“You don’t think I love your brother, do you?”
Savannah asked, Cash’s smile aggravating her.
“You must know by now that what I think is of little importance in this family.”
“Well, I’d like to know what you think.”
“People in love are always fools.” Cash’s amusement was gone, leaving a darkness on his features. A darkness that encouraged the doubts Savannah had been battling since her fiancé ran off. “Do you love my brother?”
She looked into his eyes. “I may not be a woman of passions—”
“On the contrary, Ms. Sweetfield. I think you are exactly that.”
Dear Reader,
Welcome to another wonderful month at Harlequin American Romance. You’ll notice our covers have a brand-new look, but rest assured that we still have the editorial you know and love just inside.
What a lineup we have for you, as reader favorite Muriel Jensen helps us celebrate our 20th Anniversary with her latest release. That Summer in Maine is a beautiful tale of a woman who gets an unexpected second chance at love and family with the last man she imagines. And author Sharon Swan pens the fourth title in our ongoing series MILLIONAIRE, MONTANA. You won’t believe what motivates ever-feuding neighbors Dev and Amanda to take a hasty trip to the altar in Four-Karat Fiancée.
Speaking of weddings, we have two other tales of marriage this month. Darlene Scalera pens the story of a jilted bride on the hunt for her disappearing groom in May the Best Man Wed. (Hint: the bride may just be falling for her husband-to-be’s brother.) Dianne Castell’s High-Tide Bride has a runaway bride hiding out in a small town where her attraction to the local sheriff is rising just as fast as the flooding river.
So sit back and enjoy our lovely new look and the always-quality novels we have to offer you this—and every—month at Harlequin American Romance.
Best Wishes,
Melissa Jeglinski
Associate Senior Editor
Harlequin American Romance
May the Best Man Wed
Darlene Scalera
To the Sisters of the Lake who, when the ship was sinking, threw me a lifeline.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Darlene Scalera is a native New Yorker who graduated magna cum laude from Syracuse University with a degree in public communications. She worked in a variety of fields, including telecommunications and public relations, before devoting herself full-time to romance fiction writing. She was instrumental in forming the Saratoga, New York, chapter of Romance Writers of America and is a frequent speaker on romance writing at local schools, libraries, writing groups and women’s organizations. She currently lives happily ever after in upstate New York with her husband, Jim, and their two children, J.J. and Ariana. You can write to Darlene at P.O. Box 217, Niverville, NY 12130.
Books by Darlene Scalera
HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE
762—A MAN FOR MEGAN
807—A MAN IN A MILLION
819—THE COWBOY AND THE COUNTESS
861—PRESCRIPTION FOR SEDUCTION
896—BORN OF THE BLUEGRASS
923—HELP WANTED: HUSBAND?
967—MAY THE BEST MAN WED
Contents
Chapter One
All of Atlanta slept except Savannah Sweetfield. Her feet, resplendent in open-toed Pradas, shoes being her one frivolous passion, click-clicked across the concrete. Her thoughts spoken into the microcassette recorder in her right fist held the same peal of purpose.
“Cathedral flowers?”
“Two dozen urns filled with larkspur and white waxflower branches, fourteen feet tall, front pew to back. Candles on metal stands ringed with lemon leaves and gardenias at aisles. Confirm white candles on altar.”
She jabbed Up for the elevator connecting the underground garage to the Sweetfield corporate offices.
“Champagne?” she asked into the recorder.
“Perrier-Jouet,” she answered herself.
“Crystal?”
“Baccarat.”
The elevator ascended.
“Guests?”
“Double-check Grammy Eta is seated as far away from Auntie Luanne as possible. Have Cousin Charlene keep count of Great-Uncle Pom’s gin fizzes. Check on hotel gift bags for out-of-town guests. Remind—monogrammed gold W on bag or no go.”
The elevator stopped, the doors opened and Savannah stepped out, her staccato steps swallowed by carpet. All was silence as she walked through the reception area, past the offices on the fifteenth floor of Sweetfield’s corporate headquarters. She was the first to arrive. Always.
The click of the record button broke the silence. “Cocktail buffet?”
“Dungeness crab cocktail shooters, iced jumbo prawns, eastern oysters shucked to order, served on cracked ice.”
Her mother had suggested one of the wedding planners renowned in their circle, but Savannah had rejected flat-out the very idea of trusting a complete stranger with the needs and nuances of this event. This was more than a wedding. It was an alliance between old Southern stature and new South self-made standing; a merger between a Goliath of old-guard tradition and a Goliath of modern capitalism. And everybody who was anybody in Georgia had been scrambling