Suddenly...Marriage!

By Marie Ferrarella

VIRGIN BRIDES

Celebrate the joys of first love with unforgettable stories by our most beloved authors.

THE UNCONVENTIONAL WEDDING

Millionaire bachelor Grant O'Hara thought the pretend marriage ceremony was just another Mardi Gras festivity until he and Cheyenne Tarantino were pronounced legally wed. Grant wasn't ready to settle down, and he'd only just met his wife. But, since nothing could be done until morning, Grant saw no reason not to play honeymoon with his shy, beautiful bride.

But Cheyenne sure did. She'd long ago vowed to save herself for her real wedding night. Still, Grant's thoughtfulness and irresistible charm were wearing her down. And soon, Cheyenne was wondering how she could turn their one–night marriage into forever .

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781460868645

Marie Ferrarella

This USA TODAY bestselling and RITA ® Award-winning author has written more than two hundred books for Harlequin Books and Silhouette Books, some under the name Marie Nicole. Her romances are beloved by fans worldwide. Visit her website at www.marieferrarella.com.

Book preview

Chapter One

He watched her approach him.

Classy. That was the word for the lady. Classy. She moved through the room effortlessly, with self-assurance, like poetry. Each step flowed from the one that came before and into the one that was to come next. Like a timeless symphony put to a new arrangement that stirred the blood.

Grant studied her as she drew closer, his mouth curving. It was just like Stan to forget to tell him that the woman he was sending over was a knockout. Just one of those details that Stan Keller took for granted. He was far more aware of a reputation and the skills that went into building it than anything he might see on the surface. Ingrained habit, Grant supposed.

Grant refused to believe that it had anything to do with what Stan professed to be the real reason: that he was too old to notice things like long, supple limbs and creamy, flawless skin. Stan was only five years older than he was, and at forty, Grant O’Hara felt himself much too young not to notice beauty. Especially when it was presented to him in such a statuesque package and was worn so casually, so unselfconsciously—as if the woman wasn’t even aware of the fact that every head in the crowded restaurant had turned in her direction as soon as she had entered.

Perhaps she wasn’t.

Because of who he was, who his family was, Grant was accustomed to beautiful women—or women who thought themselves to be beautiful—populating his life. Even while murmuring offhand, self-deprecating denials to a tendered compliment, there was always a certain glint in their eyes. A glint that attested to their having spent hours before a mirror, painstakingly arranging themselves to achieve just that look, just that impression. They all knew damn well what the result was and gloried in it like pampered, sly felines.

The only glint in Cheyenne Tarantino’s eyes was one of determination. Well-acquainted with that trait, Grant recognized it immediately. That, and the look of self-confidence that highlighted her features.

She’d have to be self-confident, Grant mused, using a name like that. Cheyenne Tarantino. She’d undoubtedly made it up. No one was born with a name like Cheyenne. That was for travel lodges and long-defunct westerns that turned up occasionally on television networks devoted to generating waves of nostalgia.

He’d almost laughed out loud when he’d first heard it. Good breeding and self-control had prevented it. But it didn’t prevent the smile that creased his lips now.

Grant stood up just before she reached his table, vaguely wondering if that would offend or amuse her. It would have made no difference to him in the way he behaved, but he was curious.

He was what he was. Manners were something Grant prided himself on, and if those manners were from another generation, well, perhaps compared to her, so was he. He estimated Cheyenne Tarantino to be traveling through her twenties, possibly late-twenties if he were to take into account her reputation and proficiency. Early thirties if she was blessed with either good genes or a benevolent dermatologist who was steering her toward the right topical creams.

And the right exercises, he silently added, his eyes skimming along her figure.

The two-piece gray blue suit she was wearing not only managed to bring out the blue of her eyes, but accented the blond of the billowy long hair that curled and rioted about her shoulders. The outfit also managed to lovingly stroke every curve of her body as she moved.

Like a cat, he thought. A sleek cat on the scent of its prey.

He wondered if that’s what he ultimately was to her. Prey. That would make it interesting. Maybe this interview, now that he’d finally decided to give it, wasn’t going to be as painful an ordeal as he had first surmised. Certainly not the one for which he had braced himself.

No, Grant decided, he was not braced for anything like this. At least, not esthetically. But she had yet, he reminded himself, to open her mouth or take the lens cover off her camera.

The worst might very well lie ahead of him. Time would tell.

He exuded power and confidence, Cheyenne thought, even across the length of a room. But then, she had already known that She’d been able to tell just by looking at the photographs she’d gleaned from the magazine‘s files on Grant O’Hara—third son and heir of the Newport O’Haras—that he cast an aura of power.

Her eyes, so like the camera that was almost an inseparable part of her, missed nothing. Blue blood, she noted. He came from blue bloods all right. It was evident to even the most casual observer, right down to the buttons of his double-breasted navy jacket.

And gorgeous. Really gorgeous in the full sense of the word.

Cheyenne hadn’t realized just how overwhelmingly good-looking Grant O‘Hara was in person. Some people were incredibly photogenic but when seen in person, turned out to be a disappointment. That was not the case here. If anything, O’Hara’s photographs seemed to have muted the handsomeness.

Standing before him she was struck by his power and his looks at the same time, like a one-two punch. A hell of a deadly combination.

Her mother would have been asking to bear his children right about now, Cheyenne thought, only partially amused at the notion. But it was a fact of life she had gotten accustomed to, if not accepted, from very early on. Good-looking men had always attracted Anita Tarantino like the proverbial moth to the flame. By Cheyenne’s reckoning, her mother would have lasted approximately three seconds in O’Hara’s company before melting completely at his feet. Four, tops.

He probably ate people like her mother for breakfast, Cheyenne surmised. Grant O’Hara was a whole different class of person from a diner waitress from Cheyenne, Wyoming—or her daughter.

But that, she reminded herself, was all supposed to be behind her.

Very nice of you to meet me here. Greeting her, Grant nodded to a nearby waiter. The man immediately presented himself at the table and pulled out Cheyenne’s chair for her.

Before sitting down, she carefully set down her camera bag, then casually deposited her huge purse beside it. The latter seemed almost to exhale, then assumed a deflated, marshmallow-like shape as soon as it was released.

Cheyenne sat down without looking. The waiter was quick to move the chair in to make contact with her.

I should be thanking you, Cheyenne corrected, her smile a copy of the one she saw on his aristocratic face. She was very good at mimicking other people’s mannerisms. It was all part and parcel of the way she operated, setting her subjects at ease by generating an atmosphere of familiarity.

Cheyenne laced her fingers together and rested her chin on them. He had green eyes, she noticed. A very intense green, like moss in the early morning light. She wondered how many women O’Hara had lured into bed with a hint of a smile in those eyes. As if those high cheekbones and the cleft in his chin weren’t enough.

No doubt about it. The man was a very sexy package of goods. And she was going to capture every hint, every nuance of that sexuality on film. She was going to make the most of the interview that he’d granted in one of his rare islands of time. The female readers of Style were going to love the issue. The male readers would probably just tack the cover photo up to a dartboard and use it for practice. Either that, or look upon Grant O’Hara as an inspiration.

Not that O‘Hara had had to work his way up from poverty, she thought, still looking into his eyes. The man was born with not one, but two, silver spoons in his mouth. But everything he was—so rumor and Stan Keller had it—he had accomplished on his own, without the help of his father, Shaun O’Hara. Or his father’s money.

That made O’Hara stubborn. Probably not as stubborn as Cheyenne was, but then few people were. Still, it was a trait she admired.

That’s if the limited bio she had read on him was true and if Stan Keller hadn’t just sold her a crock of goods because he wanted this feature so badly, she qualified silently. And Stan did want this story badly. The public was tired of stories about the woes of a royal clan who lived across the ocean. It wanted royalty of its own. The rich, especially the self-made rich, were as close to royalty as this country came.

She tried to imagine the perfect jet-black hair she saw adorned with a crown. It wasn’t a stretch. Cheyenne wondered if O’Hara had a costume for tonight’s Mardi Gras celebration and how difficult it would be to talk him into wearing a crown long enough for her to take a shot.

If she was the least bit uncomfortable about this meeting, Grant thought to himself, she didn’t show it. He liked that.

So, he began, it’s settled. We should be gratefully thanking one another and call it a draw.

Her mouth curved a little. It was well known what O’Hara thought of people who tried to secure an interview with him. Why don’t you reserve judgment on that until after the interview is over?

Grant inclined his head, bowing to her suggestion. At least she wasn’t promising him that she would be unobtrusive and that he wouldn’t even notice she was there. He valued honesty in a person. He also appreciated not being snowed.

All right, I will. He looked to his left.

As if on cue, the waiter produced two gold-edged menus, presenting one to each of them. Grant ignored his. Usually busy, he rarely had time for lunch unless it involved business, and even then he concentrated on the matter at hand rather than on what was on his plate. But he thought his interviewer might be hungry.

Nice trick, she observed, nodding toward the waiter who popped up whenever he was needed.

No trick. I’m part owner. The staff likes to please me. Cheyenne wondered just how far that button could be pushed.

The waiter righted the two wine glasses on the table. A little light wine perhaps? Grant asked. We have several excellent bottles in the cellar you might enjoy.

Cheyenne slowly shook her head. Mineral water, she requested.

Grant held up two fingers for the waiter. Nodding, the latter disappeared. Grant’s eyes never left her face. Don’t drink?

She lifted a shoulder and let it drop casually. Don’t need to.

His eyes swept over the empty wine glass. I never thought of having a glass of wine as a need.

She thought of her mother, and the solutions that had been searched for and not found at the bottom of a bottle. You’re lucky. Some people do.

He studied the set of her jaw. It was almost imperceptible, but he could just detect a hint of hardening. Someone in her life abused alcohol. But not you.

Cheyenne wondered who was supposed to be interviewing whom. She supposed there was no harm in O’Hara getting in a few questions of his own. That, too, might set him at ease.

Alcohol gets in the way. Cheyenne passed her hand over her camera case. I get high on my work.

She stroked that thing as if it was the arm of a lover. It went hand in hand with the passion he’d seen in her work. Very fortunate for you.

And Stan Keller, she put in. When O’Hara raised an eyebrow, she added, He likes my work.

The waiter reappeared to set down two glasses of mineral water and clear away the empty wine goblets. And I like Stan, added Grant.

So I gather. I also gather that’s why you agreed to this interview. She smiled to herself as she recalled Stan’s exuberance two days ago when he’d called her on the phone. I got him, he’d cried. I got the son of a bitch with an inside straight. He’s ours for the taking. There’d been laughter on the other end. I warned him I was lucky at cards! They were both, Stan had added, unlucky in love, the only difference being that Grant had a much larger pool to chose from and be unlucky with.

Grant shrugged noncommittally. Stan and I went to school together.

Stan had never mentioned where he knew O’Hara from, and she hadn’t pried. He’s older than you are, she pointed out, muting her surprise.

Care for anything? Grant indicated the menu, ignoring her comment.

Cheyenne waved away the question. She was too caught up in planning her work to think about eating. Thank you, I’m fine.

Yes, he thought, she certainly was. Grant dismissed the waiter and returned to her observation. Stan also waited five years to earn the money to attend the university. He had instantly liked the quirky journalism major he’d shared a room with. I didn’t have that advantage.

Taking a sip of water, Cheyenne leaned back in her chair and studied the man sitting opposite her. Was he purposely creating an image for her? Interesting choice of words. Most people would have thought of it as a disadvantage.

Grant had watched each of his four half brothers be swallowed up by the quagmire created by having vast amounts of money. He’d sworn that it wouldn’t happen to him. And it hadn’t. In his own way, Grant liked to think that he was as tough as their old man was. Just a lot less abrasive.

Earning something makes you appreciate it all the more once you have it.

He sounded sincere, but there was no reason why the man couldn’t be a consummate actor as well as an astute businessman. Though it was early in the game, Cheyenne tried her hand at baiting him. Is that hearsay on your part?

Grant took no offense. Meaning, have I ever earned anything on my own? The answer to that is yes, I have.

She pushed it a little further. By the sweat of your brow?

Cheyenne couldn’t picture O’Hara sweating, not even with her vivid imagination. He was too suave, too refined looking. Far more at home with expensive cologne dabbed on his brow than with sweat.

It was Grant’s turn to smile. Broadly. I sweat, Ms. Tarantino. Saying the word nudged a question forward in his mind: what would she look like, her body covered with a sheen of perspiration rather than the glow from artificial candlelight?

"I would have