Courting Disaster. Kathleen O'Reilly

only Chardonnay. Do you?”

      Elizabeth was shamed. “No,” she lied. Three lies in one day. It was a world record, but Elizabeth knew exactly where the blame belonged.

      The hot-looking driver with the heavy hands and the lead foot.

      “So did Robbie invite him to the wedding?” she asked, the words flying out of her mouth before she could stop them.

      Melanie leaped into the saddle, as graceful as a ballet dancer, and waggled a warning finger at Elizabeth. “Be careful, Elizabeth. That snowy-white reputation that you’re so proud of can disappear like that.” Melanie snapped her fingers, as if Elizabeth couldn’t comprehend the graphic on her own.

      “Like I’d do something stupid with that man? You know me, cuz. Cautious is my middle name, my first name and my last name, too,” she answered, dismissing the idea, all while new ideas were seeping into her mind, ideas that were distinctly uncautious.

      She shook her head, flicking all those ideas out of there.

      Hopefully this time, it’d work for good.

      Whenever there was a wedding in the works, the wind blew a little softer, the nightingales sounded a little prettier, and even Seamus, Hugh’s Irish wolfhound, walked around with a bounce in his step and a song in his bark. The Preston household might have been dreary lately, the pall of the scandal touching everything in ways that Elizabeth had never imagined, but in the hectic days leading up to Robbie and Amanda’s wedding, things were perkier and livelier. Betsy, the capable manager who ran the house, had the staff take out the best china, guest rooms were dusted, the silver was polished, and everything was set out for Jenna Preston’s white-glove inspection.

      That evening, when Elizabeth got home from the meeting in town, she opted to do a little inspecting of her own. Said subject of inspection? One Demetri Lucas, whose car she had recently demolished, and whose image kept cropping up into her mind, and other places that she didn’t want any man cropping up into. Hopefully a hard dose of reality would help matters. After climbing atop the fluffy yellow guest room bed, she studied her laptop screen, and stumbled across the first of many, many, many damning sins. The most recent being that he had just lost a key endorsement from Valencia Products because he’d been boffing royalty. Elizabeth sniffed contemptuously.

      Married?

      Royalty?

      Not only was he irresponsible, but he was also plain stupid. Thinking he wouldn’t get caught? Durn. The man might as well be blond.

      To be fair, he did have some business sense, but it was that hard-nosed, hard-hearted shark behavior that Elizabeth didn’t like. Besides his race-car driving, Demetri Lucas bought and sold companies the way other men played the slots. He didn’t care, didn’t participate, only signed on the bottom line, made a bucketload of cash and then moved on to either the next venture, or the next princess, whichever caught his roving eye first.

      And apparently his roving eye had been caught many, many times.

      She was cursing the man six ways to Sunday when her cell phone rang.

      “Liz?” Her manager was the only person who called her Liz. Thank God for small favors, because Liz was a shortcut name; it didn’t have nearly the regal grandeur of Elizabeth. And at five foot four, Elizabeth wanted all the regal grandeur she could get.

      “Tobey?” she said, kicking back on the bed. “What are you calling for? If you’re calling me about the album cover, I’m not going to listen. I told you tonight that I didn’t like that last mockup of the cover, and I meant it. I sing country, not heavy metal. Use something prettier than black. What’s wrong with yellow? Or pink? Or maybe one of those soft teals? I think—”

      “Liz.”

      Elizabeth stopped. “What?”

      “I’m not calling about the cover. They’re going to change the background color.”

      Elizabeth blew out a breath. “Well thank heavens for that. So why are we chatting when I’m supposed to be on vacation?”

      “I got another call from the shampoo company Softsilk. They’re determined to get you. The woman said they have a new line coming out next year. Soft, sexy, womanly. Those were their words. They want you to do the spots.”

      “Why did you call me with this? I sing. That’s it. I don’t want to do commercials or product placements, or be some shill for some shampoo that will probably make my hair fall out. I told you no the last five times you asked me. No, no, no. What I use on my head, what I put on my face, what jeans I wear, what car I drive is nobody’s business but mine, and I’ll be damned if Elizabeth Innis is going to help sell somebody else’s products. I’m not telling you something that you don’t already know, Tobey. Why are you calling, and this time, please tell me the truth.”

      “Frank called. He heard you were in Kentucky and thought it’d be good for you to do a local concert the week after next. It’s for the University of Louisville, the Wednesday night before their homecoming game. Skew your demographics younger.”

      Frank was the manger of Five Star Records, Elizabeth’s label, and when Frank told Tobey to jump, Tobey asked how high. Elizabeth didn’t mind, that was Tobey’s job, but Elizabeth wasn’t a business person. She was an artist. And everybody knew that artists were temperamental. Even though Elizabeth wasn’t temperamental, that didn’t mean she couldn’t pretend when it worked to her advantage.

      “Tobey. I’m on vacation. My cousin is getting married day after tomorrow and I’m singing in the wedding. I need this break. I’ve been on tour for the last twelve months. Now, I love my band, but do you know how many hotels that is? Do you know how many frequent flier miles that is? More than I can count, Tobey, but I bet it’s not more than you can count. I bet you can tell me exactly how many frequent flier miles I’ve logged, can’t you? Let me make this clear so you can understand. I’m not doing any concerts here. I’m tired. Can’t you hear the tension in my voice? I don’t know why you can’t, ’cause this phone connection sounds pretty good to me.”

      “Frank’s got something lined up, Liz.”

      Elizabeth glared at the phone, which did absolutely no good, but it made it her feel better. “Let me repeat what I said, because I’m thinking this phone connection must not be as crisp as I thought. I’m not doing any concerts here. Not one. I’m tired. This is my family time, and nothing gets between me and my family time.”

      “Frank already lined it up,” he answered, just as if he hadn’t heard a single word that she’d said.

      Elizabeth snorted. “Well, tell him to unline it up. I’m on vacation. It’s three weeks, Tobey, not three years. Nothing trumps family for me. You know that.”

      “The money’s good, Elizabeth.”

      Elizabeth humphed into the phone. “Do you think that matters? If it’s going to start mattering to me, then I need to fire you, because I’m not making as much money as you’re telling me I am. Do I need to fire you, Tobey? Don’t tell me yes, because you’re about as L.A. as I can handle. Everybody told me to get a Nashville agent, but I liked you, even if you were L.A, but maybe they were right, Tobey. Maybe I should get a Nashville agent.”

      “Don’t make me go back to Frank and tell him no,” he begged.

      “Go back to Frank and tell him no.”

      “Oh, Elizabeth…” Which he only called her when he was really, really, really up a creek.

      “Oh, Tobey…” she said, and she knew she was starting to get all soft, and she didn’t want to get all soft. She needed to be tough and hard-edged with a spine that wouldn’t break, no matter how much battering it took. Elizabeth drew in a deep, strength-injecting breath, happy to feel the steel return. “Now you listen—”

      Suddenly she stopped, a lightbulb flashing in her head. “How much money are we talking about?” Elizabeth asked carefully.

      Tobey