The Bride Blog: news of all things bridal.

Wedding-dress designer Chloe’s shocking video confession: she never really believed in love. After three failed engagements, did wedding-dress designer Chloe Allen put a secret curse on all her gowns, so that no one else would get a happily-ever-after, either?

The question on the minds of brides-to-be everywhere: how could anyone marry in a Chloe gown and ever think their love will last?

Word is that brides are storming Chloe’s showroom in Brooklyn, demanding to return their dresses and to get their money back, much like the old-fashioned run on a failing bank.

How long can the House of Chloe hold out?

Time will tell, dear brides.

Time will tell.

Dear Reader,

Some time ago, I became obsessed over the sheer number of wedding dresses for sale on Craigslist. (I’m a writer. We do odd things like that.) Were people just not staying married anymore? And dumping their poor dresses, too? Or were they never making it down the aisle? Had they maybe found other dresses they liked better, after already buying one?

Were they young married couples, broke and really needing money? Was there no sentiment left about the wedding dress? And then I started to think … what if you were the designer of those dresses, and suddenly, all of these women started returning your beautiful gowns? It might look like the problem wasn’t the women, but the wedding dresses …

Which is when I discovered Chloe, a wedding-dress designer who fears she’s cursed in love. Which is a real problem, because nobody wants to buy a wedding dress from a designer who’s cursed in love.

Teresa Hill

About the Author

TERESA HILL tells people if they want to be writers, to find a spouse who’s patient, understanding and interested in being a patron of the arts. Lucky for her, she found a man just like that, who’s been with her through all the ups and downs of being a writer. Along with their son and daughter, they live in Travelers Rest, South Carolina, in the foothills of the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains, with two beautiful, spoiled dogs and two gigantic, lazy cats.

His Bride

By Design

Teresa Hill

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Chapter One

Dreams did come true.

People had always told Chloe Allen that, but she hadn’t quite believed it until the lights in the tent went down, the music rose and she had the world of New York fashion at her feet. If they loved her designs, Chloe would get absolutely everything she ever wanted.

“I think I’m going to throw up,” she whispered to her cousin and first assistant, Robbie, who’d been hovering by her side the whole morning. Her business manager and accountant, Addie, who she claimed as a sister, was in the back somewhere, as was Robbie’s twin, Connie, her second assistant. This was truly a family business.

“You can throw up later,” Robbie said. “Right now, you have to do one last check of the models and start the show, before something happens.”

“What do you mean, something happens? Something bad?”

Because Chloe felt it. Even standing in the dark, surrounded by the models in all her beautiful dresses ready to walk that runway, she felt like something bad was coming.

Robbie gave her a little shove to the spot by the entrance to the runway, thrusting her into the spotlight, and from there it was all a blur until it was time to send the last dress down the runway. Eloise, the snottiest model of all, stood before Chloe, pouting that usual model pout, except it always seemed extra-pouty when aimed at Chloe. She took off, doing that odd, abrupt model strut, the dress in ecru-colored silk charmeuse swishing and swaying beautifully as she walked down the runway.

The crowd was on its feet, cheering madly.

Chloe started to cry, couldn’t help it.

She’d done it!

The models lined up and took one more turn around the runway, all together. Chloe fell into step behind Eloise and her pretend groom, who as Chloe understood it was actually Eloise’s boyfriend of the moment.

They got to the spot where Chloe’s fiancé, Bryce, a fashion photographer, stood covering the show, and their friends in the audience started calling for Bryce to join Chloe on the runway. He jumped up there, lean and fashionable in black jeans and a plain black T-shirt, smiling that dazzling Bryce smile, giving Chloe a kiss on the cheek. They stood at the end of the runway with Eloise and her model groom/boyfriend, cameras flashing from all directions.

Chloe finally started to breathe, to let it all sink in. The show had gone off without a hitch, the audience applauding wildly!

Then she felt Eloise fidgeting, heard a quiet hiss of sharp words. Chloe shot her a glance that said, Surely this can wait until we’re off the runway! Eloise’s boyfriend whispered back furiously, Bryce, too. People started to notice, falling silent and then whispering themselves.

Not now. Not now. Not now! Chloe chanted to herself.

“You bastard!” Eloise screamed, but not at her boyfriend. At Bryce? “You just couldn’t keep your hands to yourself, could you?”

Chloe whimpered, all the breath going out of her in a rush.

Her fiancé was involved with her top model?

It was such a cliché, especially finding out while standing here at the end of the runway, like making it all the way down the aisle of a church to the altar only to find disaster. This was supposed to be Chloe’s day. Didn’t they understand? She was the real bride here!

Eloise shook a long, pointy finger in Bryce’s face. “I told you to stay away. I told you I wouldn’t stand for this anymore.”

Bryce looked pale and defeated. Chloe’s mind had gone foggy and sluggish. Eloise was telling Bryce to stay away? So, Bryce was like … annoying Eloise? Stalking her?

Laughter trickled in, getting louder and louder, and then the camera flashes became positively blinding. Chloe stood frozen in the midst of it.

Then she realized that Eloise didn’t seem to be trying to keep Bryce away from her. She’d planted herself between Bryce and her model boyfriend/groom, shrieking, “He’s mine!”

That couldn’t be right.

Bryce was sexy as could be, and somehow he’d become Chloe’s. He wanted her, despite spending his days photographing some of the most beautiful women in the world, unreal and yet gorgeous in that odd, perfect way of theirs.

Chloe caught a look passing not between Bryce and Eloise, but Bryce and the male model. The ridiculously toned, tanned, good-looking male model.

An intimate, knowing, regretful look.

Which meant …

“Oh, no,” Chloe whispered, fighting with all she had in her not to cry. Not here. Not now.

Chloe, wannabe wedding dress designer extraordinaire, part of the big machine that made little girls’ wedding dreams come true, had a fiancé who was sleeping with another man!

James Elliott IV did not in any way keep up with fashion news.

His idea of fashion was—when he was feeling really daring—to forego his traditional white dress shirt in favor of one in pale yellow or perhaps blue.

But one fine September morning, as he walked from his apartment in Tribeca to his office in the financial district and stopped to buy his Wall Street Journal at his favorite newsstand, it was impossible to miss the fashion news. It was plastered across the front pages of the tabloids for all to see.

Some crazy model in a huge, billowing wedding dress jumping a guy on a runway, looking like she was about to claw his eyes out in the next instant.

Waiting for his turn to pay, James decided the model did indeed look crazy, but then most of them were, he suspected. Starvation made women mean and at least a little bit crazy. The photo showed that she had literally jumped on the guy, had her legs wrapped around his waist and her fingernails poised and ready to strike, the guy twisting to get out of the way.

In the background was a model in a tux, looking like he wanted to jump in, but didn’t have the balls to do it. And down at the bottom, in the foreground … it looked like …

“Chloe?”

She was his ex.

The ex, if he let himself admit it. The one who’d really gotten to him, endearing herself to him like no one else, infuriating him, baffling him, hurting him, until they’d finally gone their separate ways.

What the hell had happened to Chloe?

The headline on the tabloid read Taking Bridezilla to a Whole New Level: Bloodshed at Fashion Week as Eloise Goes on a Rampage!

Bridezilla?

And who was Eloise?

The next tabloid blared Wedding Dress Designer Chloe and Model Eloise’s Man-on-Man Nightmare! Their Men Cheating … With Each Other!

James grimaced on Chloe’s behalf.

And the third said Designer Chloe’s Fashion Week Debut Every Woman’s Wedding Nightmare: The Groom-to-Be Prefers Men!

Now James felt really bad.

There’d been a time right after their breakup when he’d been mad enough to want Chloe’s heart broken, but this seemed unreasonably harsh. If it was even true. Most of the stuff in these rags wasn’t, after all.

“Mr. Elliott?” The puzzled voice of the newspaper vendor, Vince, interrupted him. “You want one of those tabloids today?”

“What?” He looked at the man who’d been selling him financial news for years. Nothing but financial news. “Of course not. I was just … waiting to pay.”

Vince shrugged like he didn’t believe a word of it, then said, “Hot story this morning. We usually don’t get anything good that normal people care about during Fashion Week. But a girl-on-girl brawl over two men … that’s hot!”

“Chloe and that model got into it?”

“Who?”

“The wedding dress designer.”

“Yeah.” Vince nodded enthusiastically. “Right there on the runway, I heard. Hope somebody got video. I could get into that. You know that girl? Chloe?”

“Used to,” he admitted. What the hell? It was Vince. They were morning newsstand buddies.

“She looks kind of mousy in most of the pictures,” Vince said. “Like that Eloise chick could tear her apart if she wanted to.”

James would never have said Chloe was mousy. She liked to pretend she was tough as nails and incredibly self-sufficient, especially when it came to her career. But when it came to her personal life, she could be sweet, gentle, vulnerable at times, fun, full of life, until she drove a man absolutely crazy. None of that equated to mousiness.

Although he had to admit, in the brawl photos, she looked tiny and sad standing there dejectedly on the sidelines. It looked like her show had been ruined, and she’d been working her whole life for a chance like that. She’d wanted it more than she’d wanted him, that was for sure. And it had just burned him up at the time.

“Sure you don’t want one of those?” Vince asked, pointing at the tabloids. “They’ve got more pictures inside.”

“No, thanks.” No way he was going to buy that on the street. He’d swipe his assistant’s copy.

Strolling into his office on the twenty-sixth floor, he greeted his secretary and his secretary’s secretary and then asked Marcy, his assistant, to come into his office, a large, starkly bare room with a massive, gleaming wooden desk, big, cushy leather chairs and an expansive view all the way down to New York Harbor and Battery Park.

He believed in order, discipline, control, hard work and the power of his own mind. People called him a financial genius, and he just smiled and went on with his work. While the current times were challenging, they certainly hadn’t caught him by surprise, and he was doing just fine while others around him floundered. Never believe the hype about anything—especially the economy—he always told people. The philosophy had served him well.

He wondered now if he’d hyped the whole idea of Chloe in his mind to an impossible level. He couldn’t have been as happy with her as he remembered or as miserable without her, he told himself.

And he wasn’t obsessing.

Just … curious.

“Mr. Elliott? Are you feeling all right?” Marcy asked.

“Of course,” he claimed, then couldn’t quite bring himself to ask for what he really wanted. He cleared his throat, adjusted his tie, frowned. “I just … I need … I want to see your copy of the New York Mirror.”

Marcy sputtered. Her eyes got all big and round and then her cheeks turned red. “But I don’t—”

“Oh, yes, you do. I know you have that thing, and I want it—”

“But why?”

“You know why. I’d bet a thousand dollars you know exactly why.”

She looked truly flustered then, but didn’t deny either having the damned thing or knowing why he wanted it. She’d come to work for him in the immediate post-Chloe era. He’d been in a truly ugly mood for weeks, and had ended up springing for unscheduled bonuses to her and a handful of other staff members forced to put up with him, as a way of saying he was sorry.

“Okay. I’ll go get it,” Marcy said, turning on her heel and heading out.

“And don’t you dare tell anyone!” he yelled as she opened the door, his secretary and his secretary’s secretary peering through, looking worried.

Great. Just great.

Marcy came back with the tabloid carefully rolled up tightly so no one could see what it was. At least she was embarrassed to have it. She scowled as she handed it to him, then reached over to type something into his computer.

“You’ll want the tabloid for the photos, but the best written account is here.” She pointed to a blog now up on his computer screen, then retreated from his office in an embarrassed huff.

James glanced through the tabloid photos, grimacing at what he saw, then turned to the blog.

The Bride Blog: News of all things bridal.

Bridal Brawl Breaks Out at NY Fashion Week!

Talk about a Bridal Nightmare!

Forget the bridesmaids! It’s the other men modern-day brides have to worry about, as we saw in the amazing brawl that broke out at New York Fashion Week.

Wedding dress designer Chloe Allen, plucked from obscurity mere months ago when gorgeous pop star Jaden Lawrence got married in a Chloe gown, was having her first showing at Fashion Week when everything suddenly went horribly wrong.

It seems Chloe’s fiancé, veteran fashion photographer Bryce Gorman, just couldn’t keep his hands off the male model posing as the groom to model extraordinaire Eloise’s bride at what was to be the climax of the show.

And what a climax it turned out to be!

One doesn’t think of models like the beautiful Eloise as the kind to ever worry about losing a man to anyone, but lose him she did, and she clearly put the blame on Bryce Gorman.

Eloise jumped him—literally—designer wedding gown and all. She wrapped those incredibly long legs around his waist and held on tight, her long, pale pink fingernails clawing at his face, supposedly drawing blood.

Bryce swung around trying to dislodge her, as her long train and veil floated around them in an odd mélange of satin, lace and bridal horror that will not soon be forgotten.

So far the only video clips of the scene have been particularly unsatisfying. (A free bridal bouquet to the first person who sends a good video of the bridal brawl to this blog.)

Meanwhile, traumatized brides, especially the ones closest to their big day, have been writing to the Bride Blog like mad to say they’re keeping a close eye on those groomsmen and any close friends of their grooms.

It seems that old nightmare of standing at the altar, surrounded by friends and family, and finding out at the last minute that the groom had a little fling with one of the bridesmaids has been replaced with the modern-day equivalent.

The groom doing another man!

Chloe woke from her post-apocalyptic haze the day after the show, praying it had all been a horrible nightmare and that she could do it all over again. Even for her—a woman who liked to think of herself as highly creative—the previous day had been outlandishly bad.

She looked up and there was Addie, whom Chloe claimed as a half sister, although no one had ever done the paternity tests to be sure. Chloe’s father had slept with Addie’s mother at about the right time, and that was enough for the two of them, who found each other much more reliable than their father.

“Tell me it didn’t really happen,” Chloe begged.

“Oh, honey. I wish I could.” Addie sat down on the bed, her back against the headboard, offering Chloe a shoulder if she needed it.

Chloe leaned her head on Addie’s shoulder and thought this had to be the absolute worst day of her life. Yesterday had been horrible, but her family had closed in around her, gotten her out of the tent and then poured drinks down her throat until everything became a blur.

Today, she didn’t have the luxury of alcohol or denial. “I thought he was the one,” she cried.

“I know, sweetie.”

Addie, kindly, did not point out that Chloe always believed every new man in her life was the one. She wasn’t stupid, just ever hopeful. At least that’s what Chloe tried to tell herself. Although after being engaged three times and never making it to the altar, it was getting harder and harder to believe.

Her family loved weddings. They married over and over again. And the wedding was always the high point. All their relationships went downhill from there. Chloe thought she was breaking the pattern thus far by not marrying, but even that hadn’t protected her from her own unique wedding curse.

There was Fiancé No. 1, her high school sweetheart. Chloe liked to think they’d merely been too young to know what they wanted, no giant failure there or any kind of sign.

Bryce, No. 3, was sexy, fun, confident and in the business, someone who understood exactly what it took to be a success. He had come along at the perfect time.

When Chloe was just getting over No. 2.

Addie said that timing was the only reason Chloe ever gave Bryce the time of day, but Chloe truly didn’t think so. She wouldn’t fall for one man to the point of becoming engaged to him—all just to get over another man, would she?

No. 2—although he would absolutely hate being thought of as second in anything—was James Elliott IV, one of the most eligible bachelors in New York, according to several magazine lists. Chloe didn’t talk about No. 2.

“Wait a minute,” Addie said, pouncing on her. “You’re not even thinking about Bryce. You’re thinking about … the other one!”

“Am not,” Chloe claimed.

“You are so!”

“Well, now I am! Why did you have to say that?”

“Because you got that look. That look you only get when you’re thinking about him! About—”

“Don’t say it! Don’t you dare say his name!”

“About good old No. 2,” Addie said, looking quite smug about it.

“Haven’t I been through enough humiliation already?” Chloe asked. “Without going into my long list of failures with men?”

“True,” Addie agreed. “Sorry.”

Chloe frowned. She hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet, and already the day looked bleak. While her personal life might be truly disastrous, she’d always been so much better at managing her professional life. The fact that the two had now become entwined, her personal life mess spilling over into a huge career mess, was more than a little unsettling.

“Okay, how bad is it this morning?” Chloe asked. “Everyone saw … everything yesterday?”

“And got pictures, I’m afraid,” Addie admitted.

Chloe groaned, seeing the explosion of camera flashes in her face once again.

“There are people who claim all publicity is good publicity,” Addie tried.

“You’ve never been one of those people,” Chloe reminded her.

“I could have been wrong about that all this time.”

Not likely, but Chloe loved her for saying so.

“Okay, here it is.” Addie spilled the ugly truth: “You’re front-page news in all the tabloids today.”

Chloe winced.

“A feat normally achieved only by celebrities and politicians in the midst of major sex scandals,” she added.

“And here I never set that as one of my career goals.”

“On the bright side, your name is out there once again.”

“Except now I’ve designed a dress for a wedding nightmare—”

Addie looked horrified. “Don’t say that! Don’t you ever say that! Women get a little crazy about their weddings. A little … weird and controlling and fanatical and superstitious. You know that! They’re all worried some disaster will strike.”

“Exactly. And when they think of getting married in a Chloe original, they’ll think disaster, guaranteed!”

“Chloe, I swear, never, ever say that again. Do you hear me? It’s like tempting the Wedding Gremlins to attack.”

“They already attacked! I mean, my fiancé was doing the groom. What else could possibly happen?”

“Oh, my God!” Addie crossed herself in horror. “Never, ever, ever, ever say that! The moment women start to believe your dresses are bad luck, you’re dead as a wedding dress designer. We are happy people who sell wedding dreams. We believe in love, fairy tales, happily-ever-afters and all that crap.”

“Okay!” Chloe said obediently. She could always count on Addie for a pep talk. “Sorry. I just had a bad moment, but I’m done now.”

“Fine, but it can’t go out of this room.”

“Of course not,” Chloe said, then had a flash of her sobbing, drinking and talking to someone. She had that same really icky feeling she’d had before the runway show, when she just knew something would go wrong.

Had she done something last night? Other than have a little too much to drink and cry a bit? She didn’t think so, but she really couldn’t remember.

Must have been a bad dream, she decided.

After all, her fiancé was sleeping with the groom.

What could possibly top that?

Addie left, and Chloe lay there in her bed a moment longer, working up the courage to face the day. Weariness weighed her down. She let her eyes drift shut and her mind float into that never-never land between real sleep and a groggy kind of wakefulness.

She was at the bar, last night but not really last night. She’d laughed, cried, gone over her entire, dreary history with men, and then, just when things seemed their bleakest, she’d looked to the end of the bar, and he’d been there.

Not Bryce.

James.

Chloe groaned, half in pain and half in longing, knowing she was crazy even for dreaming of him.

He looked so good. But then, James always had.

He could have been a model himself, although he hated to hear it. In fact, they’d met when Chloe had mistaken him for a model late for one of her shows. He had that rare quality of being an absolutely beautiful man, but still looking unmistakably masculine, as so few models did.

In the bar, he walked over to her, looking at her with the kind of understanding and concern that made her ache. Then he reached out with one of those perfect hands of his and wiped away her tears. And in the kindest move of all, put his beautiful body between her and the rest of the room, creating a tiny, safe space for her when she was so miserable she just wanted to curl up into a little ball and disappear.

He smelled so good, the way he always did. He’d admitted with a reluctance that bordered on pain that he still thought about her, that he missed her and that he just had to come see for himself that she was all right.

It was ridiculous.

Even in her dream, she realized that.

James Elliott was too proud, too stubborn and too independent to ever admit he missed anyone. But it was a lovely dream, bittersweet and achingly real.

Then she woke up once again, not twenty minutes later, in her bed, yet still very much inside her very own nightmare as fashion runway roadkill.

James fought the impulse all day, but nightfall found him standing on the corner across the street from the big, old Victorian near Prospect Park in Brooklyn that Chloe shared with her various relatives, who all worked for her in the first-floor showroom.

He stared up at the window of the small attic she’d turned into a tiny apartment for herself, where she had some measure of privacy. This after fighting with himself all day about coming anywhere near here.

It felt weirdly stalkerish to be there, just looking up at her window, and he was a man who did not stalk women. He just needed to know she was okay.

Which he couldn’t tell from simply staring at her house.

Still, he felt a little better, just being this close to her.

He waited until the last light went out in her little attic, saw the slightest impression of her, he thought, ghostlike against the sheer curtains, as she walked across the room. He imagined her climbing into bed, her toes cold, letting her warm them on his, his hands hot against her cool, pale skin, tangling in her glorious hair.

So many nights they’d spent that way, together in that room.

He couldn’t have her back, he told himself.

He’d made her crazy, and she’d done the same to him. He was as logical a man as there was on earth, and he knew without a doubt that no one needed to be hurt like that a second time.

So once the light was out, and he knew she was safe in her bed, at least for the night, he turned around and went home, swearing to himself that he wouldn’t be back.

Chapter Two

The next morning, James faced the newsstand, hoping to see the usual mix of tabloid headlines screaming about drunken celebrities, corrupt politicians, alien sightings and baseball players on steroids.

No such luck.

That crazy model, Eloise, was back on the covers, in handcuffs, still wearing the wedding dress, her hair going every which way, mascara-streaked tears on her cheek, maybe a few drops of blood on the gown? The bridezilla label had been picked up by every tabloid he saw, now in this humongous font with letters the color of blood.

James winced as he stood there. Bridezilla? Had someone climbed a skyscraper in a bloody wedding gown and swatted at things? He didn’t think so.

What about Chloe? He scanned the news. Supposedly in a fit of rage, she’d destroyed every gown in her showroom with a huge pair of scissors. No way James believed that. She loved the clothes she made too much to ever destroy them, and Chloe didn’t do fits of rage. She just didn’t.

James got to the front of the line to hand over his money for his Wall Street Journal, and Vince said, “Your girl is back.”

“Yeah, I see that.”

“One of my customers just told me about this great video of the whole runway brawl,” Vince confided. “YouTube, that thing the kids like on the computer? Type in ‘Runway Brawl,’ and it’s supposed to come right up.”

James nodded. He wouldn’t be able to help himself. “I’ll do that, Vince.”

When he got to the office, he glared at Marcy, then gave a curt nod for her to follow him into his office. “People are online watching a video of the brawl at Chloe’s show?”

“More than a hundred thousand people so far,” Marcy said.

James grimaced. A hundred thousand? “Someone’s keeping a count?”

“Of course. At the rate the video’s being downloaded, it could go viral at any time.”

Which would be bad for Chloe. “We need to stop that from happening.”

“You can’t stop it. It’s already out there. It has a life of its own now.”

“There has to be a way,” he argued.

Marcy shrugged. “Maybe if Angelina Jolie actually left Brad Pitt or something equally earth-shattering.”

James sighed. “I guess we can’t make that happen.”

“I can’t. Unless you know how to find them, and you want to make a play for Angelina. I guess if you wanted me to do my best to seduce Brad … I mean, if you ordered me to, I’d have to do it for you.”

James considered. “You’re telling me you’d seduce Brad Pitt for me?”

“I’m a team player, sir,” she claimed.

“Well, it’s good to know you’re willing, Marcy, if it ever comes to that.”

“Yes, sir.” Marcy made a face. “I’m afraid there’s something else you need to know. Adam Landrey called. He said to tell you Chloe’s company needs another infusion of cash.”

James tried not to show anything in his face. “How much?”

“Six figures, at least.” Marcy clearly disapproved. “You broke up with the woman, sold your interest to your friend, then guaranteed he wouldn’t lose any money on the deal? You guaranteed his losses?”

“What if I did?” James argued.

“The two of you broke up!” Marcy repeated.

“I remember. Very well, thank you.” He glared at her. “Your point?”

“Are you going to treat me this well if I leave you?” Marcy asked. “Because I’ve never had a guy be that nice to me after I left him.”

“Leave me now, Marcy, or you might find out how badly I’ll treat you.”

She made a face, but left his office, closing the door behind her.

James went for the computer, found the video as easily as Vince said he would. It was like rubbernecking a particularly brutal car accident, except this accident involved someone he knew. Poor Chloe.

He picked up the phone to call Adam. When James and Chloe had broken up, she’d wanted him out, as an investor, immediately, and people weren’t lining up to take a risk in the fashion industry. James felt bad about the way things ended between them. He felt guilty and couldn’t bear to see her lose her design business, too. The only way he could get someone to take over his investment was to guarantee any losses the new investor might suffer.

Something Chloe would definitely not be happy about, even now, if she found out. It made James sound like some kind of controlling, overbearing, interfering man—all of which she’d accused him of being, when all he’d been trying to do was help. He was, after all, a brilliant businessman. What kind of a fiancé would he be if he didn’t help her? Chloe was brilliant herself, but creatively, fashionably. She didn’t have a businesslike bone in her body.

But all that was old news. Chloe should definitely be old news to him.

As long as nothing else really bad happened, she would be.

The Bride Blog: News of all things bridal.

Wedding Dress Designer Chloe’s Shocking Video Confession: She Never Really Believed in Love.

After three failed engagements, did she put a secret curse on all her gowns? So that no one else gets a happily-ever-after, either?

The question on the minds of brides-to-be everywhere: How could anyone marry in a Chloe gown and ever think their love will last?

Word is that brides are storming Chloe’s showroom in Brooklyn, demanding to return their dresses and to get their money back, much like the old-fashioned run on a failing bank.

How long can the House of Chloe hold out?

Time will tell, dear brides.

Time will tell.

Addie was scared to go downstairs that morning. They hadn’t actually had hordes of angry brides demanding refunds so far, but they’d had enough to scare Addie. What would they find today, after the latest Bride Blog piece, and a new video of Chloe, drunk in the bar the night of the bridal brawl, talking about her diastrous three engagements and claiming she never believed in love? Chloe even described herself as “cursed in love” in the new video. So Addie was scared to even look outside.

She crept into the showroom without turning on any of the lights and peeked out between the window blinds in the corner farthest from the door, and there stood … one, two, three hysterical-looking brides already, bridal garment bags in hand, no doubt the much-feared, supposedly cursed wedding dresses inside, ready to be returned.

“Oh, my God!” Addie cried, then crept away from the window, for fear that they would see her.

They weren’t even supposed to open the store until noon. This was the day they stayed open until 8:00 p.m., for brides-to-be who worked all day, and it was barely 9:00 a.m. now. They were about to be overrun, all because of that stupid Bride Blog woman!

James wasn’t surprised later that morning to see Adam looking a little uncomfortable across the breakfast table, saying he was sorry, but he just couldn’t put any more money into Chloe’s business right now. Another friend had already clued James in to the fact that Adam himself was not in the best financial shape at the moment. Hardly anyone was.

“I’ll take care of it.” James held out a checkbook for his personal account.

“If that’s what you want.” Adam looked like he was dying to ask what James was doing, bailing out a woman who’d dumped him a year and a half ago.

Fair question, and not one James cared to answer for anyone, not even to himself. He shrugged, tried to play it off and said, “She’s great in bed.”

Adam looked like he didn’t believe that reason at all, but volunteered, “I wouldn’t know about that.”

“Good,” James said, ridiculously happy to hear it.

“I mean, she’s adorable, funny, seems very sweet, obviously unusually talented and driven when it comes to her work.”

James nodded. She was. What could he say? He hated the idea of her being hurt, of her losing her business, losing her dream. Other than that … he just didn’t know.

As James handed his check to Adam, Marcy burst in, looking absolutely petrified. “There’s a riot at Chloe’s!”

James gaped at her. “Riot!”

Marcy nodded frantically. “That Bridal Blog lady? She said there’s a riot breaking out at Chloe’s store right now. Disgruntled brides storming the place, wanting their money back for the cursed dresses. It’s all over Twitter. I thought you’d want to know right away.”

He did. He’d ordered Marcy to keep him updated on the Chloe situation. But now that he knew this, he should probably run in the opposite direction. His life had gotten weird from the moment she came back into it. Not that she was truly in his life again. It just felt like it. From the distance of cyberspace, his favorite corner newsstand and that one night on the street corner across from her house, she was having her strange effect.

And he was afraid he liked it. He’d liked it the first time. Life had been interesting, surprising, even felt a little … fun. He could have that again. She was in trouble, and he was going to help her. Crazy as it was, it was what he’d wanted from the moment he’d looked up and seen her face on those stupid tabloid covers.

“I’m going over there,” he said, feeling better than he had in ages.

Now that James had given in, he couldn’t get to Chloe fast enough.

“She makes me a little crazy,” he confessed to Adam, who’d gotten into the taxi with James, probably to see just how crazy James was. Over a woman.

“Chloe’s a very interesting person,” Adam said carefully.

“She is. I just need to make sure she’s okay,” James claimed, which was so obviously a lie. He was acting like a madman over her.

“Hey, I like Chloe. She’s great,” Adam began.

“You swear you never slept with her?” James just couldn’t help but ask.

“I swear. My life is screwed up enough—”

He broke off as James scowled at him.

“I mean, complicated. My life is really complicated. The last thing I need is to get involved with any woman. Even one as interesting and cute as Chloe.”

“Okay,” James said, satisfied for the moment on that count.

After about twenty minutes, he looked out the car window, and there, a block away, was Chloe’s shop, that huge, old Victorian where she lived with her two cousins and Addie. He saw some kind of commotion out front and two, no, three camera crews and some of those big, tall lights the TV people used when they filmed things.

James charged into the mass of crazy, garment-bag-wielding brides, just as one of them drew back to take a swing at Chloe, who looked like a waif in her pajama bottoms and one of those stretchy little spaghetti-strap tops she liked to sleep in.

He thought those were the sexiest things he’d ever seen.

Especially when she wore one of those tops and nothing else except a little scrap of lacy panties. Chloe at her softest, most inviting, rumpled best.

God, he’d missed her!

Just then, another bride took a swing at her with her garment bag. The blow sent her stumbling backward. James stepped in and caught her hard against him, feeling a huge surge of relief, just having his arms around her. She went limp like she suddenly didn’t have any bones and looked absolutely stunned, either from the blow or seeing him, he couldn’t be sure. He lifted her up into his arms, glaring at the garment-bag-slinging woman, daring her or anyone else to come close to Chloe now that he had her.

Chloe reached out a hand to ever so lightly touch the side of his face, like she needed to know he was real. “James?”

“It’s okay,” he said, tucking her face against his chest, trying to reassure himself that she was truly okay. “I’ve got you.”

When he lifted his head, he realized the crowd had quieted, finally.

They were all staring at him and her, and he realized there were a few still photographers there and that they were clicking away at the scene.

He didn’t care.

“What the hell is going on here?” he asked, spotting Chloe’s half sister, who’d always been the sanest one of the family.

“They want their money back for their dresses,” she said, glaring at him.

“Write them checks, if that’s what it takes to get them to leave,” he said.

“I’ll take care of it,” said Adam, who’d fought his way to James’s side. Adam, who had a check James had just written in the car, a check with lots of zeroes on it. Let everyone think Adam was covering the new debts, too. James would find a way to explain exactly what was going on to Chloe later.

His first thought was to get her away from this crowd, inside, maybe even carry her upstairs to her cute, quirky attic apartment, where he’d bumped his head on the low, sloped ceilings more than once. To the big cream-colored iron bed he used to share with her.

He hesitated, wondering if he was making a mistake by not taking her to his apartment in the city. Here she could kick him out whenever she pleased. When she got her second wind, she’d start her whole I-don’t-need-anyone routine. But he couldn’t risk giving this mob a second chance at her. That settled it. He took her inside.

Reluctantly, he set Chloe on her feet just inside the doorway. She seemed so slight standing there in front of him, so sad and defeated. He put his hand to the side of her face, tilting it up toward the light.

“Is it just this?” he asked, finding a slight swelling at her cheekbone. “Or are you hurt anywhere else?”

“I’m fine,” she insisted.

But her face was pale as could be, a few tiny, light brown freckles that he knew she hated spread across her nose and cheeks. He used to tease her that her freckles looked like fairy dust and kiss each one. God, he’d lost his head completely over this woman the first time and was clearly in danger of doing the same thing again.

He couldn’t help it.

He leaned down, his face lingering against hers, the tip of his nose pressed against her skin, soaking in the sweet, wild essence of Chloe, drawing his other hand through her pretty blond hair. It was even longer than it used to be and hanging loose and messy, the way he remembered it from rare mornings when she’d arisen from her bed before he left.

She was not a morning person, had always said she did her best work late at night. He didn’t mind. It was fine to get up and dressed and be able to stand there and stare at her in a rumpled bed, her hair all wild around her face, those little sprinkles of fairy dust on her bare cheeks.

How had he ever managed to drag himself away?

How would he do it again?

Was he not going to think of saving himself from her a second time? Self-preservation was usually one of his strong suits. But he just couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment.

He picked her up once again and carried her upstairs.

Chloe was still thinking it all had to be a dream.

Monkeys escaped from zoos at times and attacked people. Bears walked out of the woods and into camping areas. Every now and then an elephant got loose from its ankle stakes.

But who got attacked by crazy, garment-bag-wielding brides?

Didn’t happen.

She’d never heard of it happening, never read about it, never imagined it. What made it even more improbable was that James Elliott IV would show up, charge into the crowd and rescue her from them. Yet, in her muddled mind, that’s what had happened.

He laid her gently on the unmade bed in her little attic apartment, then sat down by her side, looking concerned and strong and tall and absolutely gorgeous.

She whimpered and then said, “Pinch me.”

He frowned, touched his hand to the side of her face, feeling the spot where she thought the shoes in one of the brides’ garment bags had gotten her. “Do you need a doctor? I’ll take you.”

“No, I mean … I think I’m dreaming …” Then thought how that might sound to him.

I was dreaming you came charging to my rescue, after a year without a word from you …?.

No, not going there.

Not with James, especially if he really was here.

“I dreamed I was being attacked by brides with bouquets,” she said.

Which had him looking even more concerned. “Flowers? Chloe, those were garment bags—”

“No, I know that! I’m just confused,” she said. “Not in that concussion sort of way. In that this-is-really-weird kind of way. You know?”

“Yes,” he agreed, still looking worried.

God, he smelled so good, so familiar.

Chloe winced.

Not now. Her life was falling apart already. She could not do this now with him. She looked at him warily.

Collapsing in his arms the minute she saw him again was not how she’d ever imagined any reunion they might have. She was supposed to look her best, maybe all done up for a show, and he was supposed to look bleak and sad and lonely without her. He was supposed to say he missed her terribly, that he had never stopped thinking about her.

That’s how it was supposed to go.

“All of that really happened just now?” she asked him.

“Yeah, it did.”

“Pinch me,” she said. “I have to be sure.”

James smiled for the first time since she’d seen him again, looking heartbreakingly sexy and so appealing she thought about dragging him down into the bed with her right that minute.

“I’m not going to pinch you,” he whispered, ever so slowly lowering his head to hers.

Her whole body started trembling before he even touched her, and she could have stopped it. Truly, she had time. And some sense of self-preservation that was still alive inside of her.

After all, her most recent ex-fiancé had just been outed as a sometimes-gay man, having an affair with Chloe’s model’s boyfriend, outed on the runway at her Fashion Week show. Even Chloe, stupid as she could be about men, knew that the last thing she needed was for James Elliott to kiss her, even just once.

But he’d charged to her rescue like Prince Charming, saving her from hysterical, rioting brides, after all. She still wasn’t convinced this was real. So she let him kiss her. It wasn’t the stupidest thing she’d done lately, and it was one thing she actually wanted to happen.

He let his whole body sink into hers, those chiseled abs, the hard chest, wide shoulders. They sank into the feather mattress on her bed like they used to do. He’d loved this bed with her in it. She whimpered, a rush of hurt and longing washing over her, sending her arms around his shoulders and pulling him closer.

“Don’t be scared,” he said, tenderly, sweetly, his mouth merely a breath from hers.

And then he finally closed that last bit of distance between them, his lips soft and firm, heartbreakingly familiar, and yet as tentative as he’d ever been with her. As if he knew how much this meant to her, and he truly didn’t want to hurt her. As if he knew what they were both risking, and yet just couldn’t stop himself.

She let her eyes drift shut, drew in that wonderful man scent of his. Her hands came up to frame his face, to slide into his hair. He had beautiful, thick black hair. He took his time with the kiss, didn’t attack with his mouth as so many men did. He coaxed. He soothed. He smiled against her mouth, teasing ever so softly with his tongue, while she wanted to open up and devour him whole.

He had to know that.

It had always been that way between them.

He took little nibbles of her, her mouth, her ear, her neck, back to her mouth, so carefully, so sweetly, with a kind of power and control that drove her crazy at the same time it left her in complete awe of him.

He could seem so cool, so reasonable, so strong. Was this some sort of game to him, a corporate takeover he’d planned out in minute detail and executed to perfection? But then she caught a glimpse of his face, his eyes, and she saw. He was burning up inside, as desperate for her as she was for him.

Was he still desperate for her? Had he missed her? Thought about her? Could he possibly want her back? At this, the worst moment in her life?

She lay there beneath him, in complete awe, her head still spinning, that perfect, hot, hard body of his pressing into hers, which was positively purring with pleasure.

He’d finally stopped teasing. Now he was kissing her for real, his body thrusting ever so slightly against hers in time with the thrust of his tongue in her mouth, everything about this, about him, as exciting as ever.

He could have her clothes off in seconds. She knew it. She could be naked beneath him, wrap her legs around him, open herself up to him in every way, and he could be inside of her, hers again, at least for a few moments. She wanted it, and so did he.

It would be so easy, and so good.

And then they’d be right back to where they’d started, everything that had gone wrong between them still there for them to deal with. She couldn’t trust him. She knew it. She’d caught him with a model named Giselle, seen it with her own two eyes, and that had finally been the end of her and James.

Chloe drew in a big breath of him, of everything he was, everything she felt, everything she’d missed so much about him, and somehow found the strength to turn her head away, to break the kiss, kill the moment.

He went still on top of her, slowly raised his head and looked down at her, passion blazing from his dark, beautiful eyes, along with a million questions. And he had that dazed look that had her thinking he was as confused as she was.

Had this really happened? Were they sure it wasn’t all a dream? A bizarre but very good one?

“You saved me from the brides?” she asked tentatively.

He cocked his head to the side, looking truly worried, then carefully, slowly, raised himself off her to sit by her side. His hand came to her face, tenderly working its way over her head, his eyes searching.

“Chloe, are you hurt?”

“No,” she whispered. “Not really. I was dreaming about my show. Did you see the video? It’s all over the internet. Everyone’s watching.”

“Yes, I saw it.”

“The way Bryce kept turning in a circle to try to get away from Eloise’s fingernails, and how her veil floated around them in circles, so you saw the whole thing through this gauzy haze, even the blood?”

“Yes.”

“If they made horror movies for fashion designers and brides, that’s what it would look like.”

“Chloe, you’re scaring me,” he said.

“And that dress? I loved that dress. I loved it more than any other dress I’ve ever designed, because I looked great in that dress. That was going to be my wedding dress. Why did it have to be that dress Eloise was wearing when it happened?”

“I don’t know, Chloe. I’m really sorry. About everything.”

“All I have left is the sleeve. Bryce grabbed at Eloise to get her off of him, and all he got was the sleeve. He just ripped it off the dress. Robbie found it on the runway after everyone left and brought it back to me. It’s all I have.”

“You made it once. You can make it again,” he tried.

“No. Not after what happened. It’s cursed, too, like me.”

“Chloe, you are not cursed,” he insisted. “You know that.”

“My poor dress. Do you think it ended up in jail with Eloise? Because I just hate thinking about that beautiful dress being dragged across that filthy floor at the jail. Do you think maybe you can bail a dress out of jail? And leave the person wearing it there?”

“Chloe?” He looked really scared then, like she was freaking him out. She tried to get up, but he wouldn’t let her. “Not now, okay? The brides are still downstairs. We need to wait a while, until they leave.”

“Okay. I don’t want to see them again. They were mean brides.”

“Chloe, did any of them hit you? Other than the one who got you here?” He touched her poor cheek. “Did anyone hit your head?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“I think so.” She was with him, in her bed, even though that made no sense. “In my house. In my bed.”

He smiled encouragingly. “Good. You scared me for a minute.”

So it had happened. It was real.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered.

Why was he here? Why did he care? Why was he being so nice to her? Why had he kissed her like that? She thought he hated her, if he felt anything at all for her anymore. She’d hated him as best she could for as long as she could, because that was the best way to get over him, to try to forget him. Not that it had worked all that well.

“Chloe, have you been getting any sleep the last few days?” he asked, looking like he wanted to haul her off to the hospital and have her head examined, at the very least.

“Not much,” she admitted. “I keep having nightmares. Very strange nightmares.”

“Okay, maybe you just really need to sleep,” he said, forcing a smile. “How about this? You stay here, close your eyes, and I’ll stay right here until you go to sleep.”

He took a couple of pillows and piled them up against the headboard, kicked off his shoes, pulled off his tie and suit coat, then sat down on her bed, settling her against his side, her head against his chest.

“I just … I don’t understand,” she said one more time.

“I know. Just go to sleep. I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

It was the sweetest, most welcome thing he could have offered her. Rest, peace, safety, with him right beside her, watching out for her, just like in her dream.

He waited until she was asleep, and then waited a little bit longer, taking it all in. Being in her bed again, kissing her, holding her, wanting her so bad he ached with it. The smell of her, the joy, the absolute chaos, all still there, all just the same.

Except she was more vulnerable now than she’d ever been, and he’d come charging in like a man who had every right to be here and to protect her, sweeping her off her feet and fighting his way through a frenzied matrimonial mob to save her.

It was the charging-in thing, the every-right-to-be-there thing she’d most certainly object to, once she wasn’t dazed and sleep-deprived and maybe concussed. He hadn’t been able to find any evidence of a head injury, but she certainly seemed a little out of it, even for Chloe.

James was tempted to stay with her, but he had no idea what might still be happening with the riot downstairs. So, though it was the last thing he wanted to do, he disentangled himself as gently as he could, leaving her asleep, curled up against a pillow instead of him. He tucked covers around her like she was a child who needed to be protected from the cold, smoothed down her hair, kissed her forehead.

Then he dragged himself away.

Downstairs in the kitchen he found Addie and Chloe’s twin cousins, Robbie and Connie. Adam was still there, too.

They all looked up as James entered, giving him the thorough once-over. Too late, he straightened his tie, smoothed down his jacket and then his hair, trying not to look like a man who’d just crawled out of bed. Oh, well.

“Is she all right?” Addie asked finally, clearly having a hard time believing what she was seeing.

James nodded. “She’s asleep. Did she get hit on the head?”

They discussed it for a moment, then determined that no one had actually seen Chloe take such a blow.

“She was confused,” James said.

“She might still think this whole morning was a nightmare,” Robbie said, then looked at James, and mouthed, “I didn’t mean seeing you, exactly, was a nightmare—”

“It’s all right,” James said.

Had she kissed him back only because she’d thought she was dreaming and been confused about who he was? James had no way of knowing, so he concentrated on the business at hand.

“You took care of that crazy mob?” he asked.

Addie nodded, looking from James to Adam and then back to James, like she knew they were both up to something. “We wrote a lot of checks.”

“Okay,” James said, as if that settled that. If there was going to be a fight about the money, it was between him and Chloe, no one else. “I think you should post a security guard outside for the next day or so. You don’t know if you’ve reached the end of the crazy brides. We don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

He realized, too late once again, that it wasn’t his decision to make, and looked at Adam to save him.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Adam said. “I’ll just have to find—”

“I know someone,” James said, pulling out his phone. “Good guy.”

“Good,” Adam said. “Thank you.”

Addie had obviously heard enough. She turned to James and asked, “What are you doing here?”

“I was … with Adam,” James said. “We were having a business meeting nearby when we heard about the riot at Chloe’s. Adam was concerned, so he came over to make sure everyone was okay. And I came with him. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Addie laughed out loud. “What did you do to Chloe?”

“I just got her away from the mob out front and brought her upstairs to rest. Nothing more.”

“And she just fell asleep?” Robbie was indignant now.

“I didn’t hurt her,” he claimed. “I wouldn’t do that.”

But he had.

They knew it. He knew it, too.

She hurt me, too, dammit.

He thought it, but didn’t say it.

“She’s perfectly fine,” he insisted. “Just a little confused, and she said she hadn’t been getting much sleep since the runway thing.”

“You know about the runway thing?” Addie asked.

“Half the solar system knows about the runway thing,” he said, which was true. He just wasn’t normally in the half that followed tabloid news. But still … “Just let her rest. I’m going to call the security guy I know.”

“I won’t leave until a guard gets here,” Adam offered.

James was so grateful for the out, he could have kissed Adam for offering, but then everyone might think that for some reason every man Chloe was involved with eventually turned to other men, and that was publicity she certainly didn’t need. So James merely thanked Adam and left.

He’d lost his mind tonight.

That was the only explanation possible for all of this.

He went back to his office and forced himself to work until midnight, then went home and tossed and turned until he finally fell asleep.

Chapter Three

Chloe had no idea how long she slept, waking, if possible, even more disoriented than before. She’d barely turned over in her bed to squint at the clock, when her bedroom door opened slowly, quietly.

Addie and Robbie peeked in, whispering furiously to each other.

“I’m awake,” she said.

They nearly tripped over each other getting inside, then just stared at her like she might have dropped in from a spaceship or something. She looked down at herself in the bed. She was in her favorite sleep attire, cotton spaghetti-strap camisole and pajama bottoms, nothing out of the ordinary about that.

“What?” she finally asked.

“She’s dressed in her PJs,” Robbie said. “He wouldn’t … you know … and then dress her again afterward.”

“Maybe he didn’t take the time to undress her at all,” Addie argued. “It’s not like it’s completely necessary. Maybe he’s that kind of guy. You know. In. Out. Done. Over. Outta here.”

“I bet he’s better than that. You know. You can tell—”

“I can’t tell. How do you tell just from looking that a guy will take the time to undress you completely first?”

And then it was all starting to come back to Chloe.

The crazy brides with the bouquets, but really with garment bags, probably with shoes in them, because they were heavy. Especially when people were swinging them at her. And then … then …

“Oh, my God! He was here?” she cried.

Addie and Robbie fell silent and solemn, just looking at her.

She started gasping for breath. “I think I might hyperventilate. He was really here?”

They nodded.

“He saved me from the rioting brides?”

“He did,” Robbie confirmed. “It was like something out of Gone with the Wind. Rhett and Scarlett on the stairs and all.”

“James Elliott was here, and he carried me up the stairs? To my room? This room?” She tried breathing faster and faster, conscious but in that fuzzy-headed way of one who’s slept too long and can’t really wake up.

“We followed as soon as we could,” Robbie said.

James must have been here for a while. She vaguely remembered him touching her softly, sweetly, his body pressing hers down into the mattress, his mouth on hers, just as hot and sexy as ever.

Chloe lifted up the covers and peeked beneath them at herself. Yes, she was completely dressed, and he was definitely a man to completely undress a woman in those kinds of situations, though she wasn’t confirming or denying any of that to Addie or Robbie.

So, he’d just kissed her? And held her? And then left?

“How long was he in my room with me?” she asked finally.

“Thirty-seven and a half minutes,” Robbie said.

They’d timed the visit? Of course.

“We were thinking of breaking in—”

“Because we thought … I don’t know, maybe you’d lost your mind or something, and we should try to save you from yourself,” Addie finished. “Should we have been saving you from yourself?”

“Probably. Yes.” Then she had a new, even more horrible thought. “He knew why those crazy brides were here?”

“Oh, yeah.”

She looked up into their equally worried faces and felt anew the sinking feeling of complete humiliation. Not just the rest of the known world, but James, too, knew her ex No. 3 had a thing for men, and he’d been here to witness the aftermath of her latest disastrous relationship.

“What in the world was he doing here?” she asked finally.

“He said he was having a business meeting with Adam Landrey when they heard about the riot. Adam was here, too,” Addie told her.

“I still can’t believe it. It doesn’t make any sense.”

He was here? Yes, she could still smell him in her bed. That fresh, clean, citrusy smell of him. She thought she could feel his arms 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.

“I guess that would be less of a hassle than buying the damned magazine. When does the issue come out?”

“Next week. You’ll have to date fast.”

A very public girlfriend?

One of those women who needed three hours to pull herself together to walk out the door, who wanted every moment of her life gossiped about, speculated about and, best of all, captured on film.

Which made him think about Chloe. Vince had said that morning, Date her, you’re going to get your picture taken.

Chloe as his very public, fake girlfriend.

As if reading his mind, Marcy continued. “You’ve already got a good start on it. Your rescue of Ms. Allen was like something out of a fairy tale.” She sighed heavily. “It played very well in the blogs today, the way you took her in your arms and fought to get her to safety. People already want to know about the two of you.”

Marcy got a particularly dreamy look on her face. James didn’t want to admit that Chloe’s behavior might be attributable to a slight blow to the head that left her disoriented. It would ruin the whole fantasy–fairy tale element, and he’d seldom seen Marcy look so happy—and maybe a little goofy.

He feared he’d looked the same way when he’d finally seen Chloe the day before—just plain goofy-giddy-stupid with happiness. Hopefully Chloe was too confused to remember.

“Marcy, come back to me,” he said.

“Sorry. I was just thinking, from that photo, you might be able to convince people you and Ms. Allen have been seeing each other for a while, and that maybe she wasn’t engaged to that secretly gay photographer.”

Okay, James couldn’t deny that would be useful, if his purpose was truly to keep Chloe’s business from going under and maybe … to get to spend some time with Chloe while doing it. And he wanted some time with her. No lying to himself about that anymore. Or he was just nuts right now. Chloe Derangement Syndrome. He’d had it before.

“If anyone asks about Chloe and me, don’t deny it,” he told Marcy.

Marcy brightened instantly. “That you and Ms. Allen are involved?”

“Right. Tell them that we have been for a while.”

Marcy was positively rapturous now. James wouldn’t be surprised if Marcy had suggested this whole scheme because he and Chloe would end up in the tabloids some more. Marcy would love every moment of that.

“I want a full briefing on how the riot played in the blogs, the gossip sites…. You know, all that stuff.”

“Of course.” It was a dream-come-true assignment for Marcy.

“I have to go. Cancel my morning meetings. I’ll call you later about what to do with my afternoon schedule.”

He had to pitch the plan to Chloe. The one to save her business. She’d do anything to save her business, wouldn’t she?

Even pretend to be dating him again?

“He’s coming!” Addie whispered furiously to Chloe soon after they unlocked the salon doors that morning, happy to find no rioting brides and only a few tabloid photographers outside.

But now he was coming, and there was only one he, as far as she was concerned.

“How do I look?” Chloe asked, because she couldn’t help herself.

She was still seriously annoyed at how she’d just crawled out of bed, her hair a mess, still wearing her PJs, when he’d seen her yesterday. Every woman had fantasies of how great she’d look the next time a man who broke her heart saw her again, and in all the fantasies, she looked fabulous. He would be shocked at how good she looked, sad he ever lost her, and beg her to take him back. It was a universal female fantasy, and Chloe feared she didn’t look good enough for him this time, either.

“You’re good. You’re very good,” Addie said. “Just pinch your cheeks a little bit. You could use some more color. And wet your lips. That’s it. You want to look kissable. Very kissable.”

“I do?” Chloe wasn’t sure she could stand it if he kissed her.

“You’re right. It’s James. You don’t.”

Chloe sighed. “Why do you think he’s here?”

“I have no idea, but he photographs well, especially in rescue mode. So I think, despite everything else, we should be nice to him.”

“Okay. I can do that.”

“But not too nice,” Addie said. “I don’t want him to hurt you again.”

“Right. Me, either.” She was such a wimp where he was concerned. “Addie, I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Of course you can. You just had your whole career and your love life land in the toilet, and half the world saw photos and video of it, but you survived. You can handle seeing this man again.”

“You’re right.” He couldn’t possibly humiliate her as much as she’d already been humiliated. She had that going for her.

He walked in looking characteristically gorgeous and uncharacteristically unsure of himself. Or maybe he was afraid some disaster might strike at any moment, like the riot he’d been in the midst of the day before. Even Chloe was scared of walking into her own shop right now, so she could understand how he would be, too.

Addie gave her a smile and disappeared, probably just to the other side of the door of the showroom, if Chloe knew her sister. She’d be close if Chloe needed her—and she’d want to hear what James had to say.

Chloe summoned up every bit of courage and confidence she had and put a smile on her face as he slowly walked up to her. Hands stuffed into his pockets, he stood and smiled, just looking at her for a moment.

“Feeling better today, I hope?” he said finally.

She nodded, thinking she really didn’t have to speak just yet.

“Good. I was worried about you. You were kind of out of it last night.”

“Oh … well … the whole thing was pretty surreal.” The mob attack, seeing him again, having him lift her into his arms, carry her up the stairs, put her gently on her bed, kiss her so sweetly, let her fall asleep in his arms ….

“I imagine it must have been,” he agreed. “I mean, how many people get attacked by angry brides?”

“Even for me, that’s weird.” She’d always been a different sort of girl, and he knew it, even seemed to enjoy it at times.

“So, things are better today?” he asked. “No mad brides so far?”

“Not this morning.”

“Good. I was hoping some good would come of us making the cover of one of the tabloids.”

Chloe winced. “I am so sorry about that. I know how much you hate that sort of thing.”

He shrugged as if it meant nothing at all to him, when she knew it did. He was a man who liked his privacy, liked peace and quiet in order to be able to concentrate on what he truly enjoyed—his work. He was as much of a workaholic as she was. It had been one thing that worked for them—that devotion and understanding of ambition and long hours.

“I was afraid they were going to hurt you,” he said. “And I would never stand by and let someone hurt you, Chloe.”

She looked him in the eye then, surprised and terribly pleased.

“I mean…” He shrugged once again and smiled. “I wouldn’t just stand by and watch anyone get attacked like that.”

“Of course. I knew that. I knew … what you meant,” she lied. So all it had been was good manners and being in the right place at the right time?

“So,” he said finally. “Marcy says you and I are all over the internet gossip sites today. They liked the photo of us.”

“Marcy?” He had a girlfriend looking up everything she could find about him and Chloe on the net?

“My assistant. Brilliant woman. Wharton grad. Well-organized, efficient, careful. She just has a bad habit, embarrassing, really. She loves the tabloids. Please don’t tell her I told you so. She’d be horrified that anyone knew.”

Chloe laughed, trying to imagine anyone working for him and having a secret tabloid addiction.

“I know. It’s ridiculous, but there it is. I guess we all have our secret … weaknesses.”

Chloe wanted to hide. Was he talking about her? Did he know that he might be her most guilty secret of all? That her heart still did that crazy little jittery dance just seeing him again? And she was perfectly clearheaded today. She had no excuses.

“So, anyway,” he said, “Marcy says the photo of us seems to have stopped the worst of … you know? The stuff about you being cursed in love and your dresses being cursed.”

Okay, this was getting worse by the minute. “Well, I appreciate that. That the photograph did that. Thank you.”

He nodded, still looking uncomfortable.

What did he have to be uncomfortable about? His life seemed to be going along just fine, no scandals, no business on the verge of collapse, no humiliation.

“So … remember that silly … magazine list I made back when we were together?”

She frowned. “Up-and-Coming Young Businessmen of Manhattan?”

“No, the bachelor list.”

“The Single Woman’s Guide to Bachelor Hunting in New York?” He’d been outraged by the whole thing, and soon she’d hated it, too. All those women, so pretty, so polished, with money and breeding, seemingly so much more suited to a romance with him than she ever would be.

“Yeah. That.” He looked like it truly pained him. “It’s coming out again any day now, and … I’m afraid I’m going to be on it again.”

“Oh.” Of course he was. He was likely even more successful now than he had been before and still single, as far as she knew.

“So I’m probably going to have some photographers hounding me for a few weeks, like they did the last time.”

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