CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
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.
For Peter, always.
And this time, especially, for Steve,
with thanks for the road trip and the memories.
HE WAS Trouble. With a capital T.
From the look of him, Edie thought as she watched Mr. Tall, Dark and Drop-Dead Gorgeous flash his brilliant smile at her starlet sister, Rhiannon, the whole word should be capitalized.
TROUBLE.
The precise sort of trouble she knew it was her job to prevent.
So Edie hovered beside a pillar in the Mont Chamion state ballroom assessing the situation as the wedding reception of her royal highness Princess Adriana and her handsome groom, well-known actor-director Demetrios Savas went on around her.
The orchestra was playing and couples all around her were dancing. It would have been better—safer—if Rhiannon had been dancing, too. Instead she was standing still, her body nearly pressed into that of the man she was talking to.
Was it too much to hope that Mr. Trouble would simply smile at her simpering, eyelash batting sister, set her aside and move away into the throng? He was clearly out of Rhiannon’s league. Her sister might be beautiful and flirtatious, but this man looked to be in his mid-thirties, worldly, sophisticated and clearly had far too much of the “male animal” for Rhiannon who was barely twenty.
And not a very mature twenty, at that.
Edie watched as her sister put her hand on his arm and stood staring up at him with rapt fascination. Edie recognized the look. It could mean she was actually interested in what he was saying to her. Or it could mean that Ree was doing what she did best—acting. In either case, unless Edie intervened it would cause no end of trouble.
Edie willed Mr. Trouble to turn away, to find another admirer. Dancing couples obscured her view for a moment. But when she caught sight of them again, she could see he hadn’t moved an inch. His expression was bemused as he smiled down at her sister. It gave him an enticing groove in one cheek. Rhiannon reached up a finger and stroked it.
Edie stifled a groan.
An elbow suddenly collided with her back. She turned, expecting an apology. Instead she found her mother glaring at her.
“Do something!” Mona Tremayne hissed. She gave Edie a speaking look, then smoothly turned back to Danish producer, Rollo Mikkelsen, slid her arm through his and blinded him with one of her patent Mona Tremayne Sex Goddess For The Ages smiles.
All Edie could think was, “Thank God Rhiannon hadn’t perfected that bit of their mother’s repertoire yet.” But she seemed to be doing well enough on her own. Behind her as the music ended Edie detected what she thought was her sister’s lilting giggle. It was joined by a deep baritone laugh.
Mona obviously heard it, too. She turned back from Rollo Mikkelsen and glowered, first at Edie, then over Edie’s shoulder to where Rhiannon was about to make a big mistake.
So there was no help for it. Edie set her teeth grimly and turned away from her mother, knowing her duty. “Right. On my way.”
As her mother’s and sister’s business manager, Edie’s job was to keep their careers on track. She dealt with the finances, the business appointments, the offers, the contracts and the myriad demands that the world made on one of America’s leading screen actresses and her up-and-coming starlet daughter.
All that was a piece of cake.
It was the hands-on meddling that Edie hated. She didn’t have to do it for her mother. Over the years Mona had certainly learned to take care of herself. And if she made mistakes, she had the clout to make them go away.
Rhiannon was another story.
Rhiannon was young and vulnerable, emotional and flighty. She was also genuinely kind and loving. It was a scary combination. Making sure Rhiannon had lots of projects to keep her focused was the best way to be sure she didn’t sabotage herself, her life or her career.
Ordinarily Edie could manage that by keeping her sister’s calendar booked, and she never had to leave California to do it.
But Mona had rung two days ago from Mont Chamion and said, “Pack your bags.”
When her mother spoke in that brisk no-nonsense tone, Edie knew not to argue. Where Rhiannon was concerned, Mona’s instincts were almost always spot on. If she foresaw trouble, it was better to tackle it head-on than to hope it might not happen. So Edie had dutifully flown halfway around the world ready to put out whatever potential fire might erupt.
But she hadn’t expected to attend the wedding.
“Why ever not?” Mona had demanded. “Of course you’re coming to the wedding. And the reception,” she’d added firmly. “God only knows what mischief Rhiannon can get up to there—especially now that Very Nice Andrew is gone.”
Very Nice Andrew—long-suffering Andrew was how Edie thought of him—was Rhiannon’s fiancé. Her first love, he was absolutely right for Rhiannon, and they both seemed to know it—most of the time. When he and Rhiannon were together and blissful, Edie’s life was relatively blissful, too.
But a lovers’ quarrel had sent Andrew stalking out yesterday. And Mona was right, disaster could easily ensue if Rhiannon was left feeling unappreciated and unloved.
But still Edie had protested that she wasn’t attending the wedding.
“Of course you are,” Mona had said firmly that afternoon as she’d slipped into the gown she was wearing for the wedding and motioned for Edie to lace the back panel. It was a simple sheath, royal blue, setting off Mona’s amazing eyes, with an open V at the back which, as Edie laced it, offered a glimpse of Mona’s still-creamy flesh. It was quietly sexy and titillating, showing just enough to remind the world that, at fifty, Mona Tremayne was still a very appealing woman.
“I’m not invited.” Edie pulled the laces together. “And
