then life has been hectic, with a new writing career and a sexy husband and two small children, but she’s having a wonderful (albeit sleepless) time. She loves immersing herself in dramatic, glamorous, passionate stories. Maybe she can’t physically travel to Morocco or Spain right now, but for a few hours a day, while her children are sleeping, she can be there in her books.
Jennie loves to hear from her readers. You can visit her website at www.jennielucas.com, or drop her a note at [email protected].
To my wonderful agent, Jennifer Schober, with gratitude.
IT WAS a fairy tale come true.
Three months ago, Rose Linden had been struggling to pay her bills. Today, she no longer worked two jobs in San Francisco, scraping frozen rain off the window of the broken-down car she jump-started each night. As of an hour ago, she’d become a baroness, with the world at her manicured fingertips.
And Lars Växborg was her husband.
Rose glanced at her new husband across the enormous gilded ballroom of his castle in northern Sweden. The slender, blond baron looked sleek in his tuxedo, sipping champagne as he was deep in discussion with several young women.
She was his wife now. She should have been ecstatic. And yet, staring at Lars across the room, she suddenly found she couldn’t breathe.
“Very fancy wedding, Baroness,” her father teased, then frowned. “But why are you so skinny these days, peanut? You been sick or something?”
Her mother elbowed him in the ribs. “It’s her wedding day,” she hissed. “Rose looks beautiful!”
He looked her up and down accusingly. “She’s skin and bone!”
Her mother patted her own full cheeks. “I dieted before my wedding to you, Albert. But of course—” she sighed “—that was five children ago. For heaven’s sake, let Rose enjoy being thin, because it won’t last!”
But Rose didn’t laugh, as she normally would have while being teased by her large, loving family. Nor did she tell them that she hadn’t lost weight on purpose. She just never felt like she could relax around Lars, even though—or perhaps because—he constantly assured her she was perfect in every way.
She’d told herself it was wedding day jitters, but though she’d already spoken her vows she was still feel-ing queasier by the minute. Was it because she hadn’t eaten since yesterday? Or because the corset boning of the bodice of her wedding gown was laced too tightly, causing her breasts to spill over the top?
She should have felt like the perfect Cinderella bride, in full white skirts and with a diamond tiara sparkling above her long lace veil. But she still felt small and out-of-place in the castle. And her mother was a bloodhound where her children’s emotions were concerned. She could already see Vera starting to frown. In a minute, she’d ask questions, questions Rose couldn’t answer—not even to herself.
Trembling, Rose set down her crystal flute on the tray of a passing waiter. “I’m going out for some fresh air.”
“We’ll come with you.”
“No. Please, I just need a minute. Alone—”
Turning, she fled the ballroom. She ran through the empty hallways of the castle and out into the dark winter’s night. Once she was outside, she fell back heavily against the medieval door. It scraped against the stone before finally slamming shut with a sonorous bang that echoed into the white, ghostlike garden.
Rose closed her eyes, taking a deep breath that burned her lungs in the frozen February air.
She was married now.
She’d thought she would feel…different.
At twenty-nine, she’d long been an object of pity to her friends and siblings, all of whom were married except her youngest brother. Every time they’d said, “You’re too picky” or “Who are you waiting for, Rose—Prince Charming?” Rose had cried in private, in her lonely single apartment, but she’d still kept faith. She was determined not to settle. She would wait for true love, even if it took forever.
Then Lars had walked into the San Francisco diner where she worked the morning shift. He’d sat down at the counter and ordered coffee and the breakfast plate special.
San Francisco was a cosmopolitan, colorful city, far more populated than the tiny coastal village to the south where Rose had grown up; but even for San Francisco, a man like Lars was unusual. He was a wealthy, handsome aristocrat who’d gone to Oxford, who had his own ancestral castle in Sweden. From the moment they’d met, he’d pursued Rose with reckless abandon.
Men had pursued her before, and she’d never been interested. But Lars’s incredibly romantic, complimentary charm had swept her off her feet. A week ago, he’d proposed marriage. “Let’s elope today,” he’d begged. “I can’t wait to have you as my wife.” After she’d accepted, he’d only grudgingly agreed to wait a week, long enough for her family to be able to attend. When she’d asked for a small wedding in her hometown, he’d arranged instead for her entire family—her grandmother, parents and her five siblings and their families—to fly to northern Sweden.
They’d had a magical wedding. And tonight, they’d make love for the first time.
Was that why Rose felt this sinking feeling inside, like the cratering of her soul? She was nervous. That had to be the reason she felt so ill. She had nothing to be scared about, she told herself fiercely. Nothing.
Still, the enormity of what she’d promised—pledging her life to Lars forever—made her skin feel cold in a way that had nothing to do with the ice and frost. She’d just married the man of her dreams, so why was her body still shaking as if preparing to flee? What was wrong with her?
Pushing away from the medieval door of the castle, she crossed the bridge over the frozen moat and walked into the silent, decorative garden with its ghostly cover of snow. Her white tulle skirts trailed lightly behind her, scattering powdery flakes that sparkled like diamonds in the moonlight.
The night was dark and clear. Looking up, she nearly gasped when she saw violent streaks of pale green light suddenly whip across the sky. Northern lights. She’d never seen anything so beautiful or so strange. Their magic caught at her soul. She closed her eyes.
“Please,” she prayed softly, “let me have a happy marriage.”
But when she opened her eyes, the northern lights were gone, leaving only a dark, empty sky behind.
“So,” a deep voice said behind her, “you are the bride.”
Rose whirled to face him, her skirts sweeping the snow.
A man, dark as shadow, stood in front of three black SUVs on the edge of the graveled courtyard. His black hair and long, black coat were illuminated in the moonlight, where he stood beside a pale, solitary rowan tree that was thick with frost and half-strangled in mistletoe.
Rose trembled as if she’d seen a ghost. She whispered, “Who are you?”
