Jilted at the altar, celebrity chef Meghan Finnegan flees the scene--and the baying press--only to run straight into the muscled torso of Cash Sullivan.
The former rodeo champion knows what it's like to have your life crumble in the spotlight, so he offers Meghan a place to lie low at his ranch.
Fresh air, no paparazzi and the brooding rancher's lazy smile are making Meghan not want to leave her sanctuary. But she and her unborn baby can't stay here forever...can they?
A woman in a white flowing dress caught his attention. She was rushing along the side of the church. Abruptly she stopped and bent over some shrubs. What in the world was the bride doing? Looking for something?
This was certainly the most entertainment he’d had in the past half hour. He shook his head and smiled at the strange behavior. When she started running down the walk toward his vehicle, he tipped his hat upward to get a better view.
A mass of unruly red curls was piled atop her head while yards of white material fluttered behind her like the tail of a kite. Her face was heart-shaped, with lush lips. Not bad. Not bad at all.
Her breasts threatened to spill out of the dress, which hugged her waist and flared out over her full hips. She was no skinny-minny, but the curves looked good on her. Real good.
He let out a low whistle. She sure was a looker. How in the world had boring Harold bagged her?
He couldn’t tear his gaze from her as she stopped right next to his pickup and tried to open the tan SUV in the neighboring parking spot. Unable to gain access, she smacked her hand on the window. Obviously this lady had a case of cold feet—as in ice cold—and hadn’t planned an escape route. At least she’d come to her senses before making the worst decision of her life.
The bride spun around. Her fearful gaze met his. Her pale face made her intense green eyes stand out bright with fear. Alarm tightened his chest. Was there more going on here than a change of mind?
She glanced over the hood of his truck. He followed her line of vision, spotting a group of photographers rounding the corner of the church. In the next second she’d opened his passenger door and vaulted inside.
What in the world was she doing? Planning to steal his truck? He swung open the driver’s side door and climbed in.
“What are you doing in here?”
The fluffy material of her veil hit him in the face as she turned in the seat and slammed the door shut. “Drive. Fast.”
He smashed down the material from her veil, not caring if he wrinkled it. He’d never laid eyes on this woman before today, and he wasn’t about to drive her anywhere until he got some answers. “Why?”
“I don’t have time to explain. Unless you want to be front and center in tomorrow’s paper, you’ll drive.”
His gaze swung around to the photographers. They hadn’t noticed her yet, but that didn’t ease his discomfort. “You didn’t kill anyone, did you?”
“Of course not.” She sighed. “Do you honestly think I’d be in this getup if I was going to murder someone?”
“I’m not into any Bonnie and Clyde scenario.”
“That’s good to know. Now that we have that straightened out, can you put the pedal to the metal and get us out of here before they find me?”