made, shoulder to shoulder, family resemblance evident though three distinct personalities were also visible—elegant Tate, tough Mike, witty Shea.
“Tough Mike” who’d helped her move, found her first two clients and bought her a bed.
Veronica returned the smiles of the small group of wedding guests as she continued walking toward the altar, wondering if they could detect her scattered thoughts.
Mike was watching her, a frown line on his forehead that made him look as if he regretted everything he’d done for her.
She didn’t care. There’d been a time in her life when kindnesses had been few and far between, and she’d learned to be grateful for any she received.
She’d also learned to return them.
If anyone deserved kindness, it was a man trapped in a cage of self-imposed guilt and painful memories.
Veronica smiled to herself as she realized that her previous career as a soul-saver made it impossible for her to do what others would probably do in these circumstances—let him work out his problems by himself and keep an understanding distance.
But she couldn’t believe that a man who bemoaned her presence, yet continued to do things for her, didn’t want, deep down, to be her friend.
As she reached the minister, she couldn’t help giving Mike a meaningful glance before turning to take her place beside Megan.
MIKE STOOD BESIDE Tate as he repeated his vows, then handed him the ring that would seal this ancient ritual. This time, he wanted Tate to get back from the marriage all he gave. He’d always thought his brother remarkable in that respect. Even personally beset with problems, Tate could find something to give to someone who needed him.
Mike had seen that firsthand when he’d been placed on leave after the fatal hostage incident. He hadn’t know it then, but when Tate had flown to Dallas to spend time with Mike, his marriage had already ended.
They hadn’t done much—sat around, drank coffee, talked about other things. Then Mike had fallen asleep on the sofa one afternoon, and dreamed the entire incident in detail, except that in his dream he’d been in the room with the victims when it all went bad, instead of outside watching. He’d awakened screaming—and Tate had been there to wrap a blanket around him and hold him while he wept with impotent rage.
That debt was hard to pay back. The small financial stake he’d been able to contribute to the winery hadn’t meant much in view of what Tate had given. For now, the best Mike could do was see to it that everything went smoothly while Tate was honeymooning with Colette and the girls.
Mike was beginning to wonder if he was going to have to send Veronica Callahan away, too, so that he’d be able to concentrate. He’d thought about her half the night, and now he was going to have to live with the image of her floating up the aisle in that sunbeam of a dress.
He’d always thought he preferred women like Lita—curvy women with flowing hair. But this slender little reed with hair not much longer than his was beginning to haunt his thoughts.
He knew what the problem was: he’d been too long without a woman. He looked around surreptitiously as the ceremony continued, half expecting to be struck by ecclesiastical lightning. Thoughts of sex were probably not appropriate for church. Particularly when those thoughts involved an ex-nun.
It didn’t help that when they paired up to leave the church, Veronica gave him a sweet smile and squeezed his arm.
She stood on tiptoe as they reached the vestibule door and whispered in his ear, “Thank you.”
He gave her his best What-are-you-talking-about? expression. It had worked during hostage situations when he’d been accused of slowing proceedings to allow other cops to get in position, and on convicted felons who’d tried to tell him someone else had promised them a deal.
But it didn’t work on Veronica. “You gave me a bed,” she said as they took their places beside Tate and Colette in a line on the church porch.
“Maybe Colette—”
“No. I asked her. You gave me the bed. And you have to let me thank you properly.”
Her dark eyes were so frank that it seemed futile to pretend. “Okay. But stop saying that.” He’d begun to regret having given her such a gift, concerned about how it might look to someone else, or how she might misunderstand his intentions. He—a single man—had given her-an ex-nun-a bed.
Though he did think about her a lot, sex had been far from his mind when he’d walked into the furniture store.
He couldn’t imagine her doing all the work required to get the day care center ready, then getting into a sleeping bag set on a wooden floor-or in a bathtub. He’d seen her possessions. He knew how little she had. He’d had to do something.
She rolled her eyes, apparently never giving a second thought to his intentions.
“Don’t pretend you had evil motives,” she scoffed lightly, smiling and shaking hands with the owners of another local winery as they offered cheerful greetings. “You were probably the kind of cop who gave homeless people shoes, and lost children ice cream.”
He frowned at her. Every cop spent time developing a stern, hard attitude. It irritated him that she could peel it away with a few words.
“Tate thinks we should furnish your apartment as we get things for other parts of the compound. That’s all that was.”
He was grateful to see Felicia Ferryman approaching—probably the first time he’d felt that way since he’d met her. French River’s mayor wore a short, silky dress in a pale shade of lavender that accentuated her delicate features. Her blond hair had been swept up under a broad-brimmed hat that matched the dress.
Mike watched Veronica offer her hand with a warm smile. Felicia took it, her smile more predatory than friendly. When he and his brothers had first moved to the winery, Felicia had set her cap for Tate. When Tate had proposed to Colette, Mike became the object of Felicia’s machinations. He usually dodged her whenever possible. But now he was happy to have an excuse to stop talking about the bed.
“And who are you?” Felicia asked Veronica, shaking her hand. She’d come with Henry Warren, a city councilman who owned a sporting goods store.
“I’m Veronica Callahan,” replied Veronica, innocent and unsuspecting. “I’ve just arrived at the winery.”
Felicia looked her up and down and reacted as she usually did to competition. She stiffened visibly. “Really. In what capacity?”
Mike saw an easy and instant solution to the problem of Felicia. He didn’t stop to think about it twice. “She’s the love of my life,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulders and leaning closer. “Veronica, this is Felicia Ferryman, our mayor.”
Veronica gazed at him for several seconds, clearly trying to figure out what he was doing. He waited for her to denounce him as a liar.
She turned to Felicia instead. “Hello,” she said mercifully. “It’s, uh, so nice to meet you.”
Felicia intently scanned Mike’s face, then Veronica’s. “You hardly ever leave the winery,” she challenged suspiciously. “Where on earth did you meet?”
“We—met before he came here,” Veronica said, turning to him for corroboration, a flicker of panic in her dark eyes. “I’m from...Los Angeles and... around there.” Her voice fell a little as she named the city, as though afraid it wouldn’t work into whatever Felicia already knew about him.
Felicia pounced. “I thought you came here from Dallas.”
Mike nodded. “I did. We met when she was visiting a friend.” That, at least, was true. She’d been in the B-and-B to have tea with Colette. If Felicia presumed that friend had been in Dallas, that wasn’t his fault....
Felicia