A Bride for the Black Sheep Brother

A Bride for the Black Sheep Brother By Emily McKay

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.




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 down. “You look perfect. Just don’t mess it up.”

And with that, Celeste flounced out of the dressing room to go skewer the hapless person who had created this problem. Portia, meanwhile, sent up a silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity had arranged the snafu.

As soon as her mother left the room, she turned around and grabbed Shelby’s hands. “Can you just—?” Stop trying to strangle me with those buttons! Portia blew out a breath. Then she smiled serenely. “Could you maybe give me a moment alone?”

Shelby, who had roomed with Portia for all four years at Vassar and knew her better than anyone, frowned and asked, “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“I’ll be fine. I just want a moment to meditate.”

“No, I meant—” Shelby gave her hand a squeeze. “Yeah. I’ll go keep an eye on your mother. I’ll make sure she’d occupied for the next—” She glanced at her watch. “The wedding is in twenty minutes. I can buy you maybe ten minutes alone. That’s all.”

“Thanks!”

A moment later, Portia was finally, blessedly alone for the first time in more than nine days. It was almost as good as a margarita. But she felt like every nerve in her body was rubbing against some other nerve and that any second, they might spark and then she’d just—poof—go up in flames.

Her mother had thought the botched manicure was bad. That had nothing on spontaneous combustion.

Alone in the dressing room, she turned slowly in a circle, scanning the room for the distraction she was looking for. Not that there was much room for spinning. Now that she was standing, the acres of white silk that made up the skirt of her dress took up a lot of floor space. She could hardly move in the damn thing. Huh. Was that why her mother had insisted on such a monstrously big dress? Had she suspected that Portia might be besieged by last-minute panic and bolt? Had she wanted to guarantee that if Portia did, she’d be easy to take down?

Portia stifled a hysterical giggle at the image of her mother tackling her on the steps of the church.

Not that Portia actually wanted to bolt.

Because she didn’t.

This was just nerves. Normal nerves.

Dalton was her match in every way. They were financial and social equals. Which meant that for the first time in life she didn’t have to worry about his motives for being with her. She respected him. They got along. And best of all, he was so stable. So steady. And she needed that balance in her life.

They were equals, but opposites. And didn’t everyone always say opposites attract?

And she loved him.

Okay, so she was eighty-nine percent sure she loved him. But she was 100 percent sure he loved her. At least, he loved all the parts of her that she showed him. He loved the well-dressed, poised debutante. He loved the best version of her. The person she was trying to be.

And, yes, there was this goofy, rebellious, silly version of Portia, but she was working hard on burying it. Burying it deep. She never went to sing karaoke anymore. She hadn’t been skydiving in months. She’d had her Marvin the Martian tattoo removed and the scar was barely visible. Soon, she would be 100 percent the socially acceptable debutante. Soon, she’d be the person Dalton loved.

It wasn’t Dalton she wanted to run away from. It was herself.

And the dress. But this was all nerves. She only needed to do something to relieve her tension. Even if it was only for a few minutes. And she knew just what would do the trick.

* * *

Coping with the unexpected was one of the things Cooper Larson did best. Zipping down the slopes on his snowboard, he had to be prepared for anything. Everybody knew that snow was mercurial. One second, conditions could appear perfect. The next, it could all go to hell. Cooper’s ability to think on his feet and adapt in a spilt second was one of the qualities that had earned him a spot on the Olympic team.

However, both of those skills abandoned him completely when he walked into the bride’s dressing room and saw his future sister-in-law standing on her head, her nearly bare legs sticking straight up in the air.

The sight was so unexpected—not to mention confusing—that it took him a while to even figure out what he was seeing. At first all he saw were the legs. It took him a good thirty seconds alone to work his way from the delicate feet down the miles of legs clad only in sheer cream silk, to delicate pale blue garters and eight or so inches of luscious female thigh. And beyond that a pair of bright pink skimpy panties with white dots all over them. Then—just when he thought his head might explode—he realized that the heavy pile of white fluff the legs were sticking out of was an upturned wedding dress.

Shaking his head, he looked again at the legs. Possibly the most fabulous legs he’d ever seen. And they were attached to his future sister-in-law.


Crap.

That was really inconvenient.

What was she doing standing on her head? When she was supposed to be getting married in less than twenty minutes?

And then, he heard her.

“Ba da da da da da!”

Was she singing “Jesse’s Girl”?

If that hadn’t been Portia’s voice, he would have thought he’d wandered into the wrong church. What the hell was going on?

“Portia?” he asked.

The mound of white fluff gave a little squeal. And the legs wobbled precariously. She was going down.

He leaped across the room and grabbed her. Maybe a bit too strongly, because her legs fell against his chest and she kicked him in the face.

“Damn!”

“Ack!”

He stumbled back, dragging her with him.

“Put me down!” she squealed.

But putting her down gently wasn’t an easy feat. He took another step back, but then she kicked him again.

“Put me down!” she screamed again.

“I’m trying!”

“Cooper?”

“Yeah. Who else?” Finally, he wrapped an arm around her waist and managed to flip her over. He got a face full of fluffy white lace for his trouble, and her elbow slammed into his chin. He let her go and stepped back, holding his hands out in front of him to ward off her attack. “Are you okay?”

When she looked up, he realized she had a pair of earbuds in her ears and noticed the iPod shoved into the bodice of her dress. She yanked the earbuds out, and he could hear the music playing faintly.

She pushed down her skirt, glaring at him. “Of course, I’m okay. Or rather, I was! Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“You were upside down.”

“I was doing a headstand!”

“In your wedding dress?”

She opened her mouth to fire back some quip, but then hesitated, snapped her mouth closed and frowned. “Good point.” She grabbed the skirt of her dress and shook it out.

The dress didn’t look too bad. Her hair, on the other hand, was a mess. What had obviously once been some kind of fancy twist of curls on the back of her head had started to slide off to the side. One lock of pale golden hair tumbled into her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips moist and pink.

He’d known Portia for about two years and in all that time he’d never seen her looking so disheveled. So human. So sexy.

Yeah. And the fact that the image of her bright pink panties and her bare thighs was still seared into his brain had nothing to do with that. And what precisely had been on those panties of hers? From a few feet away, he’d thought they were misshapen white dots, but up close they’d looked like cats. Was that possible? Was there any chance at all that uptight, straitlaced, cold-as-dry-ice Portia Callahan would get married wearing panties with cat heads on them?

“What the hell were you doing?” he asked.

“I was meditating.”

“And singing along to eighties pop?”

“I was... I can’t...” She blew out a breath that made her hair flutter in front of her face. “It helps me think.” And then, she must have realized her hair was mussed, because she grabbed a stray lock of hair and stared at it. “Oh, no! Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no, oh, no!”

She jumped up and ran to the mirror. Still clutching the lock of hair, she turned this way and that, staring at herself in the mirror, muttering “oh, no!” over and over.

He didn’t have a lot of experience with panicking women. Zero experience, really. And, to be honest, his mind was still reeling that this was Portia who was panicking. Up until five minutes ago, he would have described her as slightly less emotional than the Tin Man. He would not have pegged her for the type to panic. Or wear pink kitty panties. Damn it, he had to stop thinking about her underwear. And her thighs.

And unless he wanted to be the one to explain to Caro Cain why the wedding was off, he suspected he needed to do some serious damage control.

So he made sure the door was locked and went to stand behind Portia.

He looked at her in the mirror. She was so busy freaking out she didn’t notice him until he put his hands on her shoulders. Then she looked up, tears brimming in her dark blue eyes. How had he never before noticed how dark her eyes were? Almost purple, they were so blue.

He dug around in his pocket, but found nothing to give her to wipe her eyes, so he pulled the silk pocket square from his suit pocket and handed it to her.

“Here.” She just stared at him, frowning. Crap, he was no good at this. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“It is?” she asked hopefully.

“Sure.”

She stared up at him, a tremulous smile on her lips. “You think so?”

“Yeah.” He felt a little catch in his chest. God, he hoped he wasn’t lying. “It’s just hair, right?” And, that must have been the wrong thing to say, because her lip started wobbling. “I mean, you can totally fix that!” He reached out and gave the lumpy twist a poke. “Just stick in a few more of those pin things, and it’ll be fine.”

She threw up her hands. “I don’t have any more pins!”

“Then how’d you get it up in the first place?”

“I had it done at a salon.”

“Oh.” He didn’t point out that if that was the case, she probably shouldn’t have done a headstand. It took a lot of restraint. Surely he got points for that, right? “Well, I bet the ones that came out are still on the ground over there. Let me look.” After a minute of crawling around on the floor, he stood up, triumphant. “Five.”

She was still sitting in front of the mirror, but she was looking calmer. And she’d done something with her hair so that it looked...more balanced. “Okay. Hand them over.”

He did, and then watched as she jabbed them in. When she was done, she met his gaze in the mirror.

“And it’s really going to be okay, right?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t mean the hair.”

“Yeah. I got that.” He swallowed. Who the hell was he to give relationship advice to anyone? Especially since he couldn’t stop thinking about Portia’s legs and how adorable she looked in that damn headstand and how she’d always been beautiful but he’d never known how pretty she was until now. “Yeah. It’s going to be okay. Dalton is a good guy. And you’re perfect for each other.”

Except he was lying. Until now, he’d always thought Portia was the perfect girl for Dalton. But this girl? This girl who did headstands in her wedding dress and freaked out and wore pink kitty panties? This girl had more going on inside than he’d ever guessed. This Portia was vibrant and intriguing, and startlingly appealing in this moment of vulnerability. And maybe Dalton wasn’t the right guy for her after all.