Wondering if she was an utter fool for getting anywhere near a camera, or a gorgeous man like that, she looked to Colleen Stewart, the tall, blond reporter assigned to “The Bridal Chronicles,” a newspaper special feature. “Please tell me that male model is not my groom.” Anna gestured to the god across the lawn, his head bent in thoughtful discussion, one hand casually shoved into the pocket of his tuxedo pants.
Colleen fluffed the train on Anna’s dress and looked in the direction she had gestured. Colleen whistled under her breath and her blue eyes gleamed. “He’s not a male model, Anna, even though he looks like one. His name is Ryan Cavanaugh and he’s the wealthy owner of a local chain of coffee houses, Java Joint. The Bachelor Chronicles was so successful featuring Jared Warfield, who owns a competing chain of coffee stores, that we decided to feature another coffee guy.” She put a hand on Anna’s arm. “Don’t tell me you have a problem posing with good-looking men.”
Anna spun around, inadvertently ruining the billowing train Colleen had taken so long to arrange. “Yes, I do.” Good-looking men always made her do foolish things. “I only agreed to pose because the woman originally scheduled to wear my gown didn’t show up.”
“So, what’s the problem?” Colleen asked. “You want your gown in the spread, right?”
“Of course I do. I’m hoping that my gown being in ‘The Bridal Chronicles’ will help me land that account I’ve come to Portland to acquire.” Landing the Perfect Bridal account was her last chance to fulfill the terms of her father’s deal.
She took a deep breath, telling herself to calm down. “But when I agreed to pose at the last minute, I didn’t anticipate that my groom would be so…so gorgeous. What if we win Best Wedding Couple?”
“Then you pose for more pictures and your gown gets more publicity.”
More pictures. Concealing her real identity with a veil for one picture was going to be risky enough, even though she’d dyed her dark brown hair auburn and by some miracle Colleen hadn’t recognized her. “More pictures would be very bad,” Anna said under her breath. “Very, very bad.”
“Actually, with a hunk like Ryan around, I imagine it’ll be very, very good.”
“Yes, indeed.” Anna fluffed her dress, needing air circulation. “It’ll be too good, and we’ll be a shoo-in for Best Wedding Couple.” She fanned herself with her hand, convinced the warm June sun was getting to her. Would anyone notice a woman in a pristine white wedding gown, her face fully covered by a fluffy veil, sneaking off before any pictures could be taken?
She should have never agreed to this. She certainly didn’t want to end up where well-known heiresses often did—on the front page of a tacky tabloid, the subject of an unflattering picture for all the world to see. “I assumed I’d be posing for one picture. Nothing more.”
“Just relax,” Colleen soothed. “You have no way of knowing who’s going to be voted Best Wedding Couple.”
“No way of knowing? Look at him.” Anna followed her own instructions and looked back to this Ryan guy. He’d left the fluttery-eyed assistant, who looked like she was about to melt into a pool of water on the lush, rolling lawn of the Rose Garden, and he was again striding confidently toward Anna and Colleen. With smooth male grace, he casually unbuttoned his tux jacket, staring at Anna. Even through her veil, his gaze pinned her in place like an electric-blue laser.
Her heart missed a beat.
He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a cell phone. He stopped to talk, his riveting eyes never leaving her.
She ripped her gaze from him and leaned in close to Colleen, fighting off panic. “He’s the perfect male,” she whispered, her voice shaky. “Every woman in the city will be wiping away drool as they cast their vote for him.” She shook her head. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.” Yes, she wanted her gown in the photo spread. But not if it would reveal her real identity. She was simply humble working girl Anna Simpson, designer of the Anastasia line of wedding dresses for the time being. She didn’t want anyone to know she was really Anna Sinclair, the daughter of one of the richest bankers in the country. How would she know if she were a true success if the Sinclair name followed her around?
Colleen pressed a hand to Anna’s arm. “Please don’t leave me in the lurch. I’ll never find another model on such short notice.”
A shaft of familiar guilt poked Anna. Her father always made her feel like she was letting him down, too. Before she could reply, her “groom” stepped closer, cell phone in hand. His well over six-foot frame towered above both her and Colleen.
“Well, well,” he drawled, giving Anna an intense once-over. “You must be my bride.” He extended his hand. “Ryan Cavanaugh.”
She took his hand. “Anna…Si…mpson,” she managed to say, using the fake last name she’d come up with because it was similar to Sinclair and she’d be less likely to make mistakes.
He shook her hand and flashed a blinding smile. The skin at the corners of his astoundingly blue eyes crinkled. Deep dimples formed on both sides of his mouth. He peered closer to her veil. “You look pretty good under there. Lucky me, I guess.”
She pulled her hand away. In all of her twenty-four years, she had never seen such a stunning man. His brilliant smile almost made her knees buckle.
Her earlier misgivings exploded into a ball of pure dread. Ryan obviously possessed the kind of innate male charm and incredible good looks that she’d sworn to avoid since a similarly handsome, seemingly charming man—Giorgio The Italian Scumbag—had taken off with a chunk of her heart a year ago.
She fell back a step, needing air and space and to think, and stumbled on her gown thanks to her shaky legs. Ryan quickly reached out and grasped her upper arm, steadying her with his warm, very large hand. Arrows of fire darted from his hand into her body and she barely managed to pull her arm from his hot touch.
Ryan moved closer and the scent of his aftershave washed over her. “Hey, are you all right?”
No, I’m not. She’d never been able to keep her distance from handsome men, and, unfortunately had a history of making bad choices regarding them.
History being the key word.
Fighting the thoroughly ridiculous urge to lean closer and inhale more of his wonderful smell into her nose, Anna looked for an escape. She had no intention of exposing her real identity by posing for a fake wedding photo with a gorgeous man like Ryan. It was time to follow her instincts and do what she should have done when Colleen had suggested Anna fill in for the missing model an hour ago—run for her life, wedding dress and all. Thank goodness she hadn’t signed the required photo release waiver yet.
She pointedly ignored Ryan and looked at Colleen. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this.” She put herself into motion and marched across the grass in the general direction of the temporary dressing area on the upper level of the Rose Garden Park.
“Hey!” Ryan shouted. “Where are you going?”
“Anna!” Colleen called. “Wait…” Anna ignored their calls, not wanting to deal with either of them. She didn’t want anyone suspecting she wasn’t simply Anna Simpson, humble bridal designer, struggling to make it on her own—without the benefit of the Sinclair name.
Before she had walked ten feet, she was jerked backward. Regaining her footing, she spun around. Ryan had placed a foot on the very edge of her dress’s lacy train.
Pushy man. “Remove your foot, please,” she said, her lips barely moving. “Do you have any idea how many hours went into the creation of this dress?” She’d spent months on this design, and had put blood, sweat and tears into the deceptively simple lace, satin, and pearl design. The beaded neckline alone had taken a professional seamstress three days to complete.
He shoved his cell phone into his pants pocket. “Look,” he said, a shadow of contrition in his eyes. He bent