Never Too Late for Love. Marie Ferrarella

very large, very capable arms hadn’t closed around Margo, catching her.

      Focusing, Margo drew back some of the air that had just been knocked out of her.

      The stranger raised his dark brown brows in amused surprise and smiled.

      “Margo?”

      It didn’t really surprise Margo that the man who had just collided with her knew her name, even though she didn’t have a clue who he was. She’d met a world of people in her time. She was bound to forget a few now and then.

      Though, she amended as she straightened, slowly leaving the protective hold of the man’s arms, it wasn’t likely that she would have forgotten him very easily. The man was nothing short of gorgeous, in a warrior-hunter sort of way. If warrior-hunters were given to wearing tuxedos.

      Where had he ever found one to accommodate such broad shoulders?

      “Yes, I’m Margo.” And then a sliver of concern slipped through. Had she gotten her time confused on top of everything else? Distress crept into her voice. “I didn’t miss it, did I?”

      Bruce Reed was immediately struck by the energy that swirled around the woman. Must run in the family. Looks certainly did. He could easily see the resemblance to her daughter. It was there, around the eyes and the mouth. And, of course, there was the hair color. Both women had hair the color of wheat in the bright morning sun. Melanie wore hers long, while this woman’s hair was done up, showing off a very delicate neck that contrasted quite nicely with her very strong chin.

      The sign of a fighter, Bruce thought.

      Mother and daughter, eh? He wondered if this was what his son was going to be up against in another fifteen years or so. At least the view was nice.

      “No, you didn’t miss it,” he assured her.

      With a nod of his head, Bruce indicated the double wooden doors leading to the inside of the church. The last time he’d looked, it was crammed full of people, including his very nervous son, all of whom were waiting on Margo’s arrival.

      “Melanie insisted that they delay the wedding. She refuses to get married without you. I’m the lookout.” Aptly named, he decided, because the line, “Look out, here she comes,” occurred to him as soon as he set eyes on Melanie’s mother.

      His eyes slid down the slender, athletic frame. There, too, the women resembled each other. Small-boned, well proportioned. He couldn’t help wondering if he was being out of step with the times, noticing that. Probably. He’d lost track of what was acceptable behavior and terminology between men and women these past fourteen years.

      “This way, please.” He took her arm, relieving her of her suitcase. “Melanie’s quite a girl, um, I mean woman,” he corrected himself.

      “She’s both,” Margo said, laughing softly. “Most of our species are.”

      Since he didn’t know her, Bruce thought it safer not to comment. Instead, he led her to a side room where Melanie was waiting. Knocking once, he tried the doorknob. It gave easily.

      The tiny room required the occupancy of only two people to be crowded, and it already had that. Three almost stretched it beyond the legal limit. To keep from being smothered by a combination of satin, lace and the press of three female bodies, Bruce Reed chose to stand outside the threshold.

      He smiled broadly at the young woman he’d known for a very short time and had come to love like the daughter he’d never been blessed with.

      “Melanie, I think I have something that belongs to you.”

      “Mama!” Whirling around from the mirror, Melanie McCloud exhaled as dramatically as any of the overtrained actresses she’d watched while growing up on various movie soundstages. “I knew you’d make it.”

      Though it wasn’t easy, she managed to throw her arms around her mother. The garment bag fell, landing on the edge of Melanie’s gown. Melanie wasn’t given to worrying, but as the last few hours had ticked away, she had begun to fear that her mother wouldn’t arrive in time for the wedding.

      Margo blinked back what felt like a tear. Now? She hadn’t cried in years. Years. Now was a ridiculous time to begin. This was supposed to be a happy occasion. Knowing there was little time, Margo still allowed herself a moment to absorb the embrace.

      “Of course I made it. It’s not every day that my girl gets married.” Releasing Melanie, she stepped back to get a good look at her. When had she turned into this beautiful young woman, this little girl who had looked up at her with worshipful eyes? “I’d’ve come a lot sooner if someone had thought to either stop pumping people into Orange County or build enough roads to accommodate them.”

      The rest of the diatribe on her lips evaporated as the sun suddenly shone full force through the bit of colored beveled glass that served as a tiny window. The rays of light seemed to form a spotlight, with Melanie as its target.

      Margo’s breath was stolen away. “Oh, God, let me look at you.”

      Her mother was finally here. Everything was perfect now, Melanie thought.

      Pleased, she tried to hold out the wedding gown’s skirt for her mother’s perusal. It wasn’t easy. Joyce Freeman, her maid of honor, attempted to make her five-seven frame as small as possible as she pressed against the wall to give Melanie more room.

      “It’s a beautiful dress, isn’t it?” The moment she’d seen it, Melanie had known she had to have it, had to wear it as she pledged her heart and her eternal love to Lance. That it fit like a dream was merely a bonus.

      “The dress is pretty, you are beautiful,” the deep voice behind Margo corrected.

      She’d almost forgotten about him, Margo thought, looking over her shoulder at her escort. “I think I’m going to like this man.” She drew her brows together as she realized that she hadn’t asked his name. She was slipping. “Who are you?”

      Extending his hand to her, he shook it. Margo’s hand was swallowed up in his. For just the tiniest second, she had the overwhelming feeling of well-being. Had to be the occasion, she thought.

      “I’m Bruce Reed,” he told her. When no immediate recognition surfaced in the flawless face before him, he added, “The groom’s father.”

      “Oh.” Figured, the best ones were always taken. Nonetheless, she radiated a smile at him. “Nice to meet you.”

      When Joyce caught Melanie’s eye and tapped her watch, butterflies were instantly back on the runway in takeoff position. “I hate to break this up,” Melanie said, drawing her mother around to face her, “but I’ve got a wedding waiting to start.” She glanced at the garment bag that was still on the floor. “Mama, are you going to change into something else, or are you just planning to take that garment bag with you to the pew?”

      Margo laughed, brushing her lips against Melanie’s cheek. “Always had a smart mouth, didn’t you, pet?”

      Melanie’s eyes crinkled in response. “Matches the rest of me.”

      Lips pursed thoughtfully, Bruce shook his head. “I’d say it’s a little too crowded in here to change. Maybe you’d like to use the rest room?”

      Margo waved away his suggestion, narrowly avoiding hitting Joyce. “Don’t worry about me. I can manage just fine anywhere.”

      The limited space presented no challenge to her. There had been a time—a very short time, mercifully—right after Melanie had been born, when she’d shared a tiny Las Vegas dressing room with thirty other women. She’d learned how to change quickly, with a minimum of movement.

      With a smile, Margo shut the door in his face and then turned around.

      “If the groom looks anything like his father,” she said to Melanie, quickly stripping off her jacket and shirt, “you have found yourself one devil of a good-looking man, sweetheart. I compliment you on your taste.”

      Melanie