Rush to the Altar Read online

  Rebecca Winters has written over forty-five books for Harlequin Romance® and is an internationally bestselling author. Her wonderfully unique, sparkling stories continue to be immensely popular with readers around the world.

  Praise for

  Rebecca Winters:

  “Winters weaves a magical spell that is unforgettable.”

  —Affaire de Coeur on The Nutcracker Prince

  “[A] rare gem…an emotionally gripping story of forbidden love.”

  —Romantic Times on Second-Best Wife

  “A delightful tale in which love conquers all.”

  —Romantic Times on Three Little Miracles

  Rebecca Winters, an American writer and mother of four, was excited about the new millennium because it meant another new beginning. Having said goodbye to the classroom where she taught French and Spanish, she is now free to spend more time with her family, to travel and to write the Harlequin Romance® novels she loves so dearly.

  Rebecca loves to hear from readers. If you wish to e-mail her, please visit her Web site at: www.rebeccawinters-author.com

  Books by Rebecca Winters

  HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

  3693—THE BRIDEGROOM’S VOW

  3703—THE PRINCE’S CHOICE*

  3710—THE BABY DILEMMA

  3729—THE TYCOON’S PROPOSITION

  3739—BRIDE FIT FOR A PRINCE (linked to RUSH TO THE ALTAR)

  RUSH TO THE ALTAR

  Rebecca Winters

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  “HE WAS good-looking before in a dark, dashing way. Now he’s handsome as sin, but you wouldn’t want to tangle with a man fighting his demons! I’ll do his vital signs before I leave the floor.”

  Riley Garrow had been lying propped in his hospital bed at St. Steven’s counting the minutes until Bart Adams arrived.

  Some of Riley’s friends and colleagues as well as those of his deceased father had been in and out of his room at one time or other in the last two months. However faithful Bart, his dad’s closest buddy and confidant, had been the one to serve as Riley’s lifeline to the outside world during his convalescence.

  But it was Sister Francesca’s voice, not Bart’s, he heard out in the hall. He had the strongest suspicion the head nurse had intended for him to overhear her.

  Theirs had been an ongoing battle of the wills. Her psychiatric training hadn’t prepared her for Riley’s refusal to let her explore his inner self—the core, as she put it, where he really lived. The persona he showed to the world was a mere facade hiding the wounded soul struggling for help from within.

  He loved baiting her when she started to pull her psychobabble on him. Since there wasn’t anything else to do during the long boring hours, it made his day pushing her buttons.

  “Uh-uh-uh,” he would say to her, waving his index finger before her shrewd brown eyes. “Control, Sister. Control. Don’t forget you’re a role model for the sweet young postulants under your care.”

  At that point the gentle lines of her face would harden while she fought with herself to remain calm and collected.

  “You’re absolutely impossible,” she would mutter before leaving the room in exasperation.

  “I’ve been told that before by a number of women who’ve warmed my bed,” he would call after her before bursting into laughter.

  When she went off the day shift she briefed the night staff personally if they were new to the floor. After eight weeks and several plastic surgeries to graft skin from his leg to the area around his right eye and cheek, he knew everyone’s schedule.

  Unfortunately the only female nursing help who came and went from his room were lay nuns. That was something Sister Francesca had probably rigged up too. Surely there couldn’t be that many women in Santa Monica, California, rushing to take vows of chastity and obedience.

  He stared at the four sterile walls of his cage. “Sixty days without a real woman— No wonder I’m chomping at the bit to get out of here!”

  “Your protest has been noted.” Sister Francesca floated into his room pretending she was mother serenity herself this evening. “It appears heaven has heard your prayers at last, Mr. Garrow.”

  He smiled up at her. “I didn’t think heaven listened to impossible men.”

  “They’ve made an exception in your case on behalf of all the sisters at St. Steven’s who go to their knees the moment before they enter your room, and as soon as they leave.”

  “All?” He arched one black brow. “Isn’t it a sin to exaggerate, Sister?”

  She started taking his vital signs. “After examining you on his rounds before dinner, Dr. Diazzo informed me you’re being discharged in the morning.”

  Riley’s eyelids closed tightly for a moment.

  “I thought that news would please you.”

  He opened them again. “Since I know you’d be forced to do penance if you lied, I have to assume you’re telling me the truth. For once I’m happy you invaded my privacy.”

  Her brows lifted. “For once I’m overcome by the admission.”

  “Don’t let pride carry you away, Sister, otherwise you’ll have to say extra novenas after vespers. Tell me—are you going to be here in the morning to make certain I never darken your doorstep again?”

  “I’m afraid not. After the burden it has been taking care of you, I’m going on retreat with some other sisters.”

  “Where does a nun go exactly for a well-earned vacation?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Ah, come on. You can tell me. I can keep a secret as well as a saint.”

  “If it will prevent you from bothering the other sisters, let’s just say I’m returning to the Good Shepherd Convent for a short period of rejuvenation and study. I need it after the draining last eight weeks being in charge of your case.”

  Riley chuckled. “Rumor has it you’re a devotee of Thomas Aquinas. He would be proud of you for following his example. You work in a hospital, serve the sick. You preach purity and peace to the heathen,” he teased her. “I’m partial to Francis of Assisi myself.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. No doubt like him you’ve done your share of street brawling because of a misspent youth.”

  “Would it surprise you to learn I even spent time in a Perugian prison?”

  She took off the blood pressure cup. “Nothing about you surprises me. Unfortunately the similarities between you and Francis of Assisi stop there, Mr. Garrow. His incarceration led to a spiritual conversion.”

  “How do you know mine didn’t? Uh-uh.” He put up his finger. “Don’t judge this book by its cover.”

  “It’s the cover that has gotten you into so much trouble.”

  If he weren’t mistaken, her eyes took on a haunted look as she studied him. For a brief moment they reminded him of Mitra’s eyes when she used to worry about him.

  “I’m leaving the hospital, not dying, Sister. You won’t be getting a last rite’s confession out of me, but I do have a gift for you.”

  “A nun doesn’t ac—”

  “Spare me the lecture,” he broke in without remorse. “This is one I guarantee you won’t refuse.”

  Acting as if she hadn’t heard him, she placed a jug of fresh ice water from the cart on his bedside table, but he knew she was dying to hear more.

  “You’re not even going to ask what it is?”

  “Need I remind you that for it to be a true gift, the right hand mustn’t let the left ha
nd know what it’s doing?”

  “I’m not the one striving for perfection. You, however, are very close to that sublime state and wouldn’t dream of stooping to a petty weakness like curiosity. Therefore I’ll tell you I’ve made a donation to your convent in honor of Sister Francesca.”

  When his declaration penetrated, she bowed her head.

  “You may not have succeeded in getting me to bare my soul, but you’ve convinced me there are angels on earth. Thank you for preventing me from giving up when I was at my lowest ebb. For that you’ve earned a permanent place in this sinner’s heart.”

  No doubt she was hiding her face because she didn’t want him to see the moisture filling her eyes, another sign of weakness she was determined not to display.

  As she turned to push the cart out of the room she said, “Ever since you were brought in here, you’ve been in my prayers, Mr. Garrow. You always will be.”

  “That’s a comforting thought. With you as my advocate, maybe there’s hope for me after all. Take care, Sister.”

  “God bless you,” she whispered before disappearing from the room.

  No sooner had she left him alone than Bart entered.

  “Sorry I’m late, but I think you’ll forgive me when you see what I’ve brought you. I dug through my old things in the trailer to find this for you. It was published while you were working in Brazil with your father.” He handed him a copy of International Motorcycle World.

  The October issue from last year showed a female on the cover with a blond braid swinging below her helmet. She was riding through a farmer’s muddy field on a motorcycle. There was a doctor’s satchel strapped to the back. The caption read: Even a modern day American vet still rides an old Danelli-Strada 100 Sport Bike to work because they’re built to last forever.

  “Go ahead and take a look while I get us a couple of soft drinks from the machine.”

  “Thanks, Bart.”

  The magazine had been printed the same month his father had been killed doing what he loved best. With an eagerness Riley hadn’t felt about anything for a long time, he opened the magazine. A small paragraph on the inside about the cover said, “The children in Prunedale, California, call her the ‘mad’ vet as she rides around on her trusty cycle.”

  He chuckled before turning to the main article. His first surprise came when he learned there were two men involved in the creation of the original company; Luca Danelli and Ernesto Strada. Riley had always thought Strada meant it was a street bike because strada was the word for street in Italian.

  The story followed their fascinating lives from their childhoods in Italy, through the World War II years and beyond to the culmination of their dream to build a motorcycle empire in Milan.

  Riley and his father had always performed their stunts on Danelli-Strada bikes. Then much to the motorcycle world’s chagrin, all manufacturing suddenly ended. His parent had insisted Danelli-Strada was the only brand to be trusted and never could understand why it had gone out of business.

  “Listen to this—” Riley said as soon as Bart came back in the room. “After Ernesto Strada died, Luca Danelli lost heart, stopped production and dropped out of the manufacturing scene.” He put down the magazine. “So that was the reason.”

  The older man opened one of the colas and handed it to him. “Keep reading.”

  After swallowing the contents in one go, Riley picked up where he’d left off.

  International Motorcycle World has learned that once again Danelli motorcycles are being manufactured at their new headquarters in Turin, Italy. This announcement comes from CEO, Nicco Tescotti, who granted International Motorcycle World’s chief staff writer Colin Grimes an exclusive interview.

  Racers around the globe are ecstatic in welcoming back this manufacturing giant after a long dearth. Already the new prototype called the Danelli NT-1 is clocking faster race times than any of the competition. Everyone else better move over because once again Luca Danelli is making his genius known. According to Tescotti, the company is here to stay.

  Excitement swept through Riley’s body. Maybe Sister Francesca’s prayers for him hadn’t been in vain after all. He lifted his head to find Bart smiling at him.

  “I thought that article might put a light in your eyes.”

  “Might?” Riley blurted. “This has to be my lucky night.”

  “How come?”

  “I was just told I’m getting out of here tomorrow.”

  “That’s the best news I’ve heard since the plastic surgeon promised he could fix up your face like new.”

  Not exactly like new, but Riley could live with the subtle changes and wasn’t about to complain.

  “With this article I know exactly where I’m headed after I leave the hospital. You must have been inspired to bring it to me.”

  “For years now I’ve been aware you wanted to pursue your own career, but you couldn’t do anything about it while your father needed you so badly.”

  If Bart knew that, then he knew a lot more than Riley had given him credit for.

  “I also happen to know the only reason you worked as a Hollywood stuntman for the last year was to make some fast, big bucks to pay off the bills he left owing.

  “Now that you’ve accomplished your objective, I’m anxious to find out what you’re going to do with the rest of your life. I figured the news about Luca Danelli would get your mind thinking. As I recall, Italy always did feel like home to you.”

  Riley nodded. “It was home to me for many years. Now I’ve got another reason to go back.” There was one more debt to pay…

  He eyed the other man for a long moment. “Dad said you were the best friend a man ever had. He knew what he was talking about. Thanks for being here for me, Bart.”

  The burly older man’s eyes watered. “I never had a wife or family. You kind of filled that spot, you know?” he said in a strangely gruff voice.

  “Until Mitra straightened me out, I thought you were my uncle.”

  When they’d both had a good laugh, Riley levered himself from the bed to give him a bear hug. “I promise to keep in touch with you.”

  “That’s all I needed to hear.”

  “You didn’t like any of the scripts I had sent over?” D.L. thundered.

  Annabelle Lassiter, known to her family and closest friends as Ann, met her agent’s incredulous gaze across the lunch table at Pierre’s without flinching. “I’m sorry, D.L., but I don’t want to be typecast, and I don’t happen to think any of these scripts are worth the paper they’re printed on.”

  His thick red brows bumped together. “Listen to me—if you want to make a real name for yourself in this town, you’d better stop being so choosy. You may be a long-legged, classy looking blonde with a load of natural talent, but one successful film with Cory Sieverts doesn’t guarantee a lifetime of work. You have to pay your dues, honey.”

  “I’m aware of that, but I refuse to act in a film aimed at sex-obsessed eighteen-year-old boys. That’s all these are.” She stared pointedly at the four scripts she’d put on the table.

  “That’s what’s selling these days!”

  “It’s disgusting, D.L. I want something meaty like an Anne of a Thousand Days.”

  He pursed his lips. “A plum like that only comes along once in a decade. Even then those historical films don’t always bring in the big bucks for the studios. You need to keep in mind you’re already twenty-eight years old, that’s over the hill for an actress.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  She knew it was true, but like any woman with red blood in her veins, she hated to hear it.

  “I’m your agent. You pay me to tell you things like that for your own good. In your case you have to keep your name and gorgeous face before the public on a continual basis or it’s curtains for you.”

  Maybe it was…

  “Perhaps I should move to England and try to get work in the theater.” It had been Colin Grime’s idea. Their long distance romance was difficult with him base
d in London and her in L.A.

  D.L. looked scandalized. “You’d be a fool to do that when you already have a foot and a leg in the door here. Before you ruin what we’ve already got going for you, I have something else to tell you about. It’s still in the works, but I can guarantee you a part.”

  “What is it?”

  “A couple of writer friends of mine have been kicking around the idea of a survivor movie. It’s strictly hush-hush at the moment. You’d be perfect for one of the older female roles.

  “All I have to do is let them know you’re interested. It’ll be the biggest box office hit of the season. At that point you’ll receive the kind of attention that will allow you to pick more of the type of projects you want.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks, D.L. That’s not the kind of acting I’ve dreamed of doing since I was a teen. If you want to know the truth, I’d be ashamed to show my face in anything so crass.”

  His eyes squinted at her. “What happened to the woman who was one of those television contestants on, Who Wants to Marry a Billionaire? And what about that Hollywood benefit you were in, Who Wants to Marry a Prince? The one your twin sister had to make good on instead of you? You want to talk crass?” he bellowed.

  Trust D.L. to hit her where it hurt most.

  “I admit there was a time when I was so desperate to get noticed by a Hollywood mogul I’d do just about anything, but I’ve changed since then.”

  “You’ve changed all right.” He got up and tossed three twenty dollar bills on the table. He was furious. “When you’re down to counting pennies again, don’t phone me.”

  “D.L.?” she called to him before he’d stalked away with the rejected scripts. “I appreciate everything you’ve done to help build my career. Please don’t be so angry that you write me off prematurely.”

  He eyed her for a long, uncomfortable moment. “I had you figured for someone a lot hungrier.”