Anne McAllister - The Night that Changed Everything

“Dance with me.”

It was pure charm—the rough baritone voice, the slightly lopsided smile, the touch of that single finger against her lips. And its simplicity caught her off guard. So did the unexpected stab of desire she felt to do exactly that.

Disconcerted, Edie shook her head. “No,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Why not?” His fingers lightly pressed her wrist. His eyes wouldn’t let hers go.

“You’re not supposed to ask ‘why not,’” she said. “It’s bad manners.”

A corner of his mouth quirked. “I thought it was bad manners for you to say no.”

She felt like a gauche teenager, her cheeks burning. But she managed a little shake of her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“Can’t?” He cocked his head. “Or won’t?”

Award-winning author ANNE MCALLISTERwas 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).

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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 I’m not crashing a royal wedding.”

Mona’s gaze met hers in the mirror. “Nonsense. You’re not crashing. You’re my guest.”

“Oliver is your guest.”

Sir Oliver Choate, English actor and Mona’s most recent costar, had flown in from Spain yesterday afternoon expressly to escort Mona to the wedding.

“Besides Oliver,” Mona said impatiently. “You need to be there. And you might meet someone …” Her voice trailed off, but she looked at Edie hopefully.

Edie’s teeth set. Exactly what she’d been afraid of. Mona—matchmaking. She gave a long-suffering sigh of her own. “I’m not interested in meeting anyone, Mother.”

“Don’t call me Mother in public,” Mora admonished. “You’re nearly thirty, for goodness’ sake!”

Edie laughed and shook her head, then gave an extra tug to the laces, making her mother suck in a sharp breath. “We’re not in public, and I don’t think they have the bedrooms bugged. Besides, you don’t get parts for ingenues anymore. People know how old you are.”

Mona sighed, then stood up a bit straighter. “I try not to think about it. Anyway—” she shoved a hand into her artfully windblown auburn hair “—you must come—even if you don’t meet a soul,” she added piously. Then she spoiled it by saying, “But honestly, Edie, you need to get back on the horse.”

Start dating again, she meant. Get a life again. Get over Ben.

But Edie didn’t want to get over him. Why should she? Her husband, Ben, had been the best thing that had ever happened to her. And yes, he had been dead two and half years. But so what?

“I did,” Mona pointed out, not for the first time.

“And how did that work out for you?” Edie said dryly.

Edie’s father, Joe, had been killed in a horse riding accident when Edie was five. He’d been the love of Mona’s life, and she’d spent the next twenty years trying to replace him with a succession of men who’d become Edie’s stepfathers.

“I have wonderful children,” Mona said, defiantly meeting her daughter’s eyes in the mirror.

That was certainly true. Edie couldn’t complain about her younger brothers and sisters. In fact Rhiannon, Grace, Ruud and Dirk were the best part of her life, the family that had become for her the one she and Ben had never had.

“You do,” Edie agreed solemnly. She might not have shared her mother’s determination where men were concerned, but she loved her siblings dearly.

“And one of them needs you,” Mona had said, playing the trump card. “Tonight. Lord knows what will happen if Very Nice Andrew breaks off the engagement.”

“Do you think he might?” Edie thought Andrew was besotted with her sister, but she supposed even he could be pushed too far.

Andrew Chalmers was twenty-three, a three-event Olympic swimming medalist, cute as a button and an all-around nice guy, to boot. He had been head over heels in love with Rhiannon since they were in high school together, poor fool.

Though, to be fair, when she wasn’t flirting outrageously with everything in trousers just because she could, Ree genuinely seemed to be in love with Andrew, too. He steadied her, brought out the caring, sweet side of her. And both Mona and Edie were delighted.

A month ago, Andrew had asked her to marry him. Instantly Rhiannon had said yes. They were getting married next summer.

Rhiannon was happily planning their wedding. Or had been—until yesterday’s quarrel.

It hadn’t been subtle. Right there in the middle of one of the Mont Chamion’s most elegant royal reception rooms in front of the king and most of the royal family, Rhiannon had pitched a fit when Andrew had said he was leaving to go to a swimming competition in Vancouver.

“But what about me?” Rhiannon had wailed. “You’re taking me to the wedding!”

“I’m not, actually,” Andrew had said in calm, reasonable tones. “And you knew that, Ree. I said so last week when you wanted me to come over. I said I could come but I had to leave on Friday.”

“But I want you to be with me!”