If Wishes Were...Weddings, page 1
“Marriage is more than just signing a contract.
Letter to Reader
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
Copyright
“Marriage is more than just signing a contract.
“I mean, there are some things that just aren’t... well, negotiable.”
“Really?” Ethan smiled. “Like what?”
“Well...toothpaste.” Libby’s parents were always arguing about that. “What if you like minty-fresh gel and I...I mean, your spouse, likes original flavor?”
“Two tubes.” Ethan shrugged, and Libby wondered why her parents hadn’t thought of that.
“There are, uh, other shared elements, you know.” She blushed. “Like, well, married people generally share a...bed.”
“We’ll get a king-size if you like lots of room, a queen if you like to snuggle.”
“I wasn’t talking about the bed itself.” She felt heat flood over her body as Ethan moved closer. “I was talking about...well, other things...other than snuggling. Or sleeping.”
“Oh...” He raised his eyebrows. His voice dropped to a hushed, seductive whisper. “You meant...sex.” His hands moved to her shoulders, caressing her. Libby trembled, and her eyes drifted shut as he lowered his head.
“I don’t think that’s negotiable,” he whispered.
“We should definitely find out now if we’re compatible....” And his lips met hers.
Dear Reader,
I don’t know about you, but my family and I can’t pass by a fountain without throwing a coin in and making a wish.
Gina, Libby and Jessie are just like me. When they find themselves at the world-famous Trevi Fountain, they send out their wishes for happiness on those gilt-edged coins they toss. But sometimes, no matter what we say we want, our hearts know what we truly need....
So it is for Libby here in Karen Toller Whittenburg’s If Wishes Were...Weddings and for Jessie in
Jo Leigh’s If Wishes Were...Daddies (November), and how it was for Gina in last month’s If Wishes Were...Husbands by Debbi Rawlins.
I’m happy to say that some of my wishes have come true.... Let’s see how it works out for Gina, Libby and Jessie in THREE COINS IN A FOUNTAIN. Happy reading!
Debra Matteucci
Senior Editor & Editorial Coordinator
Harlequin Books
300 East 42nd Street
New York, NY 10017
If Wishes Were... WEDDINGS
KAREN TOLLER WHITTENBURG
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
Chapter One
Libby had never been in a man’s bedroom before.
Except for her brothers’ rooms. And her cousins’. And that one time at Billy John Burgess’s house when he’d lured her into his bedroom and she’d had to kick him in both shins before he’d let her out. But this was different. There was romantic music playing. There was subdued lighting. Most important, there was a man in this bedroom... and he wasn’t wearing any clothes. Well, at least the upper half of him wasn’t wearing any, and Libby had a pretty strong suspicion that the part of him still under the covers wasn’t, either. And she’d certainly never been in a naked man’s bedroom before.
Of course, until yesterday, she’d never even been out of Texas.
“Libby?” He said her name with the same sultry Italian accent she’d found so mysterious and romantic back at the Austin airport, when he’d shown her preschool class their way around a jumbo jet. But here, in the Italian villa he’d described so vividly to her, she thought his accent sounded simply foreign. “Libby,” he repeated, and rubbed his eyes, trying, she supposed, to wipe away the stunned dismay that was written all over his face. “Libby? What are you...?”
“Happy birthday,” she offered, hope fading that he was going to remember he’d even told her today was his birthday, much less invited her to help him celebrate. “Do you want me to sing the birthday song to, uh, sort of wake you up?”
“No,” he said decisively. “No, thank you. I’m awake. How did you...get here?”
“Airplane,” she said briskly, wondering if she’d have come this far to see him if she’d known he had hair on his chest. She knew, of course, that men generally did have chest hair. But Nick had more than she was used to seeing, certainly more than her primarily bare-chested brothers. Not that she really minded, of course. It just sort of took her by surprise to see him without his clothes, that was all. She offered a brave little smile...and stayed close to the door as her voice rambled around in the red-faced silence. “My first experience with air travel. Maybe my last. Except, well, I’ll have to fly home, of course, after the birthday party.”
This was embarrassing, she thought. Here she was, half a world away from home, face-to-face with the man she intended to marry. Well, at least, she’d intended to marry him until about two minutes ago when she’d caught her first glimpse of his chest hair. “You know, it looks like you’re pretty sleepy, so I’ll just get on out of here and let you get your beauty rest.”
“I’m not so sleepy.” He rubbed his eyes again, hard, as if hoping he could erase her from his line of vision. “What are you doing here, Libby?”
Now, there was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, as Grampa George would say. Yesterday, when she’d boarded the transatlantic flight, she’d had the answer. Nick had said he’d be delighted if she could come to Rome for his birthday, so she’d impulsively decided to surprise him. And she’d surprised her family and friends with the news that she was going to Italy to marry the airline pilot who had stolen her heart with a kiss of her hand.
Okay, so in actuality, it had been the memory of his mouth-to-mouth kisses that had been the major factor in her decision. That and the fact that she’d just lost her job. And turned down Jason Joe Johnson’s proposal of marriage. And needed to get out of town before her family and friends persuaded her to change her mind. So, all things considered, flying off to Italy on the spur of the moment had seemed like the perfect answer to everything. Perfect, at least, as long as Nick was still half a world away.
“I, uh, well, you did invite me to your birthday party,” she said, feeling the blush rage in her cheeks. “And this is your birthday, isn’t it?”
He glanced at his bare wrist, as if checking the time. “Si. Yes. My birthday. Of course.” He tried to sound welcoming, a gracious host welcoming an anticipated guest. But the truth was, his voice didn’t make the grade. The agitated way he ran his hands through his dark hair didn’t do much to bolster his polite confirmation, either. Neither did his frown and doubtful “When did I...? Did you...? Did I say there would be a party?”
He hadn’t meant it. She could see that now... along with his embarrassment and obvious consternation. It was becoming humiliatingly clear that she’d imagined the invitation, as well as the depth of his sincerity. How could she have fallen for his line?
On the other hand, how could she not have fallen for him? He was, hands down, the most romantic man she’d met in all of her twenty-seven years. With one look, he had seemed to know all about her, what she longed for, what she needed. The problem, she realized now, was that there was a wealth of reality between a Texas wooing and an Italian bedroom. “You know, I don’t believe you did say, specifically, that there would be a party. Guess I just assumed you’d be celebrating. Back home, birthdays are a pretty big deal, but probably you people do things differently.” She couldn’t believe she’d said that. “I mean, obviously, birthdays in Italy are different from the ones we have in Texas. Or maybe not. I mean, maybe you have cake and ice cream and presents and, uh, pony rides and pin the tail on the donkey games and...all that...party stuff.” She edged toward the doorway. “Maybe it’d be better if I came back later in the day. Or later this week. Or just some other time. Sometime when you’re not in bed. Sometime when you’ve got some, uh, clothes on.”
“Buon compleano, Nicolo!” A woman swept into the room in a scented cloud of negligee, went immediately to the bed and gave Nick a resounding kiss. Her dark hair was disheveled, her gown beautifully seductive, and her voice rose and fell in a lilting barrage of Italian. At least, it lilted until she caught sight of Libby, at which point her dark eyes flashed and the foreign phrases picked up disbelief, accusation and a definite lack of welcome. Libby realized that the hours she’d spent with Learn Italian in Ten Easy Lessons were useless under the circumstances. And she had a feeling that asking the woman to speak slowly and distinctly wouldn’t have helped much.
“Look,” she said over the rapid-fire conversation bouncing between Nick, in bed, and the woman, in lavender. There was considerable passion ricocheting back and forth in their speech, and Libby felt decidedly uncomfortable eavesdropping, even though she couldn’t understand one word of their argument. “You know, I think I’ll just ease on out of here now and let the two of you work this out. If you could just point me in the general direction of the nearest hotel...”
The woman was pointing. Her lovely hands stirring the air with agitated gestures, her index finger leveled now, and again—at Libby. As Grampa would say, you didn’t have to be a weather vane to know which way the wind was blowing. Tucking her purse under her arm, Libby made a break for the doorway.
“Wait, Libby,” Nick commanded, and she stopped... mainly because the door was pushed open from outside and blocked her exit. A statuesque brunette stepped into the bedroom, her sultry voice preceding her by a breath. “Happy birthday, Nicky,” she said.
“Gina?” Nick’s hand rummaged through his hair again, as his gaze cut from the brunette in the doorway to the brunette in the negligee to Libby.
Libby stepped out from behind the door before it could open any wider and hit her square in the face. Someone gasped... Libby thought it was the brunette in lavender, but it could have been the tall brunette in the tight white T and the short, peach-colored skirt. In an instant, Libby assessed the Marilyn Monroe physique of the newcomer and the heaving bosoms of the Italian, and decided she was clearly outclassed by at least a cup size.
“Nick?” she questioned, wrapping her arms across her chest and reminding herself that there could be a perfectly logical explanation. These beautiful, busty women could be Nick’s.... Libby couldn’t think of a single relationship to explain the shocked looks on their faces. Well, technically, that wasn’t true. She could think of one. Obviously, the party Nick had planned wasn’t going to be anything like the birthday parties they had back home. “Nick,” she murmured, in amazement and a stunned disbelief that she had flown all the way from Texas to be part of an...well, to be part of whatever the Italians called an orgy.
Into the awkward, music-filled moment, the curtains at the window fluttered, then flopped apart to admit a redhead, whose brilliant smile faded in increments of surprise, confusion, doubt and the bedroom standard—stunned disbelief.
Someone gasped. It could have been any one of the growing number of women who now stood in Dominic Carlucci’s bedroom, but Libby thought it might have come from the depths of her own bruised vanity. “Nick,” she said, sadly admitting what a fool she had been.
“Nick,” said the brunette, the one Nick had called Gina.
“Nick,” repeated the redhead.
The brunette in the negligee wasn’t so succinct. She launched another round of outraged Italian, against which Nick didn’t even attempt to defend himself. He just looked at them all in turn, the corners of his mouth lifting into a slightly sheepish grin. Then he said one word of Italian, with quiet authority, and the dark-eyed brunette abruptly shut up. He sat straighter in the bed and the covers slipped down, revealing that the wiry hair on his chest dipped lower than Libby had thought it would.
“What a surprise,” he said. “How nice of you all to drop in.”
“Drop in?” The tall brunette let the bag on her shoulder slide to the floor with a thud. “Drop in? I came all the way from Los Angeles. Three planes. No sleep. And I turned down two courier jobs. I did not just drop in.”
Libby admired Gina’s forthrightness and wished she, herself, had challenged Nick, instead of standing there, mute, while the man she’d intended to marry gathered his...his concubines. With a sudden, sobering insight, Libby remembered all the bridges she’d burned back in Beaure-garde, just to get to this bedroom. “Oh, Nick,” she said, her eyes widening at the memory. “I told everyone we were going to get married.”
Libby felt the quick, cutting glance that Gina tossed her way and could all but read her thoughts. You? Gina might as well have said. You thought he was going to marry you? Libby couldn’t stop her gaze from fleeing to the redhead, who was still standing in front of the window, looking rumpled but somehow serene and terribly dignified, despite the sprig of ivy sticking out of her hair. She didn’t meet Libby’s eyes, though, didn’t, in fact, spare the other women in the room so much as another glance. She just stood there in her stocking feet, a runner as wide as the Blanco River stretching halfway up her calf, and focused all her energy on the man at the center of this bedroom farce. “So, it’s like this, is it?” the woman asked, her arms crossed at her chest, like a sentry on duty. “It was all a game?”
“It was never a game,” Nick answered quietly, his voice sounding dull and dismal against the background of an aria that soared and floated as romantically as a bird on the wing.
“You meant everything you said?” The redhead pressed him, never raising her voice, not even really accusing him, just stating the facts as she saw them. Libby turned back to Nick, startled to realize he probably had asked every woman in this room to marry him. Well, except he’d never actually asked her. He hadn’t, as Jason Joe Johnson had at last Friday night’s football game, said the words, “Libby Ann Waldron, will you marry me?” But she’d thought he meant to ask her. She really had. And she’d told everyone she meant to marry him.
Nick hesitated, ducked his head as his hand made another pass through his tousled hair, then he glanced at Gina, Libby and the woman at the window. “Yes,” he said.
“So you love all of us?”
“Si, Jessie, I love you all.”
Libby tried not to let her mouth drop at that obvious fib, but she was aware of the beginning of a strange and welcome sensation...relief. “I can’t believe I told everyone we were going to get married,” she said, glad to hear a note of outrage in her words.
Turning her head, she looked at the three other women for support, bypassing the angry stare of the Italian signorina in favor of the warmer, sympathetic expressions of Gina and the redhead, Jessie, the one Nick’s tones had caressed when he called her name. “What should we do now?” she asked them.
Jessie shook her head, but Gina gave an ohthe-hell-with-it shrug. “It is four to one,” she said. “We could take him.”
The idea held appeal, but one look at the dark-eyed brunette revealed a murderous gleam. Libby indicated the other woman with a nod. “I don’t think she needs our help.”
With a glance at Nick, Jessie sighed and squared her shoulders. “I saw a small bistro just down the road. I imagine they serve liquor there. It is Rome, after all. I think I’m about to get well and truly drunk.” She offered Libby and Gina a ghost of a smile. “If you’d care to join me?”
“Please stay, cara mia. I can explain everything.” Nick sounded sincere, although Libby couldn’t decide which one of them he was actually addressing. Then she realized he could be addressing all of them at once...a thought that oddly enough made her want to giggle.
“Count me in,” Gina said to Jessie. “I could use a shooter or two.”
“I’ll go.” Libby wasn’t about to get left behind. “I’ve never been drunk before, but this seems like the perfect time to get that way.”
“Yes,” Jessie said, turning toward the door. “It does, at that.”
Libby was the last of the three to pass through the doorway. She pulled the door closed, which somewhat muffled the sound of the lovely aria but didn’t diminish the angry rattle of outraged Italian that erupted from behind the closed door. Nick was getting what he deserved on his birthday... and more. With a soft smile, Libby hurried after Gina and Jessie, glad she was no longer alone in Rome.
“TO TAR AND FEATHERS!”
Jessica lifted her wineglass and clinked it against Libby’s, then Gina’s. “Here, here.”
“Ditto.” Libby nodded before she took another enthusiastic drink of the wine, which tasted better with every sip. “Hot tar and boiling oil.”
Gina grinned. “You guys are really getting the hang of this revenge scheme. I can’t decide which one I like best. The honey and ants, a short walk out of a 747 at thirty thousand feet—”
“Without a parachute,” Libby reminded her.
“Definitely without.” Jessie swallowed the last of her wine and set her glass on the table, where it wobbled a second, then went still. “No parachute, tarred and feathered, ants all over him, at thirty thousand feet. I like it. The only thing that could make me happier would be if I got to push him out of the plane myself.”
“Be my guest.” Gina drained her wineglass and set it on the table next to Jessica’s. “Personally, I think we’re being too easy on the bastard.”
