The Bride Wore Blue Read Free

jeans. Judging from the look of them, they were held together by a wish and a prayer and several inches of the same silver tape that appeared to be holding his plane together.
    It couldn’t be, she told herself, giving him another long, considering look. Fifteen years ago she’d considered him more of a subspecies, a card-carrying cretin and a royal pain in the tush. He’d teased and tormented and propositioned her until she’d wanted to tie an anchor around his scrawny neck and toss him into the bay.
    She frowned, dug deeper and tried again to find a scrap of something familiar. The raging hormone who had shadowed her steps like a lust-struck puppy had been all sharp, skinny angles, smart irreverent mouth and schoolboy swagger. Reminding her back then of the great Blue Heron who had given the bay its name, she’d tagged him “Blue” to get back at him for the label he’d pinned on her and her own long-legged form.
    “Blue?” An odd mixture of disbelief and reluctant pleasure cluttered her thoughts as she searched his smiling face again. “Blue Hazzard? Is it really you?”
    Her slow, astonished realization seemed to tickle him. “As if the world could handle another.”
    “My Lord.” She couldn’t stop the smile this time. Shaking her head, she extended her hand. “After all these years. I don’t believe it.”
    His grin just got wider. And more focused. And if possible, more attractive.
    “Fifteen years,” he murmured, shaking his head before adding with obvious approval, “You haven’t changed, Stretch.” He gave her another one of those maddeningly male once-overs as he folded her hand in his firm, possessive grip. “Not by so much as an eyelash.”
    She was used to being sized up, cataloged and pricetagged. She was used to the unforgiving eye of the camera. It came with the territory. It was part of the cost of success.But Blue’s bold, steady appraisal made her uncomfortably aware of all the bare skin exposed by her skimpy suit. To combat the feeling, she drew her hand way from his and slipped her sunglasses back in place.
    “Well, you have,” she managed with no staged amazement as she tried to deal with the heat his grip had generated and the alarming and totally uncalled for thunder of her heart.
    She tucked her hands around her waist, distancing herself and downplaying her reaction to him. His gaze remained fixed on her face, confident, penetrating.
    “Some things haven’t changed, though.” She nodded toward the plane, taking a much-needed break from the eye contact. He’d always told her he was going to fly some day. Of course, he’d always told he was going to do a lot of things—like break down her resistance and get her into the back seat of his daddy’s car. “It would appear you’re still sticking your neck out and courting disaster.”
    He followed her gaze to the Cessna. His face lit up with pride and affection. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”
    “A beauty?” She couldn’t stop a skeptical chuckle. “You always were optimistic to a fault. Not to burst your bubble, but there are some children only a father could love. In case you really hadn’t noticed, that plane is a wreck.”
    That was stating the obvious. The plane needed more than a coat of paint to make it respectable again. And from the sound of the engine when he’d set it down, an oilcan and a screwdriver wouldn’t amount to much more than a bandage surgery.
    He managed a playfully affronted scowl. “You can’t be serious? Surely you can see past the surface to the buried treasure beneath.” He shot another adoring look toward the Cessna. “She’s vintage.”
    “And dangerous. Next you’ll tell me it runs better than it sounds.”
    “Don’t let her sputtering fool you. She’s just a little cranky today.” Those Nordic blue eyes took another long, leisurely side trip up and down the length of her bare legs. Like you, his look implied. “Nothing a little special attention can’t fix.”
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