his father’s death. But will his victory cost him the only woman he’s ever loved?

MOLLIE SHAW: Mollie Shaw Fortune? Almost overnight, this sweet wedding planner is swept up into a glamorous world. But Mollie already has all she could want. Doesn’t she?

CHLOE FORTUNE: Her wedding’s just around the corner, but this debutante sure doesn’t look or act like a happy bride-to-be. Still, if there’s any man who can win the heart of even the most reluctant bride, it’s her handsome groom—Mason Chandler.

One

A leprechaun winked at Gray McGuire as he entered the quaint little Minneapolis flower shop—his second clue that this day would be different from any other.

Stopping mid-stride, he crouched in front of the foot-tall, molded-plastic creature that propped open the door of Every Bloomin’ Thing. Battery operated? he wondered.

“Top o’ the mornin’ to ye,” the creature shrieked.

Gray examined it more closely. Motion sensor?

“Top o’ the afternoon to you, Yarg!” a woman called from somewhere in the shop.

Scrutinizing the creature again, Gray waited for the elf to answer her. The whimsical notion caught him off guard, yet there was something about this place that lent itself to whimsy.

He looked around as he stood. Even with the door open, the shop smelled fragrant and exotic, a mix of oxygen-heavy scents. Moisture-laden air cooled his skin, warm from his having stood a long while in the late-July sun as he’d watched the shop.

No one had come or gone in the time he’d observed the tiny storefront tucked into the well-tended, older neighborhood. Hoping that meant Mollie Shaw, the shop owner, was alone, he’d finally crossed the street, anticipation churning inside him—his first clue that the day would be different.

Anxiety was foreign to him. He studied. He analyzed. He planned.

And he didn’t like the unfamiliar edginess now, so he took another minute to relax before he made his presence known, even though a sign on the counter invited him to ring the bell for service. A brass bell with a fairy creature perched on the tip of the handle.

“So, what do you think?”

He sought the source of the disembodied voice, wondering if the woman could see him even though he couldn’t see her. The shop seemed magical, after all

“I think it’ll make men look twice, don’t you?”

The woman was batty, Gray decided. No one answered her, and she certainly wasn’t talking to him.

“Of course I’m right,” she said.

He had to see this woman who talked to herself. Stepping silently around the counter he spied her attempting to shove an oak credenza along the floor. She seemed familiar, although she shouldn’t. He purposely hadn’t tracked down a photograph of her—which was out of character for him. Details were his life. He’d balked, however, at seeing her image ahead of time, this woman whose life he was about to change.

Who did she remind him of...?

Cinderella! Mollie Shaw—if indeed, this was she—looked like Cinderella. Her long hair was a rich coppery red instead of blond like the Disney movie character, but she wore a small, triangular scarf over it, keeping her hair out of her face Her pale green blouse and snug jeans sported streaks of dirt. He admired the picture she made from behind as she shoved again, her breath expelling with the effort.

“If Tony doesn’t get here soon, I’m going to pass out,” she muttered.

“Where do you want it?” Gray asked, coming up beside her.

Her eyes widened, eyes the color of a deep, dark forest, where mysteries beckoned. Where leprechauns might play—He dismissed the fanciful thought as he watched her reaction. She took a step back, not answering him, her lips parted. He couldn’t read her expression. Fear? He’d come upon her without warning, after all.

“You’re...you’re—” She stopped, seeming to catch her breath. “I can’t believe it.”

“I’m Gray McGuire.”

“I know. I saw you on CNN yesterday.”

His gaze strayed to a little smudge of dirt at the corner of her mouth and lingered until her words registered. She knew him? He shouldered her aside, deciding that her knowing could only help his cause. She would probably trust him sooner. “Just point out where you want this thing.”

She pointed.

He almost laughed. Then he muscled the credenza where she indicated.

“There’s more.” She gestured to a bookcase-type piece. “It goes on top. It’s a hutch If you’ll grab one side, I’ll take the...”

Her voice faded as he lifted the piece, then set it where it belonged. When he turned around he caught her sliding the scarf from her hair.

“Thanks,” she said, jamming the fabric into her back pocket. “I’m Mollie Shaw.”

She didn’t extend her hand, so he did. She hesitated, then finally rubbed her palm along her thigh before shaking his hand.

He knew she was twenty-two, which suddenly seemed decades younger than his thirty-three. He judged her height to be about eight inches shorter than his six foot one, her build as slight as the fairy on top of the bell. The bones of her hand were delicate, the flesh unpampered.

And she seemed a little starstruck, of all things, which could complicate his plans. He intended to propose a partnership with her, one completely unrelated to either her business or his. They would need a professional relationship.

She glanced over her shoulder. Tension radiated from her When she looked at him again, she smiled, but a smile mixed with—what? Embarrassment? She pulled him around the hutch and into the main section of the shop before she let go of his hand.

“You caught me redecorating,” she said. “I’ve been putting it off for months.”

Probably eight months, he thought. Since her mother died.

“Wednesdays are slow,” she hurried on. “I should’ve waited for my helper to get here. But once I got going, I didn’t want to stop.”

“What are you going to put in the hutch that will make men look twice?” he asked.