The Pregnant Bride. Catherine Spencer

shockingly, a hand—warm, firm and unmistakably masculine—touched her shoulder, slid down her spine almost to her waist, and urged her to her feet. And a voice, deep and resonant with authority, murmured in her ear. “Okay, sweet pea, enough of this. What say we take the rest of the show outside?”

      Sweet pea, indeed! She should have been offended at the familiarity, the condescension. If she’d been in her right mind, instead of wallowing in useless self-pity, she’d have told him so in no uncertain terms. But she hadn’t been herself since that morning and beggars couldn’t be choosers. At that moment he was the only savior she had so, when he offered her his arm, instead of slapping it aside, she grabbed hold as if it were a life belt and let him shepherd her past the stares and the whispers infiltrating the dining room.

      Outside, the cool evening air brushed her face and marginally restored her composure. “Thank you,” she sniffled, except that it came out sounding more like “Phn-k!” because her throat was so waterlogged with tears still.

      “Sure,” he said, steering her toward a covered flight of steps. “Just hang on till we get to the beach, then you can howl to your heart’s content. There’ll be no one there to hear but the gulls and they’re so busy making their own racket, they won’t even notice yours.”

      She stepped down to a vast stretch of shoreline scoured clean by the receding tide and deserted except for a couple with two children and a dog, far enough away that they were mere dots on the horizon. Except for the man at her side, Jenna was alone. She could shriek until she was hoarse, but what was the use when, at the end of it all, nothing would have changed?

      So instead, she fell into step beside the man as he struck out for the water’s edge, grateful that he didn’t feel a need to fill the silence between them with empty conversation. Seeming bent on his own thoughts, he adjusted his stride to hers, shoved his hands in his jacket pocket, and fixed his gaze to where the lowering sun painted the tips of the waves gold.

      Gradually, the convulsive sobbing eased and she could breathe again—deep, reviving breaths, laced with the clean tang of salt and the sharp bite of an early, west-coast May evening. The constriction which, since morning, had gripped her throat and made swallowing painful, softened. Except for the gritty aftermath of tears inflaming her eyes, she was almost herself again. “Thank you,” she said again. “I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t stepped in when you did.”

      He nodded. “Glad to help. Feel like talking about whatever’s got you tied up in knots?”

      “I…no, I don’t think so.”

      “It might help and I’m a pretty good listener.”

      “I made a mistake, that’s all,” she said.

      He gave a nonchalant shrug. “So you’re fallible like the rest of us. Don’t go beating yourself up about it.”

      “A huge mistake.”

      “Most mistakes can be rectified, one way or another.”

      “Not this one.”

      He let his glance flicker over her before returning his attention to the sunset. “That bad, huh? What did you do, kill somebody?”

      It was the wrong question to ask. “I should have!” she said fiercely. “If I’d had a gun, I would have!”

      “Uh-oh!”

      She glared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

      “When a woman overreacts like that to a purely hypothetical question, it’s either because she’s got man trouble or she’s criminally deranged. If you were the latter, you’d have gone for the waiter with your steak knife. Instead, you tried to put a brave face on things—and you might have succeeded if you’d steered clear of the booze.”

      “I am not a drinker,” she said stiffly. “At least, not as a rule. But tonight…”

      “Tonight you needed something to dull the pain.”

      “Yes.”

      “So this is about a man?”

      “Yes.”

      “I take it the relationship, such as it was, is over and that he’s the one who ended it?”

      “Yes.” The word exploded on a sigh that seemed to start in the soles of her feet and drag every ounce of energy out of her.

      He rocked back on his heels and surveyed her critically. “Even with your face all red and puffy from crying, you’re a fine looking woman. Beautiful, in fact. Seems to me you could take your pick of men. What made you latch on to such a bozo?”

      Jenna thought of Mark’s spaniel brown eyes, as different from this stranger’s penetrating blue stare as melting chocolate from ice; of his endearing grin, more reminiscent of a little boy’s than a hard-nosed financier’s. “I fell in love with him,” she quavered.

      “A hell of a lot more than he fell in love with you, apparently! If you want my opinion, you’re well rid of him.”

      “I don’t want your opinion,” she snapped. She’d gone through enough already that day without this…this creature pontificating on her situation and handing out Band-Aid solutions when she was bleeding inside!

      “I thought a bit of down-to-earth common sense might help, but if you’d rather wallow in misery…” He lifted his shoulders in yet another shrug so graphically executed that there was no need for him to finish the sentence.

      Suddenly, she saw herself through his eyes, and it wasn’t a pretty picture. A weeping, hysterical woman knocking back double scotches and losing control of herself in front of a roomful of people was in no position to take out her misery on the one person who’d shown her compassion. “I was left at the altar,” she confessed, the very act of speaking the words aloud leaving her hollow with pain.

      “When?”

      The sneaking suspicion that she owed her savior something more than the bare bones she’d so far offered overcame her earlier reticence. “This morning.”

      “Oh, boy!” He whistled through his teeth. “Small wonder you’re such a mess.”

      “Perhaps, but that doesn’t entitle me to be rude to you, or to intrude on your time. I’m sure your plans for the evening didn’t involve playing nursemaid to a jilted bride.” She squared her shoulders and did her best to project the image of a woman in control and well able to stand on her own two feet which, considering her recent bout of weeping, was a lost cause from the outset. “Please don’t feel you have to stay out here with me. I’ll be perfectly all right by myself,” she said, her voice wobbling dangerously.

      “Garbage!” he declared flatly. “You’ve been dumped on what should be the happiest day of your life, and you shouldn’t be alone. Surely there’s someone who could be here with you—a friend, or a family member?”

      “No! I don’t want…people to…know where I am.”

      He stepped back and searched her face incredulously. “Are you saying that after being stood up at the altar and left emotionally distraught, you just disappeared without a word to anyone?”

      “That’s right.” She returned his gaze defiantly.

      “What about your relatives and friends? They must be worried out of their minds. Or didn’t that strike you as important?”

      The censure in his voice stirred her to an unwelcome guilt which, in turn, put her once again on the defensive. “What would you have done in my place? Invite all the guests to the reception and have it turn into a wake with them all commiserating with the forlorn bride?”

      He rolled his eyes. “Cripes, do you always go overboard like this? Couldn’t you have found a happy medium and shown some consideration for your family’s feelings? They’re probably beside themselves with concern for you.”

      “If