The Next Santini Bride. Maureen Child

to claim a kiss.

      “She’s happy,” Marie said simply.

      “I hope she stays that way,” Angela whispered more to herself than to her sister. Then louder she said, “Still, it’s hard to believe that Gina’s getting married. It all happened so fast.”

      “Maybe it’s contagious,” Marie mused as she held up her left hand to study the white-gold wedding band on her ring finger. “First me, then Gina, then…” She slid a glance at the woman beside her.

      “Oh no, you don’t,” Angela said and held up both hands, making a cross out of her index fingers as if trying to ward off a vampire. “The phrase ‘been there, done that’ springs to mind.”

      Marie huffed out a breath. “For heaven’s sake, Ange, just because you picked a lemon in the garden of love the first time around, doesn’t mean you’ll do the same thing again.”

      “Thanks so much for that very pithy piece of advice,” Angela said with a nod. “But if you don’t mind, I’m staying out of that particular garden from now on.”

      It was an old argument, Angela told herself. One she had no interest in reviving tonight. If her sisters wanted to get married, she would wish them every happiness and hope to high heaven that their marriages turned out better than hers had.

      Old memories rose up in her mind, and Angela quickly pushed them back into the black hole where they were usually stored. This wasn’t the time to remember the pain and misery that had been her marriage. This was a night to hope and pray that Gina would be as happy as Marie was.

      “Oh,” Marie said suddenly as an old, familiar tune swelled out of the speakers tucked discreetly into the four corners of the room. “I love this song. Think I’ll go find my handsome husband and force him to dance with me.”

      Abandoned, Angela leaned back in her chair and took another sip of her wine. It was times like these when she most minded being single. All around the room couples were paired off, talking or dancing or laughing together. Even her eight-year-old son, Jeremy, was busy talking to the only other child in the room, a little girl he might normally have avoided like the plague.

      She smiled to herself as she watched him. The one precious thing to have come out of marrying Bill Jackson was this little boy. And for the pleasure of having Jeremy in her life, she would be willing to go through all of it again.

      “Who’s that smile for, I wonder?” a deep voice asked from beside her.

      Angela started and glanced up into the green eyes that now seemed somehow familiar. Okay, it was one thing to stare at him with the safe distance of a room between them. It was quite another to have him so close she could smell his cologne.

      And, oh, boy, did he smell good.

      She cleared her throat and sat up straight, guiltily clearing her mind as though he could look into her eyes and see just what she was thinking. “My son,” she said, motioning toward the boy who was apparently explaining the proper batting stance to a very bored little girl.

      “Nice-looking kid.”

      “Thank you,” she said, and stood up, wanting to be on a more even footing than having to look up at him. Well, she thought, as she tipped her head back…and back…to meet his gaze, so much for that idea.

      “You’re Angela, right?” he asked, shifting his gaze back to her and giving her that lopsided smile again.

      Her stomach dropped as she nodded. He knew her name. How? Who had he asked about her?

      “I’m Dan. Dan Mahoney.”

      “Hi,” she said, silently congratulating herself on her sparkling wit and conversational abilities.

      “I work with Nick,” he continued.

      “You’re a Marine.”

      He smiled again, and her toes curled. “Isn’t everyone?” he asked.

      “In this room,” she conceded, “just about.”

      Of course, that was to be expected when the groom to be was a Gunnery Sergeant. Heck, even Nick’s brothers, Sam and John, who had flown in for the ceremony, were Marines. And Nick’s father was an ex-Marine, if there was such a thing—which she doubted, since most of these guys seemed to be Marine right down to their bones.

      She slid a glance at the Paretti boys, as she’d begun to think of them. Three brothers with jet-black hair, pale-blue eyes and more muscles than any three men had a right to. And not a one of them did a thing for her.

      “Angela?” Dan said, and she drew her attention back to the man standing dangerously close to her. This man, on the other hand, seemed to have some weird effect on her nerves.

      “Would you like to dance?” he asked.

      “Dance?”

      “Yeah,” he said, that smile firmly in place. “You know, moving back and forth in tandem to a specific rhythm?”

      Well, duh. God, why was she being such an idiot? Had it really been so long since she’d spoken to a man? Good heavens, had she kept herself so locked away that a conversation with a handsome man could actually paralyze her?

      Apparently so. She swallowed hard, sucked in a breath and forced herself to say, “I’d love to.”

      “Good,” he said, taking her hand and heading for the small patch of parquet tiles passing itself off as a dance floor.

      Angela concentrated on the feel of her hand in his. Wow. It was really an amazing sensation. Flesh pressed to flesh. Warm, strong fingers folded around her own. She hadn’t even realized just how starved she’d been for a simple touch. And now that she had, other parts of her body were demanding a little attention, too.

      That thought even surprised her.

      In the midst of the other dancers, Dan pulled her into his arms and started swaying in time to the music. He held her right hand in his left and kept it tucked close to his chest. She felt his heartbeat beneath her hand, and the steady, even beat of it calmed her even as it excited her. It had been too long, she thought, as she began to relax and follow his lead. Too long since she’d danced with anyone but an exuberant Jeremy. Too long since she’d felt the hard strength of a man’s arm around her waist, the press of his body against hers.

      “You’re a good dancer,” he said, and his breath brushed her ear even as his voice rumbled along her spine.

      “Thanks,” she said, pulling her head back in self-defense. She was way too close to him for comfort. “You’re a good liar.”

      He laughed shortly. “Okay, so neither one of us is Fred Astaire.”

      Nope, this slow turn in a tight circle would hardly qualify as great dancing, but Angela didn’t care. It was way more than she’d had in years. “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “It’s nice.”

      “Yeah,” he said softly, letting his right hand smooth up and down her back, “it is.”

      Angela shivered, and her eyes closed as she savored the feelings he inspired in her. Oh boy. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea, living like a recluse for the past three years. She was way overreacting to this situation.

      “You’re beautiful,” he said.

      Her eyes opened, and she stared up into those green eyes. If this was his regular line, it was pretty good. But it wouldn’t do to let him know she was in desperate danger of falling for it. “And like I already said, you’re a good liar.”

      “Not this time, lady,” he whispered.

      Her stomach flip-flopped, and her mouth went dry.

      There was something happening here. Something that ran in a tense, hot undercurrent. The calm, rational side of her, the side that had had her in hiding for the past three years, was telling her to run fast and run far. The other side however, urged