The Sometime Bride

would work. That and his conservative yellow—no, too Wall Street, he told himself. He certainly couldn’t have Carrie thinking stockbrokers on a night like this.
    Although it was true Mike was out to impersonate Wilson, he was just as determined to prove to Carrie just how different from Wilson he actually was. Because, like it or not, in less than a day, the voluptuous Carrie St. John had gotten right under Mike Davis’s skin. He didn’t know how it’d happened. Or even how in the world she’d done it. Particularly since—from the get-go—she’d seemed so determined to keep this arrangement between them strictly friends.
    Oh, Mike could get friendly with Carrie, all right. More than friendly. Downright carnal, in fact. But the puzzling thing was, Mike’s growing attraction to Carrie involved more than just hormones. There was something about her. Something very earthy and real that set her miles apart from plastic, poised women like Alexia.
    Carrie was pretty, all right. No one could argue that point. But what made her truly beautiful was that—unlike Alexia, who’d been attractive in a more Seventh Avenue way—she didn’t appear to know it. Yet, there was something very womanly about her. Something so soft and feminine it made Mike ache to be all man. Christ, he thought, looking down at his boxers. Only three minutes till eight, and he’d have to take another cold shower.

    Carrie sat alone at the romantic outdoor cafe table. All around her, other couples dined, trading secrets in hushed whispers, many of them linking hands.
    This inn was the perfect lovers’ retreat…assuming the lovers were still together, she sighed. Well, maybe her grandmother was right. Ever since she’d been a little girl, Grandma Russell, who had raised her, had insisted that things always turned out for the best. And maybe finding out Wilson was a two-timing jerk was best done now—and not after the wedding.
    The maître d’ appeared and offered to pour her wine, but she told him she’d wait. Carrie checked her watch and saw it was ten after eight. Terror flashed through her. What if Mike had deserted her too? What if, despite her initial impression, he turned out to be just as gutless as Wilson and had—at the last minute—ridden off into the sunset, leaving her to face her grandmother, great-aunts, and friends all on her own?
    Carrie noticed a dignified older gentleman standing near the door that led to the inn’s kitchen engaged in conversation with the maître d’. The silver-haired man, whom Carrie guessed to be in his late sixties, stroked his goatee, then sent Carrie a warming smile across the nest of tables that separated them.
    He must be the innkeeper, she thought, taking a sip of water. But before she could set down her glass, he approached and extended his hand. “Ms. St. John,” he said with a genuine smile, “Charles Gilpatrick. I wanted to tell you what a pleasure it is to have you at our inn. I would have spoken with you yesterday evening but have just now returned from an innkeepers’ conference in Roanoke.”
    Carrie gave his hand a firm squeeze and smiled back at him. “I’m so glad you came over to say hello. You’ve done a remarkable job with the inn. It’s beautiful.”
    “And suited to your taste, I trust?” he asked, releasing his grip. “We can’t have our chief financier unhappy with the accommodations.”
    Carrie felt her cheeks warm at the compliment but held a single finger to her lips. “Let’s just keep that our little secret,” she said with a wink. “I don’t get away on vacation that often, and when I do—”
    “Yes, of course. I realize how difficult it must be for you not to be bothered. You are probably one of the more successful investors of our time.”
    “You do go on!” she said with a laugh.
    “Well, any woman who makes the cover of Forbes by age twenty-six…”
    Carrie shushed him with a shake of her head. “When I’m in Virginia, Mr. Gilpatrick—”
    “Please, call me Charles.”
    Carrie smiled up at the ingratiating older man. “Charles. While in investment circles I may be known for my financial acumen…” A modest, self-deprecating laugh. “In Virginia, I prefer to simply be known as Carrie.”
    “But of course,” Charles said, extending his grip to seal their agreement. “The girl next door. Not a problem, Ms. St John.”
    “Carrie,” she corrected, graciously accepting his lingering handshake. “And I thank you for your