Midnight Wedding. Sophie Weston

had depended on her getting it right.

      Yet she had looked at Jack Armour and got him one hundred and eighty degrees wrong. She had seen all that overwhelming male confidence and dubbed him Gorgeous Jack. Oh, she was right about the confidence—those slanted, unreadable eyes; the arrogant handsome features; the air of contained power…

      Sexy as hell, thought Holly dispassionately. She could manage dispassion now that he was at the bar with his back to her, talking hard into a telephone. Sexy as hell, but much, much more than that. He had known she was not telling him the whole truth. Most people did not. And no one, in her experience, had tried to make her spread out her secrets on a platter for inspection.

      She had only just held out, too. In his own way Jack Armour was as determined as Brendan. In fact, he was almost as bad as Homer.

      Holly caught herself. She gave a little superstitious shiver. No one was as bad as Homer, she reminded herself soberly. No one. That was why she had run in the first place. And why she was going to keep on running until she was twenty-five and none of Brendan’s clever lawyers could find a way to pull her back.

      Hang on to that, she told herself. Two and a half more years to freedom. You’ve come this far. You can do the rest.