Married at Midnight Read online

  PRAISE FOR GERRI RUSSELL

  “Gerri Russell writes with a passionate intensity that will sweep readers straight into her richly imagined world.”

  —Jayne Ann Krentz, New York Times bestselling author

  “Gerri Russell’s creative imagination enthralls me. I was hooked from the very first page.”

  —Debbie Macomber, New York Times bestselling author

  “Gerri Russell writes with grace and style.”

  —Stella Cameron, New York Times bestselling author

  PRAISE FOR FLIRTING WITH FELICITY

  “This sweet tale includes all the requisite ingredients for love and . . . the journey is a good, lighthearted read.”

  —Boca Raton Observer

  “If you like your romance served with delectable treats . . . Gerri Russell’s Flirting with Felicity takes the story into the kitchen, with a lovable chef and a relentless billionaire.”

  —DuJour magazine

  ALSO BY GERRI RUSSELL

  Along Came Mr. Right

  Flirting with Felicity

  This Laird of Mine

  A Laird for Christmas

  A Knight to Desire

  Border Lord’s Bride

  Seducing the Knight

  To Tempt a Knight

  Warrior’s Lady

  Warrior’s Bride

  The Warrior Trainer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016 Gerri Russell

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503941557

  ISBN-10: 1503941558

  Cover design by Michael Rehder

  With love and gratitude to April Rickard, who has cheered for my triumphs, wept for my sorrows, and enriched my life with her friendship. And to Pamela Bradburn, Teresa DesJardien, and Karen Harbaugh with equal parts admiration and love.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  A RECIPE FOR YOU FROM ELLIE’S GRANDMOTHER

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ellie Hawthorne knew she’d done something terribly stupid last night. Just how stupid was the thousand-dollar question. That first shot of tequila had seemed like a good idea given the horrible day she’d had. Looking back, and judging by the pounding in her temples, Ellie was certain the second and third shots had been a mistake. Anything beyond that third shot, she didn’t remember.

  What had happened after that? Only snippets of memory played across her mind—dancing with a tall, blond man to a pulsing beat, pink peonies, white lace, Elvis Presley.

  Was the memory some weird Vegas-induced fantasy?

  Ellie groaned and rolled onto her side, away from the sliver of light stabbing through a separation in the curtains of her Las Vegas hotel room. She’d come to Vegas for an event-planning trade show, where she’d hoped to pick up potential clients for her ailing business.

  Ellie Hawthorne Events hadn’t had a long-term client since last spring, when her biggest celebrity wedding ever had canceled. The couple had opted for a homespun wedding instead, kicking off a new trend not only in Seattle but all over the nation. Event planners everywhere were struggling for work. And that reality had led to her first shot of tequila. And, she felt a shiver, maybe some other dumb decisions . . .

  Something was knocking on her brain’s back door.

  In an attempt to stop the pounding in her head, Ellie pressed her hands against her temples. What had happened last night? She searched for any real memory that might surface. Again, she saw a man. He was handsome and somewhat familiar. He’d picked her up and carried her somewhere . . . nothing more came to her but the relentless throbbing.

  Once again that thin streak of light assailed her. Why was the Las Vegas sun brighter than the one in Seattle? It didn’t seem fair, especially with a killer hangover, that the sun should be so cheery.

  Ellie groaned against the injustice of it all until that thought led to another. If she wanted to change her situation, she could. She could get up and find the aspirin she’d packed. What was that recipe for hangovers again? An aspirin, orange juice, and a raw egg? Her stomach roiled at the thought. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping to stave off a wave of nausea. Dry toast sounded better. Maybe that and an aspirin.

  Flipping the sheet aside on her king-size bed, she felt an air-conditioned chill settle over her bare skin. Funny, she didn’t remember getting undressed last night. But she didn’t remember coming back to her room either. Pushing herself to keep moving, she opened her eyes, then gasped at the sight of a man’s head lying on the pillow next to hers.

  Ellie jerked upright and scrambled out of bed. Her heart thundered in her ears, competing with the pounding in her head. For a moment her stomach pitched, and she thought she might be sick. She clamped her hand over her mouth. The sensation eased, and her eyes adjusted to the partial light.

  A tall, blond man—the one from her memories—was very naked and in her bed. His slow, even breathing stopped. He stirred at the garbled sound that had escaped from her before settling back to sleep.

  Should she call the front desk and ask for help? She dismissed the thought as quickly as it formed. He was no malicious stranger. Her fragmented memories indicated she’d invited him here.

  Ellie forced herself to take a breath, then another as her heartbeat slowed. She reached for the sheet hanging off the edge of the bed. Wrapping the linen around her, she studied the man.

  His back was to her, and he’d kicked off the remaining blankets, leaving her a clear view of the well-defined muscles of his back, waist, buttocks, and legs. Whoever he was, he was a sight to behold.

  Ellie shook her head at the thought, then regretted the motion. She reached for the nightstand to steady herself. The body and the guy seemed so familiar. Yet no memories of his name or where they’d met came to her. How could she have forgotten such a finely sculpted posterior?

  Her hand felt different. She turned her fingers, revealing the back of her left hand, which held the sheet to her body. Her breath hitched on a startled gasp. A big diamond sat atop her third finger.

  The world seemed to slow down. A heaviness descended over her, weighing her down as her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

  Was she . . . married?

  There had to be an explanation. Ellie staggered toward the wall beside her, searching for the light. She flipped the switch and recoiled from the brightness. When her eyes adjusted, she looked again toward the bed. Blond hair lay against the white cotton of the pill
ow. “Wake up. Whoever you are, wake up!”

  The man groaned and twisted onto his back, pulling the blanket with him, covering his lower half. He dragged his arm over his face, shielding his eyes from the light. “Too bright. Turn it off.”

  A day’s growth of beard stubbled his square jaw and upper lip, giving him a roguish look that was a little more appealing than she cared to admit. No wonder her drunk self had been attracted to him. Looking farther down, she saw that his chest was broad and chiseled and covered with a smattering of golden hair. The man was definitely something to look at, but she needed to know more. She stepped toward the side of the bed, leaned down, and poked his shoulder. “Please. We need to talk.”

  His arm lifted, exposing his eyes. He gave her a devilish smile that held infinite promise. “Come back to bed. We can talk later.” He patted the empty mattress beside him.

  The sight of him rocked her. She hadn’t looked into those dark-green eyes since high school. And that voice . . . her body had always responded to that deep, rich sound. An uncontrollable warmth spread through her. She hadn’t seen him in eleven years. Even so, she could feel her nerves stretching in anticipation.

  Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined herself this close to, and certainly not in bed with, the man who’d once broken her heart.

  And yet she’d spent the night with him, or at least she thought she had. She vowed in that moment never to drink tequila again.

  “Connor Grayson. What are you doing in my bed?”

  Damn, he still looked good after all these years. In her fantasies, she’d hoped the next time she saw him he’d be bald and pudgy. Instead, Connor was handsome, muscular, and incredibly sexy, with not a gray hair in sight.

  He blinked, then searched her face. After a long pause, his brows drew together as though he suddenly recognized her. “How in the hell did you get in my room?” His voice was no longer sexy, but hard.

  “Your room? This is my room.” At least she hoped it was. A quick glance at her hairbrush on the dresser left her not only dizzy but relieved that this truly was her room. Why had she brought him back into her life? He was not someone she trusted. So why were they together . . . like this?

  As Connor appraised her from head to toe, Ellie pulled the sheet more tightly around herself. As she did, the unusual weight of the ring pulled at her finger. Had she indulged in more than a fling with Connor Grayson? Because not only was there a ring on her finger; he sported a shiny platinum band on his as well. “We did not get married last night,” she said in a strangled tone, and she heard the doubt in her own voice.

  The last thing Connor Grayson had expected when he’d planned his trip to Las Vegas was to come face-to-face with his past. That past stared at him with wide, accusing eyes. If anyone should feel abused and irate in this situation, it should be him.

  Eleven years ago Ellie Hawthorne had torn out his heart from his chest and ground it beneath her heel. Deep inside, where nothing and no one touched any longer, he still felt betrayed. And even though they both lived in Seattle, they’d never been in contact again after they’d graduated.

  But why here and now? How had she known he’d be in Las Vegas? “Have you been spying on me?”

  “What are you talking about?” Ellie asked, her voice sharp. “Did you not hear me?” She waved her finger beneath his nose. “Why am I wearing this ring? Why were we in bed together? What happened last night?” She asked her questions in a rush, then released a sharp breath and sagged down on the edge of the bed.

  She raked her fingers through the wild tumble of burnished-gold locks he remembered oh so well.

  “Oh God. Why did I have more than one drink last night?”

  Connor didn’t answer. He stared down at the platinum band around his ring finger. “What the hell? As if dating you in high school wasn’t bad enough. A lifetime together would be torture.” Connor tried to pull up even one memory from last night. How had he ended up with Ellie Hawthorne when every instinct in his body had been tuned to reject anyone like her?

  The faint scent of wildflowers permeated his senses. He forced his thoughts away from the reminder of Ellie. He’d hated that scent ever since high school. He hated the way her presence lit up a room. Even standing still, Ellie had always had a vivaciousness that flowed through every line of her enticing form. Just a glimpse of her near or far used to set his heart racing. That his heart was now thumping in his chest in an unfamiliar rhythm was certainly not due to her. He decided to blame it on the shock of finding her in bed with him.

  Still, he had to admit, she did look good after all these years. Her hair, which had always reminded him of spun gold, tumbled around her shoulders, framing her perfectly proportioned oval face with its high, chiseled cheekbones, large, almond-shaped eyes framed with thick lashes, and full and tempting lips.

  Connor fisted his hands at his sides. So she was pretty. He was immune to her type. As though betraying that very thought, his groin tightened. His body’s reaction released him from the spell of her charms. She’d always had this effect on him in the past. Obviously the present was no different. He had to put some distance between them. Then he could be his usual logical self and find the perspective he needed.

  He stood, allowing the blanket to fall to his feet, exposing himself, fully aroused, to her while he grabbed a pair of pants that lay abandoned on the floor. Tuxedo pants.

  She looked away, focusing on the creamy-white dress on the floor at the end of the bed. She picked up the garment, which had been abandoned in a heap. “We did get married last night!”

  “This clothing doesn’t prove anything,” Connor said, more harshly than he’d intended. The look on her face was one of disgust, not joy or acceptance.

  “Wedding rings, wedding clothes . . . it’s getting harder to think otherwise.” She dropped the gown, allowing it to fall in a puddle on the floor. She turned away, toward the bedside, searching for something. When she located her cell phone, she swiped the screen, then turned back to him with wide, almost horrified eyes. “Look.”

  On the screen he saw a picture of the two of them locked in each other’s arms, standing between two men dressed very much like Elvis Presley. “Is that a joke?”

  “It looks pretty real to me.” Ellie sagged against the dresser. “So did we just get married, or did we get married and have sex?”

  Connor frowned. Why did she have to look so horrified at the thought of them having sex? “You don’t remember anything about last night?”

  “I remember snippets. I thought it was all some strange tequila-induced nightmare. Do you remember anything about Elvis?”

  “Presley? He’s dead.”

  “Not in Vegas.”

  Connor blew out a breath as he reached for his crumpled tuxedo shirt, pulling it over his head without bothering to undo the buttons. “I knew coming to Vegas was a bad idea.”

  “That’s an understatement.” Ellie bent to the floor and retrieved a lacy pair of black bikini underwear and a bra near the wedding dress. “I wore black underwear with a white dress?” She winced as she tucked her undergarments in her palm, hiding them from his view. “Hang on. It’s disturbing talking to you with only a sheet covering me.” She hurried to the closet, reaching for a black dress with white polka dots, then slipped into the bathroom and locked the door.

  “Maybe we should head back to the bar where we were last night? Someone there must remember something,” he said loud enough that she could hear him through the door.

  “That would be great. Do you remember the name of the bar?” she asked, emerging from the bathroom.

  “No. I hoped you might.” The words stuck in his throat. Her dress had looked so innocent on the hanger. On Ellie the garment sent his pulse racing. The open back exposed the lower half of her spine and hinted at the soft curves hidden just beneath the fabric at her waist. The short length exposed the one part of Ellie that had always left him feeling slightly breathless—her long, shapely legs. “Do you have to wear that
dress?” He ground his teeth and forced his attention away.

  Ellie’s gaze narrowed. “What’s wrong with my dress?”

  “Damn,” he said, releasing a heavy sigh. “Never mind.”

  Ellie’s look turned puzzled, and he didn’t blame her confusion. He knew the heated look he gave her didn’t match his words.

  “As soon as I find my socks and shoes, I’m going downstairs. I say we start there.” Before he could search for the lost items, a knock sounded on the door. Startled, he opened the door to find four aging Elvis impersonators behind a room-service cart.

  “How are our favorite newlyweds today?” asked an Elvis wearing a black wig and a white suit covered with rhinestones.

  Ellie’s eyes went wide. “A white Elvis? I didn’t dream it. It really happened.” Her face paled. “We are married. We’re really, really, married.”

  White Elvis smiled, ignoring Ellie’s obvious distress. “That you are.”

  “All of you were there? You witnessed us getting married?” Connor asked as a wave of disbelief washed over him.

  The white Elvis nodded. “You were married at what everyone calls the Elvis Chapel. Best place in Vegas to tie the knot.”

  “We brought breakfast. After last night, you should eat something solid,” said a blue Elvis, who stepped out from behind a red Elvis.

  The eldest-looking of the bunch was an Elvis dressed in a gold lamé jacket worn over a black shirt and pants. He smiled apologetically. “To be honest, we’re checking in on you two. You both had a lot to drink last night.”

  All four men were obviously well past Elvis’s prime, being at least as old as Connor’s own grandmother. Even so, with their stage makeup and false hair, Connor was sure the men could convincingly pass as Elvis impersonators at any Vegas show.

  Blue Elvis grabbed two full glasses off the tray and strode past Connor into the room. “Try this. The contents will help shake off the effects of last night.”

  “What is it?” Ellie asked as he handed her the tall glass filled with a curiously orange liquid.

  “My mama’s secret hangover recipe. One part orange juice, one part beer, one part seltzer, and two crushed aspirin dissolved into the mix.” Blue Elvis pushed the glass into her hand. “Go on—give it a try,” he said with a twang that sounded very much like Elvis Presley.