Praise for Myrna Mackenzie:
**** “A fun read with intriguing, emotionally
compelling characters.”
—RT Book Reviews on Riches to Rags Bride
“Myrna Mackenzie writes such fine novels, everyone
should add her to their must buy list.” —Cataromance
They had barely arrived at what appeared to be a postage stamp size courtyard of grass behind the twin white buildings when the bride and groom appeared.
“Congratulations!” the pretty woman in pink called, opening her little white container of bubbles and blowing, her lips pursed in a way that some men might have called sexy. Parker wasn’t calling it anything. This woman was messing up his carefully planned day and his escape from all things wedding-related.
She gave Parker a stern look, which only made him more aware of those amazing and seriously sexy eyes of hers. That was wrong. He wasn’t in the market for a woman of any kind, especially not a petite pirate who had boarded and was taking over his …
Wedding chapel, he thought, then quickly changed it to building. Darn it all, given the situation with his business and the board, the very last thing he needed in his life was a wedding chapel. Or interlopers. Pretty trespassers with full berry lips. And bubbles.
About the Author
MYRNA MACKENZIE grew up not having a clue what she wanted to be—she hadn’t been born a princess, the one job she thought she might like because of the steady flow of pretty dresses and crowns—but she knew that she loved stories and happy endings, so falling into life as a romance writer was pretty much inevitable. An award-winning author, with over thirty-five novels written, Myrna was born in a small town in Dunklin County, Missouri, grew up just outside Chicago, and now divides her time between two lakes in Chicago and Wisconsin, both very different and both very beautiful. She adores the internet (which still seems magical after all these years), loves coffee, hiking, attempting gardening (without much success), cooking and knitting.
Readers (and other potential gardeners, cooks, knitters, writers, etc.) can visit Myrna online at www.myrnamackenzie.com, or write to her at PO Box 225, La Grange, IL 60525, USA.
Inherited:
Expectant Cinderella
Myrna Mackenzie
CHAPTER ONE
“THIS wasn’t exactly what I was thinking of when I decided I needed some time away from Boston,” Parker Sutcliffe muttered to himself as he climbed from his black Rolls Phantom. He had stopped in front of a large old white frame building in a low-rent part of Las Vegas where there were no casinos or tourist attractions. The words “Forever and a Day Wedding Chapel” marched across the building in lurid pink neon. The building next door lacked signage but was otherwise a twin and appeared to be connected. He noted that there was no number on the door.
No matter, he thought. This is the place. These structures had belonged to a relative he’d never even heard of, but he’d been given the keys and told that he could take possession of the two empty buildings. The whole situation had been a surprise, and he disliked surprises, but the timing was right. This past year, after all that had happened …
He shied away from the thought, concentrating only on Sutcliffe’s. The business had been his lifeline for as long as he could remember. It was failing now, and he wasn’t going to let it slip away. So maybe what he needed was this. Coming here to claim his inheritance gave him a chance to get away, think, work and come up with an idea that would save Sutcliffe’s. Plus, it was an excuse to escape the incessant suggestions by his board that he should marry to create some badly needed positive buzz about the company and himself now that his father had passed on.
Their insinuations that he wasn’t a dynamic substitute as the company representative, but that he could be its savior if he’d only listen, had been a source of tension. This trip offered a viable excuse for his absence while he grasped the opportunity to brainstorm away from the fray. He desperately needed some quiet alone time.
But when he turned the handle of the abandoned chapel, it wasn’t locked. And when he entered, he discovered that the building wasn’t abandoned, either. Or quiet.
Immediately, a wall of off-key sound hit him. He was standing at the back of the chapel, and a wedding was taking place. In the front, on a cramped raised stage, an Elvis impersonator who looked as if he’d been in the business a decade too long was belting out the ending to “It’s Now or Never.” A bride and groom, who clearly weren’t hearing the music, were smiling.
For half a second, Parker wondered if he had walked into a reality show. Or maybe someone was playing a joke on him. But if his associates in Boston hoped to talk him into a wedding by throwing him into the midst of one, they had obviously chosen the wrong wedding.
That was all he had time to think. As the last of the lyrics died away, a blur of pink came rushing at him from the side aisle.
“I’m so sorry. You missed most of it.” Parker looked down at a tiny woman with long copper curls and a hideous bright pink dress. She glanced at his dark suit. “You must be a friend or relative of the bride or groom, but don’t worry. They’re usually so excited that they won’t notice a late guest. Unless you’re family. Are you family?”
“Not at all. I—”
“That’s okay, then. Here they come. Take this.” She shoved something into his hand. “The reception is right down that hall and out the door.”
Parker frowned. “Reception? You’re mistaken. I’m not—”
“Quickly,” she said. “They’re coming, and with these smaller weddings, we need as much of a cheering section as we can get.” Grabbing him by the hand, she tugged, trying to steer him toward the door.
He resisted. “Look, Ms…. I don’t know who you are, but we need to talk.”
“Mr…. I don’t know who you are, either, but this is a wedding. They paid. This is the most important day of their lives, and talking can come later.” She turned to go, then whirled back, a sudden look of fear in her big brown eyes. “You’re not a bill collector, are you?”
Parker scowled. “No, but—”
“The police?”
“Do I really look like a police officer?”
She glanced at his suit. “Right. Not unless officers are wearing Armani these days. Okay, let’s go, then. Talk later. Bring your bubbles.”
“Bubbles?” he said half to himself, but the wedding party was closing in behind him, so he strode after the pretty, if bossy and insane, redhead.
They had barely arrived at what appeared to be a postage-stamp-sized
