Chapter One

"Clair, for heaven's sake! How will Evelyn ever get this done if you don't stop fidgeting?" Josephine Dupre-Beauchamp glanced at the gold Rolex watch on her slender wrist, sighed, then frowned impatiently at her daughter. "Now stand up straight, dear, and goodness, keep your chin up. The wedding is only three days away and this has to be perfect."

Josephine, with her willowy figure and stunning dark looks, was herself a picture of perfection. Some said that her daughter looked just like her, though Clair was three inches taller and her eyes were blue instead of Josephine's brown. "From our French ancestors," Josephine had always proclaimed when anyone commented on her daughter's striking eye color.

While Josephine circled, Clair sucked in her stomach, gritted her teeth against the pins sticking in her bust and waist, then rolled her shoulders back and lifted her chin.

She couldn't breathe, couldn't move, and an annoying, persistent itch stabbed the center of her back.

Three days.

As if Clair needed her mother, or anyone else for that matter, telling her that her own wedding was only three days away.

To be precise: seventy-eight hours, forty-two minutes and--she looked up at the wall clock in the exclusive bridal shop fitting room--thirty-seven seconds.

Clair swallowed the lump in her throat. From the triple mirrors in front of her, three identical young women dressed in white satin and Italian lace stared back. It was odd, Clair thought, that the reflecting images didn't really look like her at all.

Didn't feel like her.

"She's lost weight." Evelyn Goodmyer, the hottest and most sought after couture in all of South Carolina , pinched the seam under Clair's arm and frowned. "She was a perfect size six when we measured four weeks ago and her bust was a 34B. How can I possibly--"

"Ohmigod, Jo-Jo!" Victoria Hollingsworth burst into the fitting room, waving a newspaper. "Wait until you see this!"

Momentarily distracted by the triple reflection of herself in the mirrors, Victoria tucked a short red curl behind her ear, then smoothed a hand over her ecru raw silk trousers.

"Vickie." Josephine crossed her arms and arched an impatient brow.

Victoria dragged her gaze from the mirror, then snapped open the newspaper and thrust it under Josephine's nose. "This morning's Charleston Times," she said, smiling brightly. "Society section, center page."

Victoria had not only been Josephine's college roommate at Vassar University , she was also Clair's godmother. And--Clair felt her heart skip as she glanced at the clock again--in seventy-eight hours, thirty-nine minutes and twenty-six seconds, Victoria would become her mother-in-law, as well.

Clair craned her head slightly to get a view of the paper, but could only see the picture of a charging bull running amuck in a china shop on the back page.

Victoria quickly snatched the newspaper back and started to read, "`Oliver Hollingsworth and his fiance, Clair Beauchamp, photographed while attending a charity ball last week in support of the new children's wing at St. Evastine's Memorial Hospital, will wed this Saturday at Chilton Cathedral."

Josephine brushed an imaginary piece of lint from her beige linen jacket. "That's it?"

"Of course not, silly." Victoria cleared her throat. "Ms. Beauchamp, 25, daughter of shipping magnate, Charles Beauchamp III and Josephine Dupre-Beauchamp, long-time residents of Rolling Estates in Hillgrove, is a summa cum laude graduate from Radcliffe University . Oliver, 26, son of Nevin and Victoria Hollingsworth, also residents of Rolling Estates, recently received his MBA from Harvard after graduating Phi Beta Kappa from Princeton . He is currently manager of accounts at Hollingsworth and Associates accounting firm in nearby Blossomville."

Victoria 's eyes filled with tears and her voice wavered. "My little boy's all grown up, Jo-Jo. And Clair, our beautiful, precious Clair--"

Both Victoria and Josephine looked at Clair and sighed. Stop! she wanted to yell at them. Stop, stop, stop! Between her mother and godmother these past few weeks, Clair had seen more female tears than a boy band's concert.

When Evelyn jammed another pin into the pearled bodice of the wedding dress and hit skin, Clair felt her own eyes tear.

"Shame on you, Vickie, you're making her cry, too." Sniffing, Josephine took the newspaper from Victoria and folded it. "You can read this later, Clair. We've got to hurry if we're going to make our 11:30 lunch reservations at Season's."

Clair opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Evelyn cut her off.

"I can't possibly finish that quickly," the couturier insisted. "And she still needs to try on the shoes you've ordered. She can meet you there when we're done here."

"I suppose that will be all right." Josephine stepped close to her daughter and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "I'll send Thomas back to pick you up, dear. Call me when you're on your way and I'll order for you."

While Evelyn walked Josephine and Victoria to the front of the shop, Clair turned back to the mirrors and stared.

This time, the tears that burned her eyes had nothing at all to do with sharp pins. She looked at the clock again.

Seventy-eight hours, twenty-nine minutes and twelve seconds...

Jacob Carver was in a hell of a bad mood. He supposed the ninety-degree heat and one hundred per cent humidity inside his car might be the reason. Or perhaps it was because he'd driven twelve hours straight through from New Jersey last night and hadn't seen a bed in twenty-four hours. Or quite possibly his foul disposition had something to do with the fact he'd been sitting across the street from this fancy bridal store for two hours, sweating his butt off, without so much as a glimpse of the woman.

What the hell could she possibly be doing in there for two hours?

Not that he really wanted to know, Jacob thought as he reached for another bottle of water from the styrofoam ice chest on the front seat of his car. There were areas where he preferred to maintain his ignorance. Anything connected to weddings was at the top of the list and a female shopping was a close second. The less he knew about those things, the better.

He guzzled half the bottle of water, then tossed it back in the cooler. The up-side was that the mother had left a half hour ago with another woman. Since he'd had explicit instructions from Lucas Blackhawk that he was to approach Clair Beauchamp only if she were alone, Jacob figured his window of opportunity would be opening any minute now. Based on the tight leash the Beauchamps kept on their only daughter, Jacob also figured he might not get another opportunity.

And Lord knew, if Mommy and Daddy Beauchamp caught sight of a long-haired private investigator speaking to their precious little girl, they'd probably call the cops and have him locked up faster than he could say Jack Daniels. It wouldn't matter that he hadn't broken any laws, either. The rich had their own set of rules, their own laws.

And he had his.

But he had no intention of going to jail. Not for anyone, or any amount of money. He'd do what he'd been paid to do, then he'd hit the road again. Because he specialized in the most difficult, or most touchy, location of missing persons, his referral work took him all over the country. It kept him on the road more than at his apartment in New Jersey , but that was fine with him. Jacob liked to keep moving, and he liked to move fast.

And he had the car to do it in--a `68 Charger 426 Hemi, stroked and bored to 487 cubic inches. Restored meticulously by his own hands, his baby was all muscle and speed. On the open road, she could do a quarter mile in 10.6.

He just might see if he could break that record after this job was done. Maybe he'd head down to Miami for a couple of weeks, find a warm, sandy spot on a beach and share a pitcher of margaritas with...what was that waitress's name he'd met last year when he'd been staking out a con-artist at a resort hotel? Sandy , that was it. Blonde and buxom and happily divorced. He smiled at the memory, realized he'd been working too many hours for way too long. All work and no play had indeed made Jacob a very dull boy.

But all that was about to change.

Jacob sat abruptly when the woman came out of the bridal shop. She carried a shopping bag in one hand and small clutch purse in the other. The sun shimmered off her baby-blue silk tailored pantsuit and picked up the strands of red in her shoulder-length dark hair. He watched as she slipped on a pair of sunglasses, then stood in front of the shop, glancing in the direction of oncoming traffic.

Damn, but she was a looker. She was tall for a woman, he thought, probably around five-foot-seven or eight, very slender, with long legs and a delicate bone structure. Her face was heart-shaped, with high cheekbones and finely arched brows.

And her mouth, Lord. Wide and lush and curved at the corners.

He sighed with disappointment. She was business, he reminded himself, not pleasure.

But hey, he thought, snatching his keys from his ignition. A guy can look, can't he?

He slipped out of his car, careful not to make eye contact with her as he casually stepped off the curb. It appeared that she was waiting for a ride and he'd have to move fast or she'd get away. He was halfway across the street when she turned suddenly, then walked quickly in the opposite direction and disappeared around the corner.

Dammit!

Had she seen him? he wondered. He didn't think so, and even if she had, she couldn't possibly know he was coming for her. He sprinted to the corner, then looked down the street. There were people out walking, business men and women headed for lunch and shoppers coming out and going into stores, but no sign of Clair Beauchamp.

What the hell? Had she gone into another store? Clenching his jaw, he was about to head for the closest shop, Maiman's Jewelers, when he spotted the arched brick walkway leading to an inner court. The scent of grilling hamburgers and freshly made pizza drifted from the corridor.

Letting instinct lead him, Jacob ducked into the walkway and followed it into an inner, open-air courtyard heavy with ferns and fountains. Lunch diners sat at wrought iron tables and chairs in the center of the shaded court where vendors served everything from sandwiches to hot dogs.

Got cha.

She stood in front of a corner cart where a freckled-faced young man was too busy staring at his pretty customer to pay attention to the money she was counting out. When she looked up at the moon-eyed kid, he turned bright red, then handed her a plump hot dog smothered in ketsup and mustard. Jacob shook his head with amusement, then ducked behind a fern when she glanced over her shoulder in his direction. He watched as she walked a few feet away and stood with her back to him.

"Showtime," Jacob muttered under his breath.

He came up behind her, stopped three feet away to give her a little space. "Clair Beauchamp?"

She jumped, and without turning around, pitched the hot dog into the trash can. Puzzled, Jacob watched as she straightened her shoulders and turned.

"Yes?"

Damn. She might be business, but his pulse still leaped when she faced him. He thought she'd looked good from across the street, but close up she was lethal.

"Miss Beauchamp, I--" He paused, then looked at the trash can and frowned. "Why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

Annoyed, he gestured toward the trash can. "Throw a perfectly good hot dog away."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Lifting her pretty chin, she slid her sunglasses down her nose. "Do I know you?"

Oh, she was good, Jacob thought. Just the right amount of disdain in her soft Southern voice and impatience in her piercing blue gaze to put him in his place without being overly rude. What the hell. What did he care if she'd tossed the damn hot dog? No skin off his nose.

"My name is Jacob Carver." He pulled out his PI badge and flashed it at her. "I've been hired by a lawyer's firm in Wolf River, Texas, to contact you."

She leaned closer and took a look at his badge, then slid her sunglasses back up. "Whatever for?"

"Can we sit?" He nodded at an empty table a few feet away.

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Carver. I'm already late for a lunch meeting." She flipped open the catch on her purse, then smoothly retrieved a card and handed it to him. "If you call this number, my mother's secretary will set up an appointment. Now if you'll excuse me--"

"Miss Beauchamp." He moved and blocked her path, watched her lips press together in annoyance. "My employer insists that I speak to you and only to you."

"And I insist that you let me pass."

"I only want five minutes." He smiled and spread his hands. "You don't need to be afraid. I'm not here to hurt you."

"I'm not afraid," she said icily. "I'm in a hurry."

But the fact was, Clair thought, she was afraid. And though she was used to people approaching her, usually for a donation to a charity or a request for an endorsement, it wasn't every day a man sneaked up behind her, caught her completely off-guard, then cornered her.

And he wasn't just any man, she thought, holding her purse tightly to her chest. He had to be the most rugged man she'd ever seen. The navy-blue T-shirt he wore hugged his muscular upper torso, while faded denim stretched across his long legs. He'd neglected to cut his dark hair for some time and his face--a face that had made her breath catch when she'd first turned around--hadn't seen the sharp end of a razor for a couple of days, either. His eyes were almost as dark as his hair, his nose bent at the bridge and his mouth--her gaze dropped there now--his mouth had a devil-take-you arrogance that made her throat go dry.

Straightening her shoulders, she tried to push past him. "I'm sorry, but I really can't--"

Once again he blocked her. "Have you ever heard the names Jonathan and Norah Blackhawk?"

"No. And I would appreciate--"

"What about Rand and Seth Blackhawk?"

She faltered, had to blink back the unexpected and sudden pain behind her eyes. She'd never heard any of those names before, she was certain she hadn't. And yet...

Rand and Seth...

She shook her head. "Why would I?"

"Because--" Jacob leaned down and inched his face closer to hers "--Jonathan and Norah Blackhawk are your real parents, and Rand and Seth are your brothers."

She stared at him for what felt like an eternity, then started to laugh. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

But he didn't smile, just kept that dark, somber gaze locked on her face. "Jonathan and Norah were killed in a car accident in Wolf River twenty-three years ago. Their three children were in the car, as well, but they survived the accident and were split up. Rand, age nine, was adopted by Edward and Mary Sloan in San Antonio . Seth, age seven, was adopted by Ben and Susan Granger, in New Mexico . Elizabeth Marie, age two, was adopted by Charles and Josephine Beauchamp, from South Carolina , but living in France at the time. You and Elizabeth, Miss Beauchamp, are one and the same."

The smile on her lips died, and the pain behind her eyes intensified. "This is either a bad joke, Mr. Carver, or you're a bad private investigator whose made a very big mistake."

"This is no joke," he said, shaking his head. "And I don't make mistakes. You were born Elizabeth Marie Blackhawk, adopted illegally by the Beauchamps while they were living in France . When Charles and Josephine returned to the states a year later with a three-year-old baby girl and told everyone you were their daughter, no one questioned their story."

White spots swam in front of her eyes, and the sounds of people talking and laughing suddenly seemed very far away. "I--I don't believe you."

"Come sit down." His voice was gentle as he touched her arm. "Just for a minute."

Dazed, she let him lead her to a table where he pulled a chair out for her. She started to sit, then shook her head. "No. This is ridiculous." She jerked her arm from his hand. "I do not believe you!"

Heads turned. Clair didn't look at them, didn't care. What did it matter if a hundred people stared? A thousand? The man--Jacob--reached into his back pocket, pulled out some folded papers, then handed them to her.

"I realize you need some time to think about this, Miss Beauchamp. These documents will explain what happened. Read them, ask your parents for the truth. Call me when you're ready."

The papers in his hand might as well have been snakes. She couldn't touch them, wouldn't touch them.

With a sigh, he slipped them into her shopping bag. Her heart pounded in her chest and the pain behind her eyes became unbearable.

She had to get out of here. Now.

She turned and ran and did not look back.

"Clair, darling, please open the door. Please, baby."

Clair lay on her bed inside her locked bedroom and ignored her mother's persistent knocking. She'd been standing in the hallway for fifteen minutes, pleading, threatening, even crying, but Clair had refused to answer.

"I know you're in there, sweetheart. Talk to me. Tell me what's wrong. Your daddy and I will fix it."

Holding the papers that Jacob Carver had given her, Clair stared at the ceiling. The documents were from a lawyer named Henry Barnes: a copy of a birth certificate, a newspaper article describing the car accident, a photograph--enlarged and scanned--of Norah Blackhawk in a hospital bed holding a newborn, surrounded by her smiling family--a handsome husband and two little boys.

Clair had stared at the photograph for the past hour. Norah Blackhawk looked so much like herself, she thought. The same hair, the same high cheekbones, the same blue eyes.

And the most damning evidence of all, a copy of a contract between a lawyer named Leon Waters in Granite Springs and Charles and Josephine Beauchamp, a vague agreement to exchange an undisclosed amount of money if a certain "package" met with their approval.

Clair had come straight home after the PI Jacob had sucker-punched her with this information. She hadn't believed anything the man told her, she still didn't believe it.

How could it be possible? How could any of this happened? And why would her parents have done such a thing?

"Oh, Charles, thank God you're here," Clair heard her mother say on the other side of the door. "She was supposed to meet Victoria and me for lunch but she never showed so I called the house and Tiffany said that she came in over an hour ago, looking as if she'd seen a ghost. She wouldn't speak to Tiffany or Richard, just went straight to her room and now she won't open the door."

"Clair, this is your father!" A heavy knock rattled the walls. "Open this door at once! I haven't time for this nonsense."

With a sigh, Clair sat. She knew she wouldn't be able to hold her father off for long. She was going to have to face her parents and it might as well be now.

A knot twisted in her stomach as she stood, and she stared at the papers still in her hand.

Jonathan and Norah Blackhawk are your real parents...killed in a car accident...Rand and Seth...

Rand and Seth. Those names meant something to her. Something important.

She sucked in a breath and swallowed hard. Whatever the truth was, whatever it was that happened twenty-three years ago, she had to know.

"Clair Louise! Open up immed--"

Her father's fist was in the air, ready to knock again, as Clair opened the door. Wide-eyed, her mother rushed forward.

"Clair, baby!" Her mother hugged her.

"What's happened?" her father demanded.

Her body stiff, Clair pulled away from her mother's embrace, then stepped aside. "Mother, Father. Come in and sit down, please."

It amazed Clair how calm her voice sounded, how calm she actually felt.

"What's gotten into you?" Charles frowned. "Your mother dragged me away from a meeting, insisting you were ill. I demand to know what's going on."

"Stop yelling at her, Charles." Josephine waved a dismissive hand at her husband. "Can't you see she's already upset?"

"Mother--"

"Clair, sugar." Josephine reached out and cupped Clair's face in her hands. "All brides are nervous before their wedding. It's perfectly normal. Charles, run and get my sedatives from the medicine--"

"No!"

Charles and Josephine both went still. Clair had never spoken to her parents in that tone of voice in her entire life. She couldn't even remember if she'd ever said no to them.

"Clair. You're frightening me." Her mother clasped a hand to her throat. "What is it? What's--"

" Wolf River ."

" Wolf River ?" Josephine whispered, then glanced at her husband.

And in that second, in that space between heartbeats, between breaths, Clair knew it was true.

Dear God.

Josephine's deep-brown eyes filled with panic. She made a move toward her daughter, but Clair held out a hand and shook her head.

"It's true." Clair felt her heart slam against her ribs and her pulse pound in her head. "I am adopted."

Charles pressed his mouth into a firm line. "Where did you hear such a thing?"

For the past hour, she'd been praying that someone had been playing a horrible joke on her, or that the private investigator had made a mistake.

I don't make mistakes, he'd told her.

Based on her parents' expressions, it appeared that he was right.

Her throat felt like dust, and when she finally found the words to speak, her voice was barely a whisper. "A man named Jacob Carver, a private investigator hired by a lawyer from Wolf River , approached me when I came out of Evelyns. He gave me a newspaper article about the car accident and a photograph of my birth parents and two brothers." Clair held up the papers in her hand. "He also gave me a copy of a document, an agreement between you and a man named Leon Waters."

Josephine gasped, then reached for her husband's arm to steady herself. "Clair--"

"He told me my name--my real name, is Elizabeth Marie." Clair moved to her bedroom window, stared out at the sprawling front lawn of the estate where she'd been raised. It was green and lush, surrounded by neat rows of thick azaleas and tall crepe myrtles. The house, a two-story brick tudor, with ten bedrooms and a grand, sweeping staircase guaranteed to present the most proper, the most elegant, and the most impressive entrance to any party, was the largest in the wealthy neighborhood. "My...parents' names were Jonathan and Norah Blackhawk. Jonathan was Cherokee and Norah was Welsh."

"Please, come sit down," Charles said tightly. "We need to talk about this."

Clair turned sharply from the window. "You bought me. Just like one of your ships or houses or cars."

"For God's sake, Clair." Charles shook his head. "You're overdramatizing. It wasn't like that at all."

She held the papers to her stomach as if they were a shield. "Then why don't you tell me what it was like?"

"Charles, please, let me." Josephine looked up at her husband and squeezed his arm. When he nodded, she turned her gaze back to her daughter. "Shortly after your father and I were married, his business partner in Paris offered to sell his interest in the company. Though it meant moving to France for a few years and being away from the states, we both knew it was an opportunity we couldn't let pass. It was a busy time for your father, and I was alone a great deal of the time. Two years later, when we found out I was pregnant, we were both thrilled."

Josephine moved to Clair's bed and sank down on the edge. "I miscarried at five months. There were complications. I...I had to have a hysterectomy when I was only twenty-eight." Josephine closed her eyes. "I thought my life was over."

Through her own cloud of confusion and anger, Clair's heart ached for her mother. She moved to the bed and sat beside her. There were tears in Josephine's eyes when she opened them again.

"When your father brought you home to me--" Josephine reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Clair's ear "--I didn't ask how he found you. I didn't care. All I knew was that you were the most beautiful child I'd ever seen, the most perfect little girl in the whole world, and you belonged to me. You were three when we came back to the states and since we'd been gone for over four years, there were never any questions."

"Mr. Carver said the adoptions were illegal." Clair looked at her father. "That a lawyer named Leon Waters sold me to you."

"That vile man," Josephine said with a shudder. "I never would have known his name if he hadn't called six months after you came to live with us. He threatened to take you away from us if we didn't give him more money. We gave him what he wanted, and then your father told me the truth after everything. About Wolf River and how your family had died."

"Mr. Carver said my brothers didn't die." Clair handed the photograph of her birth family to her mother. "That they live in Texas and they want to meet me."

Josephine shook her head. "That's not true. There were death certificates on record for your brothers. Your father told me he saw them."

"But the newspaper--" she drew in a deep, steadying breath "--the article said that the entire Blackhawk family was killed."

"The lawyer assured me that was an error by an incompetent reporter," Charles stated firmly. "Waters knew that I wanted to adopt without going through months if not years of paperwork, so when you were brought to him, he didn't bother to correct the newspaper. He called me, I flew to the states, then I brought you back to France with me."

"Clair." Josephine took her daughter's hand. "This man, this Jacob Carver, is lying about your brothers. He must have found out what happened and he wants money. That's the only explanation why after all these years this has come to the surface."

Clair shook her head. "He didn't ask me for money." "Not yet, but he will." Josephine's face was ashen, her voice trembling. "A scandal like this three days before your wedding? He knows we'd do anything to keep this quiet for now. Promise me you won't speak to him again."

"I, I don't know. I'm not--"

"Sweetheart." Josephine's chest rose on a sob. "Even if I didn't carry you in my womb, you're my little girl and I love you so very much. Please, Clair, forgive us for keeping the truth from you, and please, please tell me you won't speak to that awful man again."

Maybe she's right, Clair thought. Considering everything she'd just learned, she supposed it was possible that Jacob Carver was lying, that he was looking for some easy money. The PI had been a bit rough around the edges. And even though he hadn't appeared to be a blackmailer, you certainly couldn't look at a person and know what was going on inside.

She of all people knew how true that was.

Numb, Clair settled into the warmth of her Josephine's embrace. This was the only mother she knew, the mother who'd played dress-up and dolls with her when she was little, brought her soup when she'd been sick, then tucked her in bed every night. The mother who'd fussed over her first date, cried at her high school and college graduation, worried when she came home too late. Sooner or later, Clair knew that she would have to deal with the overwhelming reality of being adopted and the fact her parents had lied to her. It was too big, too huge, to be avoided or ignored.

And so was the fact that in seventy-six hours, thirty-three minutes and twenty-one seconds, Clair Louise Beauchamp was getting married.

Arms crossed, Jacob leaned against a thick marble column in the back of the one-hundred-eighty-five-year-old cathedral. Huge sprays of white and pink roses filled the church. A quartet played Handel's water music while at least two hundred smiling, murmuring people sat watching a blonde bridesmaid dressed in satin turquoise float down an aisle long enough to land a Cessna.

Jacob wondered what those two hundred people would be murmuring if they'd seen Blondie and Oliver slipping out of the Wanderlust Motel at one a.m. for the past two nights. Most likely they'd be wishing they hadn't had their present engraved.

It had been completely by coincidence that Jacob had discovered Clair's husband-to-be's little peccadillo. Since Jacob hadn't been able to get close to Clair's gated estate, he'd decided to follow her fiance instead, hoping the prospective groom might somehow lead him to Clair.

Only it wasn't Clair that Oliver Hollingsworth met at the seedy motel just outside of town. It was Blondie. Out of habit, Jacob had snapped a few pictures, but he'd have no use for them. He wasn't here to catch a philandering fiance or husband. He was here to convince Clair to speak with her brothers, or better, to meet with them.

He'd thought for certain that she would have called him after he'd given her the documents proving his story was true. Though he'd just met her, and barely spoken to her for more than few minutes, there was something about Clair that made him think she was different from that rich, snobby crowd her family ran with. When she hadn't known he was watching her, there'd been something in her eyes, something in her expression, that set her apart.

Obviously, he'd been wrong.

At the sound of the quartet playing the Wedding March, Jacob straightened. Two hundred heads turned in the direction of the door where the bride would be entering the cathedral.

Damn. So much for catching the bride alone for five seconds. Once she walked down that aisle, it would be days, probably weeks, before he'd be able to get close to her again.

Damn, damn.

He watched the side door at the back of the church open, then, for one long, heart-stopping moment, he simply couldn't think at all. Like a white cloud, Clair Beauchamp floated toward him, her face covered by her veil.

Oliver Hollingsworth might be a two-timing jerk, Jacob thought, but he was one hell of a lucky two-timing jerk.

Clair might have kept her carefully paced stride steady and even, might have kept her shoulders straight and her chin level, might have even remembered to breathe--if she hadn't seen Jacob Carver leaning casually against a marble column when she'd come out of the bride's anteroom.

He wore black--T-shirt, jeans boots, and Clair thought he looked like the devil himself. When he grinned at her and touched two fingers to his temple, her step faltered and her icy hands clutched desperately at the elegant bouquet of white roses.

How dare he show up here! At her wedding, with two hundred guests in attendance. And how dare he look at her with such accusation in his eyes, such reproach.

So she hadn't called him. Why should she? After twenty-three years, what difference did it make now that she'd been adopted? Her parents loved her. Oliver loved her. They had a wonderful, happy life ahead of them.

Only a few feet away, her father held out a hand to her. She glanced at him, then at Oliver, who stood at the front of the church, watching her, smiling calmly, waiting.

Oh, God.

Her heart pounding fiercely, Clair stepped up to her father and looked into his eyes. "Daddy, I--I'm sorry."

With a sigh, Charles dropped his chin, then nodded. "It's all right, baby." He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. "Do what you have to do."

"Thank you," she whispered through the lump in her throat, then handed the bouquet to her father and hugged him. "Tell Mom I love her."

She heard the murmur from the pews behind her as she turned and walked briskly toward Jacob. Lifting her chin, she met his dark gaze with her own.

"Mr. Carver," she said politely. "May I trouble you for a ride?"