I,’ she agreed.
And love, like a swelling tide, swept through her.
With eyes only for her, his beloved, Athan lifted Marisa’s hands to his mouth, kissing them one after another, holding them close against his heart.
‘Nor I,’ he said.
For an endless, timeless moment their eyes poured into each other’s. Then a soft pop drew their attention back to their surroundings.
‘Time for champagne,’ said Ian.
Eva was there in an instant, holding out glasses to be filled with the gently fizzing liquid. When all the glasses were charged, Ian lifted his first, to give the toast.
‘To Athan and Marisa,’ he said. ‘And the triumph of true love.’
It was a toast that no one there objected to.
“You’re scared.”
“I am not scared! What’s there to be scared of?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.” He cocked his head.
“Temptation, maybe?”
She shook her head adamantly. “I’m not tempted. I’m busy. I haven’t seen you in five years, Alex. I barely knew you. We don’t have a past to catch up on. Goodbye, Alex.” She turned away and started to go back inside.
But before she could Alex caught her arm and spun her slowly back—then did what he’d been wanting to do ever since he’d realized who she was.
He dipped his head and kissed her.
It was instinct, desire, a mad impetuous hunger that he couldn’t seem to control. It was a roaring in his ears and a fire in his veins. It was the taste of Daisy—a taste he’d never forgotten. Never. And as soon as he tasted her he wanted more.
And more.
For a second, maybe two, Daisy seemed to melt under the touch of his lips. She went soft and pliable, shaping her mouth to his. And then, in another instant, it was over.
She jerked away from him, stared at him for one horrified moment. Then she pulled out of his grasp and bolted back inside the foyer.
“Daisy!”
The door slammed in his face.
Award-winning author ANNE MCALLISTER was once given a blueprint for happiness that included a nice, literate husband, a ramshackle Victorian house, a horde of mischievous children, a bunch of big, friendly dogs, and a life spent writing stories about tall, dark and handsome heroes. ‘Where do I sign up?’ she asked, and promptly did. Lots of years later, she’s happy to report the blueprint was a success. She’s always happy to share the latest news with readers at her website, www.annemcallister.com, and welcomes their letters there, or at PO Box 3904, Bozeman, Montana 59772, USA (SASE appreciated).
For Nancy
ALEXANDROS Antonides studied the crumpled receipt, the one with the hastily scrawled name, address and phone number on the back, and was tempted to stuff it right back in his pocket.
Or better yet, throw it out.
He didn’t need a matchmaker, for God’s sake!
His fingers crushed the already frequently crumpled piece of paper and he stared out the window of the taxi as it headed north on Eighth Avenue. They weren’t out of midtown Manhattan yet. It was nearly five-thirty. He should just tell the driver to forget it.
But he didn’t. Instead he made himself lean back against the seat and, just as he had done a dozen or more times before, he smoothed out the paper against his palm.
Daisy Connolly. His cousin Lukas had scribbled down her name and address a month ago when he and Lukas had met up at the family reunion out at Lukas’s parents’ place in the Hamptons. “She’ll find you the perfect wife.”
“How do you know?” he’d asked Lukas, letting his voice carry his obvious doubt. He’d looked around pointedly, noting Lukas’s complete lack of not only a wife, but even a date for their family reunion.
“Seen her do it,” Lukas said frankly. “I went to college with her. She did it then. She does it now. She has some uncanny sense of who belongs together.” He shrugged. “Who knows how she does it? Hocus-pocus? Tea leaves? Beats me. Give her a call or go see her.”
Alex had grunted, not a sound meant to convey agreement.
“Unless you really don’t want to get married.” Lukas had cocked his head, considering Alex. Then, “Maybe he’s chicken,” he had said to his brothers.
One of them had made a clucking sound.
Alex had masked his irritation and rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he’d said curtly. “If I get desperate enough, I’ll look her up.”
“I’d say you’re already desperate,” Lukas had said, grinning. “How many fiancées have you gone through?”
“Two,” Alex said through his teeth. “But Imogene doesn’t count.”
Imogene had been perfect. She hadn’t loved Alex any more than he’d loved her. When her long-time boyfriend had got cold feet faced with a lifetime commitment, Alex had grabbed her on the rebound. Unfortunately two days after she’d said yes to Alex, the love of her life had come to his senses and begged her to marry him.
“What can I do?” she’d wailed at Alex. “I still love him!”
The more fool she, Alex had thought. But he’d been polite and wished her good luck. He still did. If she was that besotted, she’d need it.
“I don’t know,” Lukas had said slowly, studying him. “Two fiancées in a little over a year …” He’d arched his brows in speculation, then looked over at his brothers. “Sounds pretty desperate to me.”
His brothers, Elias and PJ, had nodded sagely.
Alex had merely snorted. He didn’t want a perfect wife, anyway. He just wanted a suitable one. He was thirty-five years old. Time to get married.
Of course lots of men would disagree. But not Antonides men. Antonides men married. All of them.
Not
