Wedding Roulette Read online

  “I need a fiancée-of-convenience for this convention in Las Vegas, and you’re the perfect choice.”

  Krista was at a loss for words. Was this man seriously asking her to play the role of his wife-to-be?

  “I realize there’s little in this…arrangement for you. There will be a level of intimacy involved. You and I, virtual strangers, sharing a room.”

  “We’ll be sharing a room?” she gasped. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

  Now would have been the perfect time to tell him she wasn’t the force behind sultry seductress Simona Says, but something inside Krista didn’t want to disappoint him.

  “So, Krista, do you agree to be my wife for the duration of the convention?”

  His face was inches from hers now. He was so strong, so masculine, so determined. Pure, ambitious hunger set Michael Collins apart from other men.

  It was time to take a chance. After all, this could be the adventure of her life, her biggest gamble yet.

  Dear Reader,

  It’s that time of the year again. Pink candy hearts and red roses abound as we celebrate that most amorous of holidays, St. Valentine’s Day. Revel in this month’s offerings as we continue to celebrate Harlequin American Romance’s yearlong 20th Anniversary.

  Last month we launched our six-book MILLIONAIRE, MONTANA continuity series with the first delightful story about a small Montana town whose residents win a forty-million-dollar lottery jackpot. Now we bring you the second title in the series, Big-Bucks Bachelor, by Leah Vale, in which a handsome veterinarian gets more than he bargained for when he asks his plain-Jane partner to become his fake fiancée.

  Also in February, Bonnie Gardner brings you The Sergeant’s Secret Son. In this emotional story, passions flare all over again between former lovers as they work to rebuild their tornado-ravaged hometown, but the heroine is hiding a small secret—their child! Next, Victoria Chancellor delivers a great read with The Prince’s Texas Bride, the second book in her duo A ROYAL TWIST, where a bachelor prince’s night of passion with a beautiful waitress results in a royal heir on the way and a marriage proposal. And a trip to Las Vegas leads to a pretend engagement in Leandra Logan’s Wedding Roulette.

  Enjoy this month’s offerings, and be sure to return each and every month to Harlequin American Romance!

  Melissa Jeglinski

  Associate Senior Editor

  Harlequin American Romance

  WEDDING ROULETTE

  Leandra Logan

  For my friend Karin Cierzan

  Founder of the delightful

  Early Morning Breakfast Club

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Leandra Logan is an award-winning author of over thirty novels. A native of Minnesota, she enjoys writing stories with a midwestern flavor, full of realistic characters of all ages. She presently lives in the historic town of Stillwater with her husband and two children.

  Books by Leandra Logan

  HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

  599—SECRET AGENT DAD

  601—THE LAST BRIDESMAID

  732—FATHER FIGURE

  880—FAMILY: THE SECRET INGREDIENT

  960—WEDDING ROULETTE

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter One

  “I am so glad you’re back!”

  Krista Mattson had breezed into her inner office without realizing Bigtime Promotions’ receptionist, a flighty nineteen-year-old girl named Courtney, was on her heels.

  “Is there a problem?” Krista whirled round to ask.

  Courtney stopped short of the boss woman smartly dressed in a navy-skirted suit, her long black hair woven into a braid. Because of Krista’s imposing stature, her serious slant on life, employees of the small company tended to call her Ms. Big—behind her back, of course. Krista knew all about it, however, as she was so remarkably thorough. But even Krista at her most formal could only cut Courtney’s general enthusiasm by half.

  “There’s no problem,” the girl assured. “I have the best kind of news. In the name of efficiency, I’ve created a new message system for our company.”

  “You always leave the pink slips on my desk. I have no complaints.”

  “But I have streamlined the process down to a more exact science.”

  Krista’s raven brows arched as she surveyed the girl, bouncing from one platform sandal to another. Courtney’s outfit was especially striking today, a canary-yellow dress with black bolero jacket. It was quite a carnival of color with her red curls.

  Practical Krista probably wouldn’t have awarded the exuberant Courtney her job if she’d been conducting the interviews. But her partner Judy Phillips had chosen their current receptionist because the girl had energy and vitality, in her estimation what a promotions firm should reflect. All in all, it was tough to argue the choice. Clients seemed delighted with her. She never missed work, was never late. Krista had grown to highly approve of Courtney. So at times like this, when her patience was strained, Krista tried to be understanding.

  Perhaps this particular modification was Krista’s own fault. She’d made the mild suggestion that Courtney put more effort into the pink notes, polish her language skills and penmanship. Courtney, always overeager to please, apparently had gone the extra mile. “So tell me about this system.”

  “It’s my idea to recite messages to you,” Courtney said excitedly.

  “That hardly seems necessary.”

  “Let’s try it, please. I can read my own writing better than anyone. And I may be able to add a certain tone, give you an idea of the caller’s aura.”

  Krista smiled faintly as she set her briefcase on her desk. “Very well.”

  “We’ll start with business….” Courtney shuffled through the pink slips, snapping her chewing gum. “It would be easier if we had different pastel-colored pads for different kinds of messages. You know, blue for business, green for personal and pink for passion. Don’t you think that the color pink should always be reserved for romance? I wore a pink dress to prom and my mom grows pink roses, a whole garden full of them.”

  Krista regarded her with mild exasperation. “Courtney, everyone uses the pink notepads, it’s just the way it is.”

  “I put colored stars on the top right corner of each note, for our own use, of course. Ten blues, eight greens—” She drew a breath. “And I’m afraid no pinks again today.”

  Krista bristled slightly under Courtney’s pitying look. The girl had been working for Bigtime Promotions for three months and never in that time had Krista received what could be construed as a passionate message from anyone.

  Under the circumstances, they couldn’t afford to use all the pink paper in stock exclusively for mash notes.

  Krista sank into her chair and rummaged round the cluttered glass desktop for her glasses. She’d had a rough morning, which included losing her left contact lens at a downtown St. Paul bookstore where she was arranging a huge signing for a celebrity science-fiction author. Acting as go-between for author and store manager, she’d negotiated M&M’s and some obscure bottled water for the author and a round-table discussion with die-hard fans for the manager. Then it was back across the river to a Minneapolis charity, a block down from their Nicollet Avenue office, to draft some press releases for a homeless shelter c
harity drive.

  Along the way she’d apparently brushed up against some damp paint. She suddenly noted a white stain on the sleeve of her navy suit jacket, wondered if the laundry service could remove it.

  “The first message is from Ms. Phillips,” Courtney announced, surreptitiously removing the gum from her mouth. “She jotted it down on her way out the door.”

  Krista grew alert at the mention of her partner.

  “The clown got sick, went to take his place at Hawkson Motors.”

  “Judy is pinch-hitting for a clown?” Krista’s dark-blue eyes twinkled.

  “That’s right. For a live TV remote advertising the Boom-Bang-Best-Car-Deal-of-the-Century. She’s hoping you can drop by the Bloomington dealership sometime this afternoon.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Krista murmured.

  Courtney plowed through the first string of messages tagged with blue stars, reciting them with importance. “Now for the personal messages.”

  “I’ll take those—”

  “All eight are from your aunties. Rachel and Beverly Mattson. I only call them the ‘aunties’ because that’s what they called themselves. I don’t mean any disrespect.”

  Krista exhaled impatiently. “Courtney, what did they want?”

  “I’m not sure. They took turns calling, just kept saying, ‘Code Red.”’

  Krista sat back in her chair, appearing rather deflated. “Oh, I see.”

  “I asked them if they needed the police or anything. But they said it wasn’t that kind of emergency.”

  “I’m sure they’re perfectly fine.”

  Courtney turned a rather smug smile. “I can’t help but notice I’m not the only one who uses colors in her message system.”

  “Well, they are limited to the color red.” And one color for the rambunctious pair was quite enough.

  “You going out again?” Courtney asked as Krista rose from her chair.

  “Yes, to see the aunts.” Sensing curiosity in Courtney’s huge brown eyes she added, “It’s nearly twelve-thirty. I can use a free lunch.”

  It was a short drive to the Mattson sisters’ Lake Calhoun neighborhood. Their grand old Victorian home was two blocks away from the lake on a very desirable street of turn-of-the-century homes. Their dwelling was painted a stately gray with maroon trim, set on a nicely sized lot shaded by two large oaks and some smaller maples. It was nearing the end of September, and the leaves were ablaze in reds and golds.

  Krista usually parked in the back alley, in the shallow driveway fronting their small garage. But today she saved time by pulling up at the front curb under a large elm. Dashing through fallen leaves she scrambled up the wooden porch steps as fast as her high heels could carry her. Having spent many a childhood summer and winter vacation under this roof, eventually relocating to the Twin Cities for college, she wasn’t compelled to ring the bell. She burst through the front door into the hushed mahogany entryway.

  “Bev? Rach?” She clattered across the tiles, peering into the library on the left, the living room on the right. There she found the television alive with Rachel’s favorite soap opera, Beverly’s half-finished crossword and bifocals on an end table. Only their cat, Mr. Bellows, was on hand, curled up in a corner.

  She dashed down the hall to the back of the house, to find the sisters in the kitchen preparing lunch. Krista paused in the doorway, gaping like a small girl. “Hey, why didn’t you answer me?”

  “Took you long enough to answer us,” Beverly retorted, setting a blue ceramic plate holding a hot beef sandwich and potato chips on the round kitchen table with a thump.

  “We didn’t know what to think,” Rachel chirped in agreement, setting a matching plate beside it with a small tossed salad and some wheat crackers. “Especially when you wouldn’t even answer your cell phone.”

  Their respective lunches reflected their distinct personalities. Beverly was plump, hearty and brusque. Her gray curls were kept rolled tight against her head and her clothing always baggy on her full figure, like today’s outfit of dark gabardine pants and floral rayon shirt. Rachel was only two years younger than Beverly but behaved decades off, keeping her birdlike figure with diet and exercise, her loose ringlets tinted golden, and her clothes up to date with clingy knit outfits like today’s zebra-print pants and purple T-shirt.

  But the sixty-something sisters were definitely of the same family tree as they did their henlike fuss-and-hustle routine about the kitchen.

  “My phone ran out of power and I lost my contact lens,” Krista offered in excuse, smiled wanly, girlishly, as she always did under their tutelage. “It’s been a rough morning.”

  “Got stuck going round and round with your silly receptionist,” Beverly complained. “When she sensed I was upset, she blamed it on my astrological sign.”

  “We’ve waited lunch hoping you’d come,” Rachel said with a sniff. “We could’ve eaten on TV trays in the living room during All My Children. But now it’s too late.”

  Krista bobbed and weaved around them to reach the cupboard holding glassware. She reached for three tall frosted glasses from the second shelf and filled them with lemonade from the full pitcher on the counter. “So, do I still rate a lunch? Or shall I just go stand in the corner?”

  The aunts paused, staring at her as she leaned against the counter, innocently sipping her lemonade.

  “Of course you have to eat,” Beverly chortled. “You’re a stick.”

  “She is not too thin,” Rachel objected, “but surely hungry by this hour.”

  Exchanging a competitive look, they wondered exactly what she wanted for lunch.

  Krista hesitated. “How about a salad…and a half sandwich,” she said diplomatically. The aunts set to work to fill the order. Krista transferred the glasses and some condiments to the table. As she went on to apologize profusely for the delay in communication, her lunch got larger and larger. “That’s plenty of food,” she finally said, beckoning them to chairs.

  Properly placated, the pair warmed up considerably. Rachel noted the stain on Krista’s jacket sleeve and Beverly vowed to remove it after lunch.

  Krista poured some French dressing on her bed of lettuce. “So, what is the Code Red about?”

  Beverly hopped up to bring a quartered section of newspaper and the pitcher of lemonade to the table. She set the paper, folded to highlight the “Simona Says” column, at her niece’s elbow. “Read this.”

  Krista did so, aloud.

  “Dear Simona:

  Help! My boyfriend, Doughman, has asked me to marry him. I impulsively said yes. Since then I have begun to doubt that he is my Mr. Right. He is strong and handsome and personable, the owner of a popular bakery franchise. I have come to realize, however, that he is a loner under his charming facade, a workaholic who spends endless hours at his shop. A lifelong dieter who enjoys the club scene, I’m afraid I am doomed to a future of lonely one-sided conversations over my frozen dinners. Even worse, our passion has always been on a weak sizzle. He says fireworks take time, that I must be more patient in lighting our fuse. What say you, Simona?

  Irritated In Illinois

  Simona Says:

  Mr. Right, you say? Wrong! You’re trying to light the fuse of a dud. Ditch your sweet-tooth loner Dough-man and redirect that fire to a real stick of TNT.”

  Krista finished on a sigh. Her eyes lifted from the paper to land on the duo who were, in fact, the flamboyant sex advisor Simona Says. “This ran a couple of weeks ago, didn’t it?”

  Beverly humphed in confirmation. “So, what’s your impression?”

  Krista paused for a diplomatic reply. “It’s certainly…flippant.”

  “Simona’s trademark, naturally. But I assure you, we gave the dilemma much consideration before ministering advice.”

  Rachel’s golden head bobbed. “We’re so different ourselves, that every query is about turned inside out.”

  Beverly laid a plump hand on her full chest. “As much as I would die for a beau who ran a pastry sho
p, plainly, as Rachel pointed out, this young woman isn’t taken with the business.”

  “And Doughman hasn’t any time for a nightlife,” Rachel inserted, “one of Irritated’s main interests.”

  “Surely once people marry,” Krista objected, “they pull back on the club scene to nest. Together.”

  “But Doughman is never at his nest with his business a top priority,” Beverly said.

  “I am surprised you swung so hard in the female’s favor. Generally you leave room for interpretation, for compromise!”

  Rachel’s eyes grew. “How could we in all conscience advise one of our own species to settle for a slow-burning fuse? We girls all deserve some real sizzle, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Krista took a swig of lemonade. “Gee, I don’t know.” She was uncomfortable talking about sex with the aunts, mainly because she had very little to go on about. And in this case, her sympathies automatically swung to Dough-man as he sounded a lot like her, a workaholic cautious of romantic entanglements. And it was wise for entrepreneurs to be cautious with amour. Krista had learned the hard way that most of her partners proved threatened by her job, determined to compete with it, or, in the worst cases, eager to mooch off her success. If there was a stable, confident hardworking partner out there for her, Krista had yet to meet him.

  To Krista, Irritated sounded like a typical whiner who would spend her entire life self-absorbed and dissatisfied. But it would be a foolish exercise to start up a defense of cautious workaholics. The aunts didn’t understand the breed.

  “Doughman is to blame for his own trouble,” Beverly blustered on. “A man must tend to the fire under his own roof before anything else.”

  Weary of the runaround, Krista pushed harder. “How has this particular column led to a Code Red?”

  The aunts exchanged a sheepish look. When they weren’t at one another’s throats, they were conspiring.

  “There has been a complaint,” Rachel admitted.

  “Who complained?” Krista demanded. “Someone at the newspaper? Some of your more opinionated readers?”