Bridal Favors

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Informationen zum Autor New York Times bestselling author Connie Brockway is an eight-time finalist for the Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA award. She has twice been its recipient! for My Dearest Enemy and The Bridal Season . Brockway lives in Minnesota with her husband! David! a family physician! and two spoiled mutts. Klappentext Evelyn White has never forgotten the first time she met Justin Powell--or the shocking indiscretion that left the military hero in her debt. Desperate to save her aunt's foundering enterprise as a wedding planner! Evelyn's ready to call in her IOU. All she needs is Justin's ancestral home! where she's determined to prove that a woman innocent in the ways of love can turn a simple wedding into the social event of the season. London, England Ten years later "If you do not want blood all over your carpet, I suggest you call a physician," Evelyn called out from where she lay flat on her back. She pushed her spectacles back into place and turned her head to look at the unbroken window. The reflected image of the tall man who'd walked into the library abruptly stopped, caught in a pool of bright mid-morning sunlight. He wore shirtsleeves, the white cuffs rolled halfway up sinewy, tanned forearms, the collar open at the throat. "Which carpet?" he asked, looking about for her. Ten years had passed, but it might have been yesterday that she'd last seen him. The easy, imperturbable voice was the same, as was his loose-limbed build and disheveled good looks. "Here," Evelyn called. "On the floor by the window. The broken one." Justin Powell closed the book he'd been carrying and came round the side of the desk. Looking up past his expensive shoes, she could see the subtle changes a decade had wrought. Thin lines radiated from the corners of his eyes and little comma-shapes bracketed his wide mouth. A dusting of gray threaded through dark brown hair in dire need of a good clip. Mutely, he gazed down at her. Just as mute, she returned his regard. What was wrong with a man when even the sight of a woman bleeding on his floor couldn't excite him to action? "I understand how the sight of a woman lying in a pool of her own blood might be off-putting, Mr. Powell," she said. "But can I do anything to dispel the paralysis that seems to have gripped you and encourage you to act?" "Woman, eh?" he murmured, calmly setting his book on the desk. He hunkered down, his elbows on his knees and his hands hanging between his legs. Gingerly, he lifted the torn flap in the knickers she'd borrowed from her nephew Stanley. She dared a glance at her leg, saw the red blood, and averted her face. She looked up at him in order to read in his expression the severity of her injury, but instead found herself staring in fascination at his eyes. They were just as she remembered, too, a fascinating, glinty-soft bluish-green. Forest pond beneath brilliant autumn sky. Gold leaf swirling through liquid jade-- "You aren't bleeding to death," Justin said matter-of-factly. He released the flap of twill. "And that spot isn't a pool." He frowned at his fingertips, looked around, and ended up wiping them on her pant leg. "Though the cut is long, it's not very deep." "Thank heavens!" She released the breath she'd been holding. She was, admittedly, a bit of a sissy where blood was concerned. "Not much more than a scratch," he said calmly. "A tad messy, but nothing any English schoolboy hasn't suffered a dozen times over." His lack of sympathy made her bristle. "I am not an English schoolboy." "Since Mrs. Boyle's Finishing School opened in the neighborhood, I have learned that the difference between the average English schoolgirl and the average English schoolboy isn't all that great." His gaze drifted in a purely impersonal manner o...