LITMIR.BIZ

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But Nancy Arnold was right. The concept of Allison’s Christmas Day wedding on the island tomorrow was wonderfully romantic. She just wished it didn’t require crossing the ice.

      But she was not, Lane promised herself, absolutely not going to be a coward about it. Anyway, not an obvious one. Allison deserved to have her special holiday wedding without anything spoiling it.

      The Arnolds wished the company a pleasant crossing and then retreated to their inn as the sleighs, decorated with wreaths for the occasion, arrived at the landing. The drivers began to load the luggage.

      The fifth member of the party, silent and bored until now, muttered, “Finally we get to go. My cheeks are frostbitten standing around on this dock. And I don’t mean the ones on my face.”

      Lane wasn’t surprised. Along with triple earrings in one of his earlobes and a badly scarred bomber jacket, fifteen-year-old Stuart Bauer wore the regulation torn jeans of a rebel teenager. The denim was so faded and thin that it barely covered his backside.

      Veronica Bauer, mother to both Stuart and Hale and the sixth member of the group, favored her younger son with an indulgent smile. “I wouldn’t count on that, Stuie.”

      Lane eyed the woman in her expensive mink coat, sensing she wasn’t the type to be concerned in the least about political correctness. Ronnie Bauer amazed her. She had to be well past fifty, but artful makeup and a head of glorious black hair took almost two decades off her age. That and a few surgical enhancements, Lane suspected. There was a flamboyant, hungry quality about Ronnie. Hale was plainly embarrassed by her, his much younger half brother barely tolerant.

      “Yeah?” Stuart challenged his mother. “How come?”

      “Because, pet,” she drawled, turning up the collar of her fur, “we’re still missing the best man. Or hasn’t anyone noticed?”

      Lane was confused. She knew that Dan Whitney, as a Wisconsin judge, was scheduled to marry his cousin and Hale tomorrow. She had assumed, therefore, that Stuart would serve as his half brother’s best man. This was the first she had heard about an addition to the party.

      And there it was again—Allison casting another of her swift glances in her direction. Lane was beginning to have a distinctly uneasy feeling.

      “Allison?” she softly questioned her friend.

      “He’ll get here,” Allison announced loudly to the company. “He promised.”

      She would say no more, but Lane noticed that the subject was completely uninteresting to Hale. Odd, since it was his best man they were discussing.

      The luggage was loaded by now. They spent another five minutes waiting on the dock. Stuart complained again about the cold, which really wasn’t all that bad since there wasn’t a breath of wind.

      Lane was about to tackle her friend again over the subject of the best man when a powerful, sporty car flashed onto the scene and swung sharply into the parking lot adjoining the dock area.

      Stuart passed judgment on the gleaming red vehicle with an emphatic “Cool!”

      And then it happened, the realization of Lane’s worst nightmare. The driver’s door popped open and a male figure, with a compact body still familiar to her after all these years, emerged from the car. Her heart went down to the vicinity of her knees.

      Lane’s panicked gaze flew to Allison. Their eyes met, exchanging a silent communication.

       You might have told me.

       If I had warned you, you wouldn’t have come, and I need you here.

      It was no explanation, and Lane meant to have one. However, this was hardly the time or the place to demand it, especially since she was here herself under a slightly false pretense. Besides, like it or not, the compelling figure at the car had recaptured her full attention. She watched him as he slung his suitcase with ease out of the trunk of the vehicle.

      There was no question about it. Had Jack Donovan been born two hundred years ago, he would have been a buccaneer with a cutlass between his teeth and a struggling wench under his arm. No, make that willing wench. There were few women immune to the wicked grin he wore like an Irish charm, not to mention the sexual energy he radiated without will.

      Veronica Bauer certainly wasn’t oblivious to all that masculine appeal. “Well,” she murmured eagerly, feasting her eyes on Jack as he strode toward them with his energetic gait. “The term best man is certainly no exaggeration in this case. The weekend is suddenly looking much more interesting.”

      Lane would willingly have stepped aside in favor of Ronnie, but Jack was making straight for her. She had time to do nothing but caution herself: Careful. And suddenly there he was standing directly in front of her, all riveting blue eyes and hair black as midnight.

      “Lane Eastman,” he said in that deep, resonant voice that had frustrated her on too many occasions, and using her full name as though he’d just learned it. He held out his hand.

      You can do this, she instructed herself firmly. You’re no longer nineteen and vulnerable. You’ve had seven years to build maturity and confidence. Show him just how self-possessed you’ve become.

      “How are you, Jack?”

      Her greeting was smooth and easy. Good. She was in control. Until, that is, she accepted his offered hand and his strong fingers clasped hers. Mere physical contact with him was her undoing, just as it always had been in a past she preferred not to remember. She could suddenly feel herself coming apart inside. And, damn him, he knew it! She could tell he knew it by the smoldering gleam in his eyes. He’d always recognized her vulnerability to him.

      Wonderful. There was already an element of strain about this whole weekend. She’d been sensing the undercurrents ever since they’d all come together at the dock. Now this!

      “Never better,” Jack assured her. “So, how about you, Lane?”

      He didn’t wait for her to tell him. She could feel those deep blue eyes carefully appraising her. Discovering, perhaps, that she knew how to dress her slender figure with more style these days, that she wore her cinnamon hair longer and with less curl, even noticing that she’d learned restraint in the use of makeup on a face that qualified as winsome if not sublime. She was aggravated with herself that it should matter in the least whether he approved of these changes.

      Managing to extract her hand from his grip, she covered her inner turmoil with a hasty response. “I’m fine.”

      “Still rising in the hotel business?”

      “I try to. I’m assistant manager now for one of the chain’s four-star inns.”

      “Good for you. In St. Louis, right?”

      She was surprised that he knew.

      “I manage to stay informed,” he assured her.

      It worried her that he would make the effort. She was relieved when Ronnie Bauer, hovering close by, impatiently interrupted their absurdly polite exchange. “Are you going to share him, dear?”

      Allison saved the moment by introducing him to those he hadn’t already met. “Dr. Jack Donovan, everyone.”

      Ronnie was impressed, and purring flirtatiously. “Do you specialize, doctor?”

      “Bones,” he said.

      “I’ll certainly remember that if I ever break one.”

      “I don’t mend them, Ms. Bauer. I dig them up.”

      Ronnie was plainly confused until Hale corrected her misconception. “Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Mother, he’s not a medical man. He’s a doctor of paleontology.”

      “Fossils?”

      “Dinosaur, to be exact,” Jack said.

      “Even better,” she

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