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So this was life on the edge.

Rhys knew that a single call home could resolve their financial crisis, but logic wasn’t governing his actions this evening. Looking at Trae, he held out their last coin. “This is it.”

She smiled in approval. “Then we’re in this together. How about showing this machine who’s in charge?”

Rubbing the coin for good luck, Rhys dropped it in the slot. He didn’t look at the symbols flash, focusing instead on Trae’s hand on his arm, until all at once she released her grip with a squeal to the accompaniment of a million bells and whistles.

They turned towards each other, excitement overriding all other emotions. As she fell into his arms, Rhys understood that she merely meant to hug him, but between the thrill of winning – and her enticing scent – was it any wonder he wanted more than a simple embrace?

BARBARA BENEDICT

Weaving a story has always been part of Barbara Benedict’s life, from the days when her grandfather would gather the kids around his banjo to the nights of bedtime tales with her own children. For Barbara, starting a story should be like saying, “Come, enter a special new world with me.”

Her ten books and two novellas are set in varied places and time periods, but her heart is really in contemporary romance.

The Tycoon Meets His Match

BARBARA BENEDICT

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

To this day I can’t help but feel a certain thrill every time I hear the cry, “Road trip!” Maybe it’s the challenge of it all, the setting off into the unknown, the call to adventure with its promise of fun and laughter. Caught up in the demands of our busy modern lives, when do we have time to escape so impulsively?

In The Tycoon Meets His Match, I’m offering the vicarious opportunity. Join Trae and Rhys as they set off on their cross-country journey. Along the way they’ll hit snags, find surprises and experience how it feels to fall madly, deliriously, head over heels in love.

So buckle up and enjoy the ride.

Lilian Darcy

MILLS & BOON

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prologue

It was a dark and stormy night…

Technically, it was a dark and stormy night, but if Teresa Andrelini hoped ever to be a published writer, she couldn’t settle for such a cliché. Trae’s professors, even her classmates, would insist she could come up with a better description.

The word hokey popped into her mind.

The “let’s-make-a-vow” ceremony was Quinn’s idea. Trae wouldn’t put it past her drama-queen friend to have brokered a deal with the powers-that-be for the gale now howling outside their living-room window. Talk about atmosphere. Here they stood in this solemn circle, Trae and her three housemates, their faces shadowed behind flickering candles, trying not to flinch with each crash of thunder.

It was hard not to be impressed by everyone’s grim determination. Well, by Quinn and Alana’s determination, anyway. The way Lucie kept avoiding their gazes, Trae figured her poor roomie must be having trouble taking Quinn’s oath.

Heiress Lucinda Beckwith believed in fairy-tale endings. If Lucie were the budding author, she’d write a romance and probably make oodles of money. Trae, though, had found that the guys who seemed to be the real-life charmers had a tendency to turn out to be jerks—the proverbial snake in Prince’s clothing. Jo Kerrin’s husband was a perfect example.

At the thought of their missing friend, Trae felt an uncomfortable pang. Jo would have loved the melodramatic hoopla of Quinn’s ceremony, but she was now on her way to St. Louis to escape her so-called Prince Charming. Poor Jo had bought into the fairy-tale ending, and look what had happened to her.

“Earth to Trae.”

Quinn’s strained voice betrayed her impatience, but then they were all stretched tight after putting Jo on the bus that morning. Looking up to find Quinn frowning, Trae realized she’d been lost in her thoughts again, a habit that drove her roommate crazy.

“I said,” Quinn tried again, “do you so swear?”

“Yes,” Trae said in her loudest, clearest voice. “I won’t get married until I’ve achieved my goal to be successfully published.”

In actual truth, she’d already made the oath to herself years ago. Coming from an Italian father and five older brothers, she’d felt, early on, the need to establish her independence. Trae would not end up like her Cuban mama, an unpaid servant to the males in her life. If and when she hooked up with a man, she’d be the one in charge of her future. No male distraction was going to get in her way.

Satisfied with her answer, Quinn turned to Alana. “Do you, Alana Simms, swear not to wed until you’ve attained your goal of a successful career?”

Alana straightened her spine. “I swear,” she said clearly, despite the soft purr of her Southern drawl. “No man will stop me from establishing my own modeling agency.”

Trae didn’t doubt her. With her black hair and classic beauty, Alana need only walk into a room to stop all male conversation, but she rarely dated. With her understated grace and her slender, gorgeous body, she could snag any modeling job she wanted, yet she was forever turning down lucrative offers to make modeling a full-time career. She only modeled the little bit that she did to pay the bills and learn the industry. She had every intention of putting the knowledge to use. Pity the fool who thought he could seduce Alana away from earning her business degree. Her features might have the delicate perfection of a Dresden figurine, but underneath that beautiful exterior was a core of pure steel.

“Okay, Lucie,” Quinn announced, “that leaves you.”

Seeing her friend’s nervous expression, Trae offered an encouraging smile. Tiny, blond and seeming far younger than her twenty-two years, Lucie often relied on others to make up her mind. She’d become like the little sister Trae never had, and Trae often felt the need to protect her.

What Quinn didn’t know—and what Trae had sworn not to reveal—was that Lucie was all but hitched to her parents’ wealthy neighbor, Rhys Allen Paxton III, a man who, in Trae’s opinion, acted more like Lucie’s older brother than a lover. A strict, disapproving brother at that.

Talk about conflicted. Part of Trae felt a need to shield Lucie from Quinn’s bullying, but a larger part, the one that knew Lucie’s marrying Rhys Paxton would be a disastrous mistake, believed that if the oath should be mandatory for anyone, Lucie Beckwith was the gal.

“I swear,” Lucie started hesitantly, letting the words trail off as she looked away.

“Swear what, Lucie?” Driven by her own ambitions, Quinn had little patience or understanding for anyone else’s hesitation.

“I, uh, won’t get married.”

“Until?” Quinn prompted, tapping her foot. “What do you hope to accomplish?”

Good question. Lucie might have the funds and connections to achieve anything she wanted, yet here she was, nearing graduation, and she still had no idea what to do with the rest of her life.

Which made her doubly vulnerable to her Rhys Paxton arrangement.

“Well, I always wanted to be an actress,” Lucie offered haltingly. “Remember, I got that A in drama class? How about I don’t get married until I get my first movie role?”

Trae tried not to groan. Talk about reaching for the stars. As if Mitsy Beckwith would let her only child get anywhere near Hollywood. It was a miracle Lucie had even convinced her to let her go to college at Tulane—far away from their home in Connecticut.

Quinn didn’t bat a lash. Either she accepted the answer as vintage Lucie, or she was too preoccupied with her own agenda to actually listen. “That leaves me,” she said quickly. “And I won’t marry until I’ve made partner in a law firm.”

A loud clap of thunder rattled the walls, as if in answer to Quinn’s pronouncement. Trae, Lucie and Alana shuddered, but Quinn faced them all squarely. “All those in agreement,” she droned like a high priestess at some sacrificial offering, “shall now place their right hand in the circle.”

With a solemn expression, Alana put her hand over Quinn’s. Lucie gulped, then extended hers, forcing Trae, who still felt ridiculous chanting mumbo-jumbo in the dark, to stand alone outside the circle.

Reluctantly, she placed her hand on top of the others’.

As if they’d been struck by one of those accompanying lightning bolts, Trae could feel a current flowing between the women, filling her with warmth and a sense of belonging. Edifying her with a sense of commitment.

Never mind the melodramatic hoopla. This was what mattered. Them, here and now, joined in resolution, their grasp solid, their unity unbroken. Even with all the Beckwith money, you just couldn’t buy a moment like this.

“When it comes to marriage,” she chanted in unison with her friends, “just say no!”

Chapter One

Six years later…

They can’t think I wanted to catch the bouquet, Trae thought with a frantic glance around her. The stupid thing had just landed in her lap. She wanted to toss the peach and white floral confection to the floor, but her Catholic upbringing wouldn’t allow her to litter a church.

Not that anyone paid any attention to her. Each stunned face was focused on the door Lucie had just slammed behind her, the force of the sound still reverberating in the otherwise silent church.

She did it, Trae realized with a sudden sense of wonder. Little Lucie Beckwith finally said no.

No small feat, either, considering the three-ring circus her mother had assembled.

The picture-postcard chapel was filled to the brim with wealthy relatives, influential guests and a media army lining the walls. Clearly, Mitsy Beckwith had wanted her only child’s wedding to be an event, The Event, talked about by everyone-who-has-ever-been-anyone for years to come.

Looked like Mitsy would get her wish. They’d be talking about this one forever.

Against her will, Trae’s gaze went to the altar, where the groom still stood stiffly at attention. Rhys Allen Paxton III, owner of the Paxton Corporation, was accustomed to having everything go according to his plans. The epitome of tall, dark and handsome, his meticulously groomed appearance—as well as every other aspect of his life—was as well-ordered as a military parade.

Though if you asked Trae, he sure didn’t seem so self-possessed at the moment. Maybe it was all that black—his hair, the tuxedo, the sleek Italian shoes—but all color seemed to have drained from his face.

As if sensing her gaze upon him, Rhys suddenly focused on Trae, his clear blue gaze probing her. Under his intense scrutiny, she felt like a butterfly pinned to the mat. “What?” she almost asked aloud, wondering if he was seeking her help.

But then she noticed the hostility animating his features. With a quick scowl, he sprang into action, leaping down the altar steps to go marching to the door.

It took Trae a few more beats to realize he was going after Lucie.

Sparing a quick “Be right back” for the still-speechless Quinn and Alana, Trae scrambled past her friends to the end of the pew. Lucie might have worked up some gumption at last, but she was a novice at this and she’d need support. No way was Trae giving Rhys any opportunity to bully her friend into a marriage she obviously didn’t want.

As Trae hurried down the aisle, she saw that Hal and Mitsy Beckwith were close at her heels. If it was going to be three against one, Luce really needed her help.

Bursting out of the church, Trae squinted against the sudden bright sunlight as she searched for her friend, but the only remaining evidence of Lucie’s exit was the blinking taillight on a sleek black limo, as it took a hard, fast left at the corner.

Mitsy Beckwith spoke the thought uppermost in everyone’s mind. “She’s gone”. And then, as an afterthought, “I bet she’s going home.”

Luce, no, Trae thought. If her friend retreated to Mitsy’s territory, she’d never get out alive.

Unfortunately, judging by Mitsy’s pursed lips and narrowed eyes, Trae must have uttered the “no” aloud. “All her things are there,” the woman articulated, as if dealing with an imbecile. “She’d never go anywhere without her ATM and credit cards.”

She had a point there. Far too accustomed to the Beckwith resources, Lucie wouldn’t know how to last five minutes without her money. As if recognizing this truth as well, both Hal and Rhys simultaneously dug in their pockets for car keys.

Watching the Beckwiths jump in their Lincoln and peel away, Trae felt a spurt of panic. She’d taken a taxi from the hotel and had no way to follow them. “I’m coming with you,” she announced to Rhys. “To talk to her,” she insisted, trailing behind as he strode to his black Mercedes. “Lucie will need someone to confide in.”

“That would be me.” Yanking open the door, he slid into his car.

Trae reached the passenger door just as he started the engine, but when she tugged on the handle, she found the door locked. Rhys, smiling grimly, seemed more than content to drive off without her.

“Let me in,” she shouted through the window, giving him her “look.” A girl didn’t grow up in the Andrelini household without coming up with a way to let the males in her life know she meant business. Rhys merely narrowed his gaze as he shifted into Reverse.

Desperate, she dug in her purse and pulled out her cell phone. “She’ll probably try to call me. If you leave me here, you’ll never know what she said.”

Though he said nothing, Trae heard the telltale click of the lock. Jamming her phone back in her purse, she yanked open the door and hopped inside. Rhys pulled away before she could completely close it.

Then again, he was smart to hurry. Everyone in the church had begun spilling out the doors, the press included.

Rhys didn’t waste time with words, driving to the Beckwith house as if he were racing the Indy 500. Trae could have been invisible for all the attention he paid her, but watching him stomp on the clutch and jam the gearshift, she was just as happy to remain under his radar.

He did glance at her once—actually, he scowled at the bouquet clutched in her hands—but otherwise focused his gaze on the road ahead. Trae understood that she—not the peach-colored roses in her lap—prompted his irritation. Rhys never could disguise his disapproval of her.

“What did you say to Lucie?” he barked suddenly, downshifting adroitly as he rounded the corner.

“Me?”

He frowned, knowing she knew exactly who he meant, since there was no one else in the car to answer the question. Not willing to give an inch, Trae continued her pose of wounded confusion.

“You must have said something,” he said curtly. “It’s not like Lucie to be so impulsive.”

“Oh, really? Have you forgotten Cancun?”

Apparently not, if his glare were anything to go by.

Cancun had been one of those spring break moments of insanity. Having had enough of the day-to-day grind at Tulane, they’d lit out for sun-drenched Mexico. Maybe it had been the wild college atmosphere, or maybe because Bobby Boudreaux, Lucie’s on-again-off-again boyfriend, had joined them, but one minute Lucie had been quietly sipping margaritas and the next she was dancing on the table. Trae still didn’t know how the fight had started, but in a blink, they were sitting in a Mexican prison, waiting for Rhys to bail them out.

“That wasn’t my fault,” she told him defiantly. “I didn’t get us carted off to jail.”

“And whose idea was it to go down there in the first place?”

“Why do you always…”

“With all the drinking and partying,” he interrupted, “you didn’t anticipate trouble?” Shaking his head in disgust, he skillfully rounded the corner on what seemed to be two wheels.

Trae felt compelled to protest. “Lucie is not a lost little lamb, you know. She’s perfectly capable of making decisions for herself.” She saw skepticism steal over his granitelike features, so she added, “When she’s allowed to.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” In Trae’s opinion, the fact that Lucie had asked three distant relatives, and not her close friends, to be her bridesmaids made all the girl’s choices suspect in the extreme. Including—no, especially—her decision to go against their Just-Say-No oath.

“You expect me to believe that this wedding was all her idea?” she asked.

The car jerked as he popped the clutch. “All I expect from you,” he said tightly, regaining control of the vehicle, “is a little common courtesy. A true friend would back off and let us sort through what is so obviously a private matter.”

The nerve of the guy. “On the contrary, a true friend would look out for Lucie’s best interests. I’ve no intention of backing off until I’m certain she genuinely wants this marriage to take place.”

He looked at her with disbelief. “We will be married, I assure you. There’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

“From the looks of it, Lucie stopped it just fine on her own,” Trae ground out, unable to stop herself from making the dig. She was doubly determined to reach her friend first. She couldn’t let Rhys turn sweet, fun-loving Lucie into the woman he thought he wanted—a perfect clone of her mother, a poised, self-possessed trophy wife he could trot out for public occasions.

It appeared he’d yet to grasp that every female has the will, skill and desire to make a scene and, given the right circumstances, even a control freak like Mitsy Beckwith was perfectly capable of coming apart at the seams.

The evidence of which greeted them as they pulled up the sloped, curving driveway of the Beckwith estate. Mitsy came charging at the car before Rhys could stop; her hands were pulling at her sculpted coiffure. Although her words were muffled, Trae was able to read her lips and make out, “She’s not here. Do you hear me? She’s not here. What do we do now?”

Judging by his continued silence, Trae had to assume Rhys had no ready answer.

Braking with caution, he took his time shutting off the ignition, and as he reached for the door handle, Trae could see a tiny tic beginning to spasm over his right eyebrow. For an instant, as he slowly emerged from the car, she almost felt sorry for him.

Until she got out of the Mercedes and found him as unflappable as ever, his hesitation vanishing as if it had never been. “We’ll wait,” he said firmly to the Beckwiths. “No doubt Lucie is driving around, gathering her thoughts. When she’s ready to be logical again, she’ll return with an explanation. Let’s be calm when she arrives, okay?” Rhys looked from Hal to Mitsy, bypassing Trae entirely. “We don’t want to do anything more to upset her.”

“Upset her?” Misty exploded. “What about me? What am I supposed to do? The orchestra, the prime rib dinners, the melting ice sculptures…” She looked down the road with a horrified expression. “The guests! What if they come here? My God, the press!”

“Take it easy,” Rhys said calmly. “It won’t do any good to panic. Besides, I doubt the guests are going to come here for a wedding reception, considering there was no wedding.”

He could have saved his breath.

“This is a nightmare,” Mitsy barreled on, hysteria fueling her momentum. “People will talk. They’ll snicker behind my back. I won’t have it, do you hear me? Rhys,” she said, grasping his arm with a wild look in her eyes, “you’ve got to do something.”

“Do what?” He didn’t raise his voice, but the words erupted out of him like a cannon blast. “Your daughter just left me stranded at the altar. What in the hell do you think I can do about anything?”

Mitsy blinked, visibly stunned. She was not alone in her shock. Clamping his jaw shut, Rhys acted as if his mouth had just betrayed him. It was the first time Trae had seen him even close to admitting he didn’t have everything under control.

“I can call the police,” Hal offered lamely.

Rhys shook his head. “Let’s hold off calling the authorities. We don’t want to get them or the press involved. Not yet, at least.”

Typical, Trae thought. Poor Luce was out there wandering around helplessly, and he was worried about bad publicity? Disgusted with Rhys, with the lot of them, she thrust the bouquet in his hands. “Isn’t there a phone in the limo?” she asked brusquely as she dug through her purse for her cell phone. “What’s the number?”

Hal Beckwith searched his pockets, unearthing a business card with the company’s information. It took two tries and several minutes on hold before Trae got the number for the phone in the limo. Dialing impatiently, she listened to it ring and ring.

After a few minutes of that, Rhys shook his head. Shoving the bouquet back in her hands, he grabbed her phone.

“Hey, gimme that.” Trae reached for it, but Rhys held the phone against his ear, which, given their height difference, meant she had to jump like an overstimulated puppy to retrieve it.

Suddenly aware of how tall he was, how physically overwhelming, she instead waved the bouquet in his face. “You think you can do better?” she asked. “That Lucie will sense it’s you calling and instantly pick up the phone?”

He eyed her as if she were a buzzing gnat—nothing to take seriously but incredibly annoying just the same. “I’m not phoning the limo,” he announced curtly. “I’m dialing the dispatcher. All I need is their location.”

Mitsy got a smug look on her face, as if she’d been the one to reach that particular conclusion. Trae endured her holier-than-thou attitude in silence, noting that the longer Rhys stayed on hold, the more Mitsy’s smirk waned.

Then suddenly, Mitsy gasped. Following her panicked gaze down the road, Trae saw a car round the corner. With a burst of hope, she recognized the arriving vehicle as Quinn and Alana’s rental. With their help, she still might get to Lucie first.

Yet even as she started toward them, Mitsy, who had the instincts of a bloodhound sniffing out trouble, cut across the lawn to reach her friends before her. Smiling graciously, Mitsy ushered Quinn and Alana into the house.

Hold on Luce, Trae mentally urged as she hurried behind them. I’m on my way.

Just remain calm, Rhys told himself firmly as he climbed the stairs to the family wing. Go through the motions, act as if nothing is wrong. And never mind that half the world just watched you get publicly jilted.

He should have put his foot down and insisted Mitsy limit the invitations. He’d wanted a quiet wedding, not a spectacle of five hundred-plus guests. Worse, Mitsy’s need to dominate the social pages had drawn far too many media ghouls. Rhys suffered no illusions. The fact that he owned several publications wouldn’t grant him immunity. This story would break in all the morning editions.

He glared at the cell phone in his hand. “Just give me something,” he barked into it, despite still being on hold. Then he realized the battery had died. Frustrated, he bit his lip to keep himself under control. How like Trae not to keep her phone charged.

He knew it was useless to rant at dead air, but he hated the inaction, the not knowing. He had to get to Lucie, talk some sense into her. Hadn’t they talked about this, both agreeing that their marriage was inevitable? Her parents expected it, everyone accepted it as a fait accompli. Today’s ceremony should have been a mere formality, the punctuation point of a carefully constructed sentence—only Lucie had suddenly changed the words. Up until an hour ago, she’d agreed that this marriage would benefit them both immensely. What could have changed her mind?

But that was stupid; he knew what had happened. Her friends. More specifically, Trae Andrelini.

He’d seen Trae, of course, talking to Lucie at the back of the church. How could he miss her in that outfit? The sexy, lime suit, the patent leather stilettos, all that red hair. Of course she’d said something, he decided. Ever since the two friends had met at college, Trae had been the devil on Lucie’s shoulder, forever coaxing her into trouble, yet never around when it came time to bail her out. That was his job—the mopping up, the covering over, all the king’s men putting Lucie together again. With a pang, Rhys pictured his fiancée, alone and frightened in some dingy bus depot, her rebellion running out of steam. He had to get to her. She’d expect it. Her family expected it. After all, when had Rhys Allen Paxton ever let her down?

Ah, Lucie, he thought in desperation. Where the hell are you?

“Rhys, you okay? I got here as fast as I could.”

He turned to find his younger brother behind him, Jack’s gold-blond hair and easy good looks so different from his own. “I’m fine,” Rhys said more brusquely than he’d intended. To counteract this, he added a smile, but for once his brother didn’t return it.

“Who am I kidding? This is useless,” Rhys muttered, wanting to fling Trae’s phone against the wall. “I’m wasting time. I don’t suppose Lucie gave you any idea where she might be headed?”

“Me?” Jack shook his head. “I haven’t a clue. Though, if you remember, I did try to warn you that you were making a mistake in pushing her into marriage.”

Rhys bristled. “I didn’t push her. And I don’t make mistakes. I can’t afford to.”

“Whoa. Down, fella.” Grinning, Jack held up his hands as if to ward off a charge. “You know how much you just sounded like the old man?”

An unfair comparison, Rhys thought irritably. If anything, he’d been the bridge between his father and brother. Jack had always called the man TA, as in Tight Ass, while their father maintained that Jack wouldn’t know his head from a hole in the ground.

Which could be why Rhys, long accustomed to dismissing his brother’s view of things, ignored Jack’s vague warnings about Lucie.

Too, Rhys had been distracted by his latest acquisition, a company his father had tried for years to acquire. A major coup, but even were his father still alive to witness it, Rhys wouldn’t get any pat on the back for his efforts. Not after the fiasco at the church. Unacceptable, was how the man would describe today’s events. In the world according to Rhys II, once a goal was set, there was no excuse for not achieving it. In this situation, the goal had been marriage.

“So how do you plan to get her back?” Jack asked, as if Rhys needed the reminder that he didn’t have a bride. “Not call the cops, I hope.”

“No. This is something I need to deal with myself.”

“Okay, then I’ll hold down the fort while you’re gone.”

In truth, the thought of leaving his none-too-reliable brother in charge of the business filled Rhys with dread, which was why he’d asked Sam Beardsley, his father’s right-hand man, to come out of retirement and oversee things while he was away on his honeymoon. Now it would be time away to win back his fiancée.

But the last thing Rhys wanted was for his brother to see his lack of faith in him, so, forcing a smile, he held out his hand. “Thanks, I’d appreciate that.”

Jack beamed as they shook hands, until a sudden trill of female laughter from down the hall had him glancing over his shoulder. “I—I’d better go,” he said, his attention obviously diverted. “Someone needs to calm down the Beckwiths—and anyone else who might have arrived.”

Rhys knew Jack wasn’t checking on the Beckwiths. His brother’s ability to get distracted by the opposite sex was both legendary and inevitable, and a good reason why Rhys couldn’t leave Paxton Corporation too long in his hands.

Shaking his head, he made his way to Lucie’s bedroom. He wanted to change out of the tuxedo and his suitcases were there, since they’d planned to leave from the house for the airport. Then, too, he thought as he frowned down at the useless cell, Lucie had her own private phone line in her bedroom.

He went through the door, leaving it open, feeling claustrophobic amid all the pink. Thanks to Mitsy’s decorating the room was a confection of chintz pillows, poofy curtains and fussy white lace, complete with an oversized, overdressed teddy bear perched on the canopied bed. All that was missing was the placard, Rich Young Girl Sleeps Here.

No wonder Lucie sometimes had a skewed grasp on reality. Even the phone was absurd, a plastic rendition of Cinderella’s glass slipper. Who in their right mind talked into a shoe?

He did, apparently. Tossing Trae’s dead cell phone on the bed, he reached for the slipper. He had calls to make, starting with his housekeeper in the Bahamas. Knowing how Rosa loved to pamper Lucie, he could picture the poor woman combing the grounds to find the gardenias Lucie adored. He could spare Rosa the extra work, if not the disappointment that Lucie wouldn’t be coming.

“But Miss Lucie is on her way here,” Rosa informed him. “She just called from the airport, telling us to expect her shortly.”

He felt a surge of relief, knowing she was safe. Of course Lucie would go to the woman who acted more like a mother to her than her own mother did. Why rattle around on a bus when she could be spoiled rotten at his house in the islands?

At least now he knew she was within reach. With any luck, he might catch up with her at JFK and bring her back home before nightfall. At worst, even if she did fly off without him, he’d meet up with her on the island, where he could easily arrange a quiet ceremony in the local seaside chapel.

It didn’t matter to Rhys where they got married, as long as they were wed by the end of the week. By then, of course, he’d need to be back in the office.