The Taming of Tyler Kincaid

* * *

At last, the moment had come.

Tyler thought he’d been ready but when he heard the first triumphant chords of Mendelssohn begin, when he looked up the flower-bedecked aisle that led from the garden to the waterfall decks of the Baron mansion and saw his bride start toward him on Jonas’s arm, his heart threatened to stop beating.

Caitlin. His Caitlin. She was so beautiful in her ivory lace gown. And that look on her face, the way her eyes were fixed only on him…

“Just look at my Cait,” he said softly.

His three brothers, standing alongside him, groaned softly.

“The man’s a goner,” Gage whispered.

“A pushover,” Travis murmured.

“Just a fool for a purty face,” Slade added.

All four brothers grinned at each other, and then Tyler’s grin faded and he looked at his bride and wondered what he’d ever done in his life to be so damned lucky.

Caitlin’s sisters-in-law, who were also standing under the flowered canopy at the altar, gave a communal sigh as they watched her come slowly up the aisle.

“Isn’t she lovely?” Natalie whispered.

“Perfect,” Alex said.

“Perfect,” Lara echoed, and the three women sighed again.

The music swelled, just as Caitlin and her stepfather reached the altar. Jonas turned to Caitlin, lifted her bridal veil back from her face and cleared his throat

“You take good care of my girl,” he said to Tyler, and stuck out his hand.

Tyler hesitated, but only for a second. Then he took his father’s hand and shook it.

“You know that I will.”

“And you, missy. You take good care of this man.” Jonas cleared his throat again. “You take real good care of my son.”

Caitlin smiled into Tyler’s eyes. “For the rest of my life.”

“Dear friends,” the clergyman said, “we are gathered here today to join Tyler Kincaid and Caitlin McCord in marriage…”

Jonas stepped back beside Marta, who looped her arm through his.

“They’re such a handsome couple,” she said softly.

Jonas nodded. “They are that.” He harrumphed. “Can’t seem to get this frog outta my throat.”

Marta leaned her head against his shoulder and smiled. “I know.”

“Saw old Leighton, a while ago.” Jonas chuckled. “Lady who did the flower arrangements seems to have her eye on him.”

“And he’s eyeing her, right back.” Marta smiled again. “A good woman may be just what Leighton needs.”

“A good woman’s what every man needs,” Jonas said, and covered his wife’s hand with his. “Marta? You think Catie likes those pearls I gave her this mornin’?”

“She loves them. And they’re magnificent. Just right, with her gown.”

“Yeah.” Jonas hesitated. “They belonged to Tyler’s mother. To Juanita. I loved her, you know. You don’t mind me tellin’ you that, do you? It was so long ago…”

“No,” Marta said gently, “I don’t mind at all.”

“If I could only go back and change things…” Jonas sighed. “I guess I never understood Juanita, or how to make her happy, but I know she’d want Catie to have those pearls.”

“Did you tell that to Caitlin?”

“Yeah. I did. You, uh, you think she’ll tell Tyler?”

“I’m sure she will. And I’m sure he’ll be pleased.”

“Yeah,” Jonas said again, his voice gruff. “The thing of it is, I ain’t always been the father I should have been, to any of my sons. But—but—” He turned to his wife, his pale eyes suspiciously bright. “It’s not too late, is it?” he whispered. “To let ’em know I’m proud of ’em? That—that I’m pleased they turned into such fine men?”

“To tell them you love them, you mean.”

Jonas nodded, and Marta took her husband’s hand in hers.

“It’s never too late for love,” she said softly.

Jonas smiled and kissed her, and then they both joined in the applause as Tyler and Caitlin shared their first kiss as husband and wife.

* * * * *

Now, read on for a tantalizing excerpt of Dani Collins’ next book,

CLAIMING HIS CHRISTMAS WIFE

After their marriage ends in heartbreak, Travis never wants to see Imogen again. But to avoid a scandal they must agree to a temporary reconciliation—leaving Travis tempted to reclaim his wife…for good!

Read on for a glimpse of

CLAIMING HIS CHRISTMAS WIFE

CHAPTER ONE

“MR. TRAVIS SANDERS?”

“YES,” he confirmed shortly, willing the woman to hurry to the point. His PA had interrupted a high-level meeting with this “extremely important” call. “What is this about?”

“Imogen Gantry. She’s your wife?”

Memory washed through him in a rush of heat and hunger. He tensed against it and glanced around, lowering his voice. That broken teacup had been swept firmly under the rug four years ago.

“We’re divorced. Are you a reporter?”

“I’m trying to locate her next of kin. I’m at…” She mentioned the name of one of New York’s most beleaguered public hospitals.

Whatever old anger had sent him soaring at the mention of his ex-wife exploded in a percussive flash. He was blind. Falling. Wind whistling in his ears. Air moving too fast for him to catch a gulp.

“What happened?” he managed to grit out. He was dimly aware his eyes were closed, but she was right there in front of him, laughing. Her green eyes glimmered with mischief. Her hair was a halo of flames licking at her snowy complexion. She swerved her lashes to cut him a glance. So enchantingly beautiful. Gaze clouding with arousal. Sparking with anger. Looking so wounded and vulnerable that last time he’d seen her, his heart still dipped thinking of it.

He’d quickly learned it was a lie, but that didn’t make any of this easier to accept.

Gone? He couldn’t make it fit in his head. He had told her he never wanted to see her again, but discovered he had secretly believed he would.

From far away, he heard the woman say, “She collapsed on the street. She’s feverish and unconscious. Do you know of any medication we should be aware of? She’s awaiting treatment, but—”

“She’s not dead?”

He heard how that sounded, as if that was the outcome he would have preferred, but leave it to Imogen to set him up to believe one thing, contort his emotions to unbearable degrees, then send him flying in another direction. That betraying, manipulative—if he could

get his hands on her, he’d kill her himself.

“And she was taken to that hospital? Why?”

“I believe we were closest. She doesn’t seem to have a phone and yours is the only name I’ve been able to find in her bag. We need guidance on treatment and insurance. Are you able to provide that?”

“Contact her father.” He walked back toward the door to his office, saying to his PA behind her desk, “Look up Imogen Gantry’s father. He’s in publishing. Maybe starts with a W. William?” He hadn’t met the man, only heard her mention him once or twice. Hell, they’d only been married fifteen minutes. He knew next to nothing about her.

“Wallace Gantry?” His PA turned her screen. “He appears to have died a few months ago.” She pointed to the obit notice that said he was predeceased by his wife and eldest daughter, survived by his youngest daughter, Imogen.

Perfect.

He knew better than to let himself get sucked back into her orbit, but what else could he say except, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

* * *

Imogen remembered sitting down on the curb. It hadn’t been a nice, rain-washed boulevard of freshly mown grass beneath century-old elms with a stripe of sidewalk, then an empty canvas of manicured lawn to her mother’s rose garden, ending at the wide stairs to the double-door entrance of her childhood home.

No, it had been a freezing, filthy inner-city curb where the piles of snow had turned to a layer of lumpy muck atop a century’s worth of chewing gum and other disgusting things. The damp chill on the air hadn’t squelched any of the terrible smells coming off the grate at her feet. She shouldn’t have touched the post she had braced herself against and she had thought a car would likely run over her legs as she sank down. At the very least, one would drown her with a tsunami of melt from the puddles.

She hadn’t cared. The side of her head had felt like it was twice as big as the rest. Her ear, plugged and aching, had begun screaming so loud the sound had been trying to come out her mouth.

She had tried to pretend she didn’t have an ear infection because those were for children. Her sister had got them, not her. She hadn’t gone swimming recently. She hadn’t known how it could have happened, but there she’d been like a damned toddler, nearly fainting with the agony of it, dizzy and hot and sick.