A Bride for the Black Sheep Brother. Emily McKay
“I’m talking about us.”
There isn’t an us,” Portia retorted.
“So you keep insisting,” Cooper replied. “But I need you to understand something. All that nonsense about men not finding you attractive is just nonsense. You’re gorgeous.”
Portia smiled. “Thank you. But—”
“I’m not done.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“But I need you to understand something else. I’m not a nice guy. I’m not selfless. I’m not softhearted.”
She was confused by this train of thought. “Oookay.”
Well, if she’d been confused before, he was about to make things worse.
He closed the distance between them and pulled her to him. He didn’t give her a chance to protest verbally, but pressed his lips to hers. There was a moment of shock. But she didn’t resist.
Not even for a second.
* * *
A Bride for the Black Sheep Brother
is part of the trilogy At Cain’s Command: Three brothers must find their illegitimate sister … or forfeit a fortune.
A Bride for the Black Sheep Brother
Emily McKay
EMILY McKAY has been reading and loving romance novels since she was eleven years old. She lives in Texas with her geeky husband, her two kids and too many pets. Her debut novel, Baby, Be Mine, was a RITA® Award finalist for Best First Book and Best Short Contemporary. She was also a 2009 RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award nominee for Series Romance. To learn more, visit her website, www.emilymckay.com.
For my darling daughter, who loves books and reading and stories, despite being bad at “decoding” and being a crappy speller. It’s okay, honey. I am, too.
Contents
Prologue
Portia Callahan lived her life by one simple rule: when all else failed, make a list.
Today’s list was simple, if perhaps a tad more important than most.
Nails
Hair
Makeup
Dress
Shoes
Wedding
Usually, checking items off her list helped her chill out. It soothed her rattled nerves better than a hefty margarita. Not today. Today, she’d checked off the top five items and her insides were still roiling with anxiety. Frankly, she would have ordered the margarita, but a) she was pretty sure smuggling one into the First Houston Baptist Church would put a kibosh on the whole wedding, and b) her hands were shaking so much she was sure she would spill it. If she spilled bright green margarita down the front of the thirty-thousand-dollar gown twenty minutes before the ceremony, her mother’s head would actually explode.
A little extreme, maybe, but this was the woman who had taken a nitroglycerin pill this morning when Portia had nearly messed up her manicure.
And that smeared tip on her pinky was nothing compared to her sudden urge to bolt from the church and run down the streets of Houston ripping this white monstrosity off her body. Maybe if her body was moving, her thoughts would stop racing.
Why was her dress so tight? Why was lace so itchy? Why were hairpins so pokey? Had her makeup always felt this sticky?
More to the point, if she felt this panicky now, if she hated the dress and the hairpins and the makeup so much today, when just yesterday they’d all been fine, was it a sign that what she actually hated was the idea of getting married?
Her stomach flipped at the idea. If she didn’t do something to calm her nerves, she was going to puke.
But what could she do? Her mother paced along the back of the church’s dressing room, critically eyeing every detail of Portia’s appearance. Shelby, Portia’s maid of honor, stood behind her, doing up the last of the hundred-and-twenty-seven buttons that went up the back of her dress. Portia hated those buttons. Each seemed to cinch her in a little more tightly.
Her body-shaping torture wear constricted her ribs so much she could feel them poking into her lungs. She could barely breathe. And she couldn’t help thinking maybe that was the point. Maybe the dress had been designed to squeeze her heart right out of her body.
Just when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore, there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” her mother barked.
The door cracked open, and Portia heard the voice of her future mother-in-law, Caro Cain. “Celeste, I don’t want to alarm you, but there seems to be a problem with the photographer.”
Portia’s mother shot her daughter a quick glare. As if this was somehow her mistake, even though she’d personally had nothing to do with the photographer. “Don’t move an inch.” She looked her up and