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He looked at her, and she knew. He was going to kiss her.
He tipped her head back with one finger and brought his mouth to hers. The instant their lips touched, the kiss spun into a roller coaster ride of sensation.
She’d expected his kiss to be polished and calculated, a process to get from point A to point C. There was no point A. There was only a mating of lips and air and instinct.
When it was over, she held perfectly still. Her breath seemed to have solidified in her throat. She hadn’t been kissed in a long time. And never quite like this. “I shouldn’t have come here.”
“I disagree.”
“I should go home.”
“It’s only five days, Madeline. If you leave, you’ll never know what would have happened during those five days.”
She wondered how it would feel to be so sure of something. She used to be that sure. That felt like another woman’s life.
Dear Reader,
Writing this letter to you started me thinking about letters—letters, not e-mails or text messages. Letters like those our grandmothers wrote to our grandpas, mothers to daughters, and old college roommates to each other. They were lyrical and poignant, awaited, savored and treasured.
They were gifts from one heart to another. My newest book, The Wedding Gift, has something in common with those old-fashioned letters, for this story is a gift from my heart to yours.
I’m so pleased to be writing a wedding story, for our youngest and oldest sons were married recently, nine months apart. All four of our sons are married now, and each wedding is a poignant memory and each daughter-in-law a wonderful addition to our family. The babies are arriving, too—oh my, what blessings they are! I promise I won’t bring out their pictures, but don’t be surprised when babies are featured in my upcoming books.
But first things first: I hope you enjoy, no, I hope you savor The Wedding Gift. May reading it speak to your heart the way writing it spoke to mine.
Until next time and always,
Sandra
About the Author
SANDRA STEFFEN has always been a storyteller. She began nurturing this hidden talent by concocting adventures for her brothers and sisters, even though the boys were more interested in her ability to hit a baseball over the barn—an automatic homerun. She didn’t begin her pursuit of publication until she was a young wife and mother of four sons. Since her thrilling debut as a published author in 1992, more than thirty-five of her novels have graced bookshelves across the country.
This winner of a RITA Award, a Wish Award and a National Readers’ Choice Award enjoys traveling with her husband. Usually their destinations are settings for her upcoming books. They are empty nesters these days. Who knew it could be so much fun? Please visit her at www.sandrasteffen.com.
THE WEDDING GIFT
SANDRA STEFFEN
MILLS & BOON
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For the newlyweds
Greg and Maggie
and
Mike and Amber
Acknowledgement
A special thanks to Barb DePue for sharing incredibly
detailed information and unforgettable descriptions
of her husband Bruce’s heart transplant. The Internet
is nice but there’s nothing like a long talk with
an old friend.
Chapter One
Madeline Sullivan tiptoed from her attic apartment by the light of the waning moon. She crept down two flights of stairs and across floorboards so old they normally creaked beneath the weight of dust bunnies, yet she didn’t awaken any of the inn’s guests. Her car started on the first try and she didn’t see another pair of headlights until she’d reached the first orchard west of town. From there she drove north to the river, then west and north again all the way to Lake Michigan.
The weather cooperated and the traffic was manageable. Even the faded no-trespassing sign marking the narrow lane she was searching for practically jumped out at her at first glance.
It was almost too easy.
Easy was fine. Easy was wonderful. Really.
She didn’t need the accompaniment of distant thunder or the reassurance of rainbows. What she needed was waiting at the top of a knoll near the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore.
At least she hoped it was.
Her heart did race as she turned onto the lane, but that was just her better judgment rearing its timid little head. Determinedly gripping the steering wheel with both hands, she followed the winding path to the top of the hill overlooking the enormous sand dunes for which the shore had been named. Beyond the dunes the choppy waters of Lake Michigan disappeared into a solid wall of clouds. The sky had been low and gray all week, a welcome sight in the scorching heat of summer, but on this day in early spring, the clouds were an annoying affront to the promise of fair weather.
Madeline wasn’t looking for promises. She was looking for a man named Riley Merrick.
Rolling to a stop where dune grass still brittle from the harsh winter concealed most of her car, she settled back to wait. If her sources were accurate, Merrick was the architect overseeing the construction of an extravagant vacation home
