His Bride by Design. Teresa Hill

around her, her body snuggled up to his, could remember feeling safe and cherished and so turned on. Why would he charge in, rescue her from the crazy brides and then carry her up here and kiss her? Then leave without a word?

      Addie frowned at her. “He thought you might have been hit in the head, that you were a little out of it, a little confused.”

      Oh, perfect. At least she had an excuse for whatever she’d done.

      “Do you need a doctor?” Robbie asked.

      “A mental-health professional. We should probably keep one on call.”

      James was whistling as he approached the newsstand the next morning, then saw that Vince was waiting for him, tabloid in hand.

      Uh-oh. Did they have photos of the mob scene from Chloe’s?

      But as he got closer, he saw that Vince was beaming at him. “Today, it’s on the house! This and your Wall Street Journal.”

      This, it turned out, was a tabloid with a cover shot of him saving Chloe from the mob!

      “You’re the first one of my regulars to make the cover of a periodical I carry!” Vince said. “How ’bout that? I’ve been telling everybody this morning that I know you, that I see you here every day!”

      James groaned and looked again. Could anyone—except maybe people who saw him every day—tell that was him? In the photo, his head was bent down toward Chloe’s as he carried her through a sea of rioting brides. She looked like a waif, a beautiful, fragile, helpless waif. And he was mostly just a dark suit with dark hair, he thought.

      “So, you and that designer get back together?” Vince asked.

      “Not exactly.”

      “Hey, come ’ere.” Vince motioned for James to lean over the counter, closer to Vince, who’d pulled out his cell phone and held it out in front of them.

      “No!” James pulled away as the flash went off. He could only hope he’d gotten out of the way in time. “No pictures. Not today.”

      Vince looked mightily disappointed. “I was gonna put it up on the newsstand. You know, to show people that I really know you.”

      “Yeah. I’m just not ready for that, Vince. And I really hate having my picture taken,” he said.

      “You date that crazy girl, you’re gonna get your picture taken.”

      He hadn’t thought of that when he’d charged to her rescue, but he couldn’t really say he regretted it, either. Because he’d gotten to see her again, to hold her again, to kiss her. He’d gotten into her bed again. He grinned at that thought. Not in the way he’d really like to be back in her bed, but it was certainly better than not being anywhere near her bed.

      “I gotta ask you,” Vince said, grinning wickedly. “Once you carried her off like that, what did you do to her then?”

      “Nothing,” James claimed. “Absolutely nothing.”

      “Yeah, right,” Vince said.

      A gentleman didn’t kiss and tell, after all, and he prided himself on being a gentleman.

      He got to his office to see Marcy waiting for him, looking as freaked out as he’d ever seen her and carrying a rolled-up copy of a tabloid.

      “Let me guess.” James went into his office, Marcy following. “You’ve never worked with anyone who made the cover of a tabloid before?”

      Her mouth fell open. “You’ve seen it?”

      “If it’s the one I’m thinking of, I have. Please tell me I didn’t make the cover of more than one?”

      “No, just the one.” She laid it down in front of him on his desk. “We’re probably going to start getting calls—”

      “From the tabloids? They know who I am?”

      “Suspect, at least. The Bride Blog piece yesterday did mention you by name in connection with Ms. Allen, and if we’re going to get calls, I need to know what to say.”

      She waited, looking so eager and excited.

      “You mean, you want me to tell you what happened yesterday?”

      “Only so I can do my job,” she claimed.

      Yeah, right. She was practically salivating at the thought of getting the tabloid news before anyone else.

      “There is something seriously wrong with you, Marcy,” he said.

      “I know. Believe me, I do. I’m so sorry. Everyone has a weakness, a dirty little secret, and this is mine.”

      And Chloe was his.

      His weakness, but not his secret. Not anymore. He didn’t think he’d left any room for doubt about how he felt about her.

      “She was in trouble, and I helped her out. That’s it. End of story. I’m not going to stand by and watch anyone I know get attacked.” He made it sound perfectly reasonable, he thought, like he was some sort of freelance do-gooder.

      Marcy didn’t look like she was buying a word of it. She’d seen him charge out of the restaurant like a crazy man to get to Chloe yesterday, after all.

      “So, that Bride Blog thing yesterday … I never actually saw it.”

      “You’re not going to like it,” Marcy warned, handing him a printout with the pertinent parts highlighted in yellow.

      He scanned the article. It referred to him as Fiancé No. 2 and mentioned that stupid eligible bachelor list he’d been on, then got to the she-just-wanted-him-for-his-money part.

      Well, that hurt.

       Still.

      He’d hurled that particular accusation at her after they broke up. Sometimes he believed it, sometimes he didn’t, but it still had the power to make him seriously annoyed.

      “Well, I’ve never been happy being No. 2 in anything,” he said, handing that piece of trash back to Marcy. “And please tell me they’re wrong about that stupid bachelor list. I can’t be on that thing again!”

      Marcy looked a little nervous. “The Single Woman’s Guide to Bachelor Hunting in New York? I called. I’m afraid you’re going to be on it again.”

      James cringed. He’d made New York Woman’s annual bachelor list for the first time a few weeks before he and Chloe had gotten engaged. Truly rotten timing, because women could be so aggressive these days. They’d been all over him. It had been a constant annoyance and a major source of tension between him and Chloe. So once again, this was the worst possible timing.

      “What do I have to do to get off that stupid list?” he asked.

      “Lose all your money or get married,” she said, demonstrating that logical Marcy was still in there somewhere. “Or I guess you could leave New York.”

      No good options there. “Maybe we could just buy the stupid magazine and do away with the list.”

      Marcy paused, pen and pad in hand, like she wasn’t sure whether she should write that down or not.

      “I’m not that desperate yet. Still, there has to be something we can do.”

      “Well, it seems obvious. You need a girlfriend,” Marcy advised.

      “No, I don’t.” He was still smarting from the last one. Chloe.

      “A very public girlfriend,” Marcy insisted. “Take her out, smile for the photographers, just as that stupid list comes out. That way, women will think you’re taken and leave you alone.”

      No, they wouldn’t. He was painfully aware of that. Of course, it might be even worse, even more women, more aggressive, if he appeared to be completely available.