Dying To Marry

by Janelle Taylor

Genres: Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

New York Times bestselling author Janelle Taylor turns up the heat and pours on the suspense in her latest romantic thriller, as childhood friends are drawn into a tangle of secrets that may cost them their lives. . . This Time It's Personal. . . Holly Morrow is shocked to hear about her cousin Lizzie's sudden wedding to Dylan Dunhill--of the wealthy Dunhills, who simply don't mix with wrong-side-of-the-tracks kids like the Morrows. Stranger still, Lizzie has received frightening threats and the bridal party has suffered dangerous near-miss "accidents." But when Holly learns that her childhood friend Jake Boone is now Dylan's pal, she knows that everything's changed--except her attraction to the steady, sexy P.I., the only person willing to help her unmask the wedding's enemy. . . . . .And Deadly Jake has loved Holly forever--but when she left Troutville, scraping the dirt of her childhood off her high-heeled boots, he promised himself he would move on. With Holly back in town, however, forgetting the way she makes him feel isn't easy--and ignoring the violent threats delivered to the wedding party could prove deadly. He'll have to keep desire at arm's length to keep his wits about him--and unmask a killer before his friend's marriage leads to brutal murder. . .

Release date: October 24, 2011

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 308

Sample

An elderly woman wearing pink sweats and white satin shoes with three-inch heels was practicing her dance moves on the sidewalk in front of her house. A shimmy. A shallow dip, despite the fact that no one was dipping her. A twirl. And then her own version of the classic John Travolta move from Saturday Night Fever. Ellie Finnaman pointed her right arm high in the air, then reached it down to her hip and laughed.

“That was great, Miss Ellie!” Holly Morrow called from her seat on the top step of her house, next door to Ellie’s.

Miss Ellie Finnaman, seventy-six-year-old bride-to-be, was breaking in her shoes for her wedding tomorrow, and a small crowd of neighbors and the postman had stopped to cheer her on. Some joined her in the Seventies-era moves; others started singing “Night Fever.”

“See, Holly, dear, I told you I’d show these shoes how to boogie up,” Ellie called, twirling around, her hands high in the air.

“That’s ‘boogie down,’ Miss Ellie,” Holly called back. She laughed. Holly was Ellie’s self-appointed worrywart. The elderly woman refused to worry about tripping or breaking a leg. Ellie insisted that her groom, eighty-year-old Herbert Walker, would catch her if she fell. “And you were right. I worried for nothing. Those heels are high, but you’re as steady on your feet as you were yesterday in your pink sneakers. You’d think you wore three-inch-high heels every day.”

Ellie laughed and began shimmying up the street. The neighbors cheered as she twirled and then grabbed the handsome mail carrier for a partner.

“Miss Ellie, if you’ll dance me to Holly,” the mail carrier said, a few pieces of mail in hand, “I can get in a dance and do my job at the same time.”

Miss Ellie grinned and tangoed the man up the walkway to Holly. “Ooh, Holly, that big envelope in Michael’s hand looks like an invitation to something fancy, like a wedding!”

The mail carrier handed Holly a catalog and two envelopes, one of which was a bill and the other of which was indeed some kind of invitation; then he tipped his hat at Miss Ellie and headed back to his cart. Ellie continued her tango, solo, along the grass between her and Holly’s houses, but she was headed straight for her own prized azalea patch.

Please don’t fall. Please don’t fall. Please don’t fall, Holly prayed to the fates of the universe. “Eyes on the ground, Miss Ellie!” Holly called.

“And miss the world going round?” Ellie shouted back with a grin as she barely missed decapitating a beautiful flower. “No, thanks.” She twirled back over to Holly and eyed the outsized envelope in Holly’s hand. “Yes, that is definitely a wedding invitation, dear. My, what lovely calligraphy—in gold, no less! And what heavyweight paper this is. Friend of yours?”

Holly glanced at the envelope and shook her head. “You’re the only bride-to-be I know, Miss Ellie.” As the woman practiced a curtsy, her foot slipping perilously close to Holly’s thorny roses, Holly slipped the envelope into her purse. “Careful, Miss Ellie!”

The woman smiled and waved dismissively. “Not to worry, dear. Besides, the wedding isn’t in our yards or on the sidewalk—it’s at the boring senior center. You couldn’t slip and fall in that place if you tried.”

Holly laughed. “You’ve got me there.”

Still, the formal dining room at the town senior center, despite all its wall railings and soft surfaces, did not have a rubber floor. And with all the tables, chairs, and dancing people to bump into, Miss Ellie couldn’t be too careful. Especially in those ridiculous heels.

Holly was so excited about the wedding tomorrow. The staff at the center—where Ellie’s fiancé Herbert lived, and Ellie volunteered (that was how they met)—was decking the halls for the nuptials. Holly was so happy for Ellie and Herbert, both of whom she adored. Miss Ellie, who’d been Holly’s neighbor since Holly had moved to the large town ten years ago, was very much a mother figure, which Holly welcomed as her own mother lived so far away in Florida. And Herbert—smart, kind, gallant Herbert—was very much like Holly’s own father and reminded her every day of the qualities she wanted in her own husband ... if she ever had a husband, that was.

A boyfriend, even.

Holly sighed. When was my last date? she asked herself.

Two months ago. And it had been a disaster. Miss Ellie and Herbert had fixed her up with the grandson of a man in Herbert’s bridge circle. The grandson had reported back that Holly couldn’t have seemed less interested in him.

That wasn’t entirely true. Not false, but not true. Okay, she hadn’t been attracted to her date from the get-go, but he’d talked nonstop—about himself—and buzzed in her ear during the movie they’d seen, a violent action film Holly couldn’t even bear to watch. And he looked at her lasciviously, his eyes lingering on her breasts as though he wanted her to know he found her sexually appealing from the moment she opened her front door. She’d felt uncomfortable in his presence their entire date.

She’s too proper for me, the guy had reported to his grandfather, who’d shared it with the entire bridge group. Cares too much about manners and what people think of her. So what if I belched at dinner and knocked over my water glass? She was so embarrassed! Holly really needs to loosen up.

Loosen up. Holly knew she couldn’t be classified as uptight—well, maybe on dates with guys who thought belching on a first date was hilarious—but no one would ever call her a free spirit, either.

And she did care what people thought of her. She always had and she always would. She had her own mind, of course, and she was no one’s pushover or fool, but she did take care to project a certain image, and she supposed that prim, unfortunately, did seem an apt word to describe that image.

A familiar tightening in her chest forced her eyes closed. She willed away the memories of Troutville, New Jersey, where she’d grown up. I’m far, far away from there, she told herself. Far away from that place and people’s opinions of me.

In Troutville, you were what people said you were.

“Ooh, it’s almost five o’clock!” Ellie said. She was working on her John Travolta moves by the rosebush. “I don’t want to miss the early bird special at the Rosebud Grill. Herbert’s taking me there for our last dinner as a courting couple.”

“Miss Ellie, I thought the groom wasn’t supposed to see the bride before the wedding,” Holly said teasingly.

Ellie wagged her finger. “Dear, Herbert and I are a bit too old to wait for anything.”

Holly burst out laughing. “That’s all right, Miss Ellie. Anyway, I think it’s only before the ceremony tomorrow that Herbert isn’t supposed to see you.”

“Oh, too bad,” Ellie said. “I love to break traditions. I’ve already broken the big one of waiting for the wedding night!”

Holly burst out laughing again and shook her head. Miss Ellie was absolutely wonderful. She was also a little hard of hearing and tended to shout, which meant everyone on the block now knew that Miss Ellie, confirmed bachelorette for sixty years, was no virgin.

As their neighbors cheered and clapped and laid hands over their hearts and went on their way, Holly watched Ellie walk a la the “Wedding March” to her own house. “Have a good time, Miss Ellie. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow to help you dress.”

“Thank you, dear. Will you come by at seven? The gang should all be over by nine, and I’d love to have some time to get ready with just the two of us.”

“Seven, it is,” Holly called.

Miss Ellie, with no children, grandchildren, nieces or nephews, managed to have quite a network of friends of all ages. Neighbors and people from the various places at which she volunteered loved her dearly. Miss Ellie attended more family functions than just about anyone Holly knew.

It was very comforting for Holly to see that one could be single their entire life, never have children, and live a very happy and fulfilling life. Miss Ellie had so many interests and she was so happy and she had wonderful friends. Holly was very single and had been for a long time. She was twenty-eight and had never been married, never even been close.

As the tiny, elderly woman climbed the two steps up to the porch and then headed inside her house, Holly’s own feet hurt just watching her walk in those heels. She kicked off her pumps to massage her insteps.

Holly took the invitation out of her purse and studied the envelope. It was addressed in beautiful dark gold calligraphy. She slit open the heavyweight envelope, lined with gold foil. Who do I know who’s getting married? she wondered. None of her relatives or girlfriends were engaged. The invitation must be for something else.

Oh, Lord—please tell me it’s not to my ten-year high school reunion, Holly thought, now eyeing the envelope with dread. A couple of weeks ago, her cousin Lizzie, who still lived in Troutville, had mentioned seeing posters all over town for the reunion.

Holly would not be attending.

Despite the warm August weather, she shivered at even the thought of Troutville High School.

None too gently, she pulled out the contents of the envelope. Inside was another envelope, inside which was a very fancy invitation. It was a wedding invitation. Curious, Holly read the first line—and burst out laughing.

A belly laugh sent long distance from her cousin Lizzie was just what Holly needed after the long, hard day she’d had at work and the long, hard night she faced ahead of baking and decorating Ellie’s wedding cake.

As Holly read the first line of the invitation again, she had to slap her hand over her mouth to suppress another round of giggles.

You are cordially invited to witness the wedding of Lizbeth Morrow and Dylan Dunhill III ...

Holly chuckled as she read the rest of the invitation, then ran inside to call “Lizbeth,” aka Lizzie Morrow. Lizzie, her twenty-eight-year-old cousin (the daughter of Holly’s father’s only brother), was the funniest person Holly had ever known. Creating a phony invitation to her wedding to the last man on earth Lizzie would ever marry was up there with her cousin’s best jokes.

It had been two weeks since the cousins had last spoken, and Holly was hungry for Lizzie’s voice, exuberance and comical stories about what was going on in Troutville, where they’d grown up together. Holly wasn’t fond of the small, gossipy town; to say that she hated even the thought of Troutville wasn’t overstating her feelings, but her cousin and aunt lived there, as did Holly’s oldest and dearest girlfriends, and a small part of Holly’s heart was still untouched by all the pain she associated with the town. A very small part, but a part, nonetheless.

Holly couldn’t wait to hear what was going on in Lizzie’s life, who she was dating, what was happening with their friends Gayle and Flea, how Lizzie’s mother was doing, how business was at the bar that her mother owned (and where Lizzie was a waitress). Holly and Lizzie hadn’t been able to talk much or for long during the past few months. Holly’s job as a high school English teacher kept her away from a telephone all day, and her hobby—which was turning into a true side job—of making specialty cakes for weddings and catered parties was keeping her too covered in flour and icing to get to the telephone at night. And Lizzie, serial dater, barmaid and budding photographer for the Troutville Gazette, had a full plate herself.

A long, much-needed conversation with her terrific cousin was just what the doctor ordered, and luckily, Lizzie was home. She answered on the first ring.

“Lizbeth, dear,” Holly intoned in an upper-crust accent, “I simply wouldn’t miss your wedding to Mr. Dunhill for the world. Tell me, dear, will you be wearing a Vera Wang custom gown or a Chanel?” She laughed. “Oh, Lizzie, you don’t know how badly I needed a good joke. Today was one of those days. My boss, Principal Eggers, has been so—”

“Holly, honey, it isn’t a joke,” Lizzie interrupted. “I am getting married.”

“Of course you are, Lizbeth,” Holly droned, still in her lofty accent. “To Mr. Dylan Dunhill, who wouldn’t deign to speak to a Morrow if he ran over one with his Mercedes!”

No, that wasn’t quite accurate—the Dunhills had spoken to a few Morrows in their long history of living in the same small town; after all, the matriarch of Dunhill Mansion had to give orders to her maids, and two Morrows had worked in that stately colonial up on Dunhill Place.

Holly tossed the invitation on the kitchen table, shook her head and smiled. “Lizzie, you are too funny! So what’s going on? How’s your mom? And Gayle and Flea?”

There was dead silence on the other end.

“Lizzie?”

“Holly, the invitation isn’t a joke,” Lizzie said. “I really am marrying Dylan.”

Now there was silence on Holly’s end. Lizzie sounded very serious. Holly waited a moment for Lizzie’s Ha, Gotcha!

But it never came.

“Holly, things have changed,” Lizzie said. “Big time. I know the invitation must come as a major shock, but it’s true. I’m getting married. To Dylan.”

Okay, wait a minute. Lizzie wasn’t kidding? This invitation wasn’t a joke that Lizzie had made on her computer in the back office at the bar?

“Oh, Holly-Molly,” Lizzie continued, using the pet name she’d given Holly when they were five. “Me, Lizzie Morrow, a bride-to-be! A big church wedding and a fancy reception hall and everything! It’s just like I always dreamed—like we always dreamed!”

As Lizzie went on without a breath about gowns and floral arrangements and caterers, and whether or not a local Troutville band could do justice to Céline Dion, her favorite singer, Holly sank back into the chair, unable to process the very simple information she was receiving. Her cousin was getting married? And to a Dunhill?

Okay, I’m Holly van Winkle, and I’ve been asleep for twenty years, and things in Troutville, New Jersey, have changed. Morrows aren’t dirt poor and looked down upon. Dunhills aren’t wealthy beyond belief and downright mean. Lizzie and Dylan have been dating for a couple of years and he proposed and she accepted and they’re getting married, in the wedding that Lizzie has always dreamed of.

Only it wasn’t possible. Troutville would never change. Dunhills would never change. And Lizzie couldn’t have changed so much in the month since Holly had last seen her that she was suddenly a completely different person, a person who mingled with the Dunhill crowd and had fallen in love with one.

The last time Holly had spoken to Lizzie, her cousin wasn’t even dating anyone. In fact, Lizzie, who usually dated a different guy every weekend, had said she’d taken herself off the market and that she was concentrating on her photography. And that was only two weeks ago! Granted, Lizzie was spontaneous and impulsive, but she wasn’t crazy. Nor was she one to take love lightly.

Yet somehow, as evidenced by the wedding invitation in Holly’s hand, Lizzie and Dylan had fallen madly in love in a few weeks’ time, he’d proposed, she’d accepted, and she was now planning a wedding—three weeks from this Saturday.

Three weeks. Who got married after dating someone for two weeks and then rushed into marrying him? Who got married after five weeks? Celebrities, maybe. Then again, Lizzie’s husband-to-be was something of a celebrity, in Troutville, New Jersey, at least.

“Mrs. Lizbeth Dunhill,” Lizzie breathed into the phone on a sigh. “Oh, Holly, doesn’t that sound so fancy? Me, a Dunhill! Can you believe it?”

No, I can’t. I really can’t. This makes no sense!

Holly glanced down at the invitation, at the flowery gold type on the cream paper. You are cordially invited to witness the marriage ... She wasn’t surprised that the parents of the bride and groom were not mentioned on the invitation.

As Lizzie continued on about the particular shade of dark blue of Dylan’s eyes, the cleft in his chin and his “adorable toes,” Holly shot up from the chair.

“You’re pregnant,” Holly blurted out. “That’s what this is about.”

There was silence on the other end for a few moments. “Holly, I expect that kind of talk from just about everyone,” Lizzie said quietly, “but not from you. Never from you.”

Guilt hit Holly in the stomach. “I’m sorry, honey,” she said. “I’m just shocked, that’s all.” Are you pregnant? Holly wondered. And would Dylan really marry you because you were? Doubtful.

I don’t get any of this! Holly thought crazily. The world was perfectly normal the second before I opened the invitation!

“I am so happy!” Lizzie exclaimed with her characteristic inability to remain angry with anyone—especially her cousin—for longer than ten seconds. “So, so happy. I’ve never felt this way before, Holly. Like my heart could just burst with how in love I am, how happy I am.”

Holly took a deep breath. Lizzie deserved to be happy; she’d never had it easy.

But a marriage to Dylan Dunhill was absurd.

“Holly, I’m sorry I didn’t mention that Dylan and I were dating, let alone that we’d gotten so serious about each other, but I guess I wanted to keep the relationship to myself since I knew how everyone would react.”

“How long were you dating before he proposed?” Holly asked. “And how did everyone react? What did your mom say?”

“Ooh, there’s the doorbell,” Lizzie said. “It’s the florist with samples.”

Convenient, Holly thought. What does Aunt Louise think of the relationship? Of having Dylan Dunhill as a son-in-law? Of having Victoria Dunhill as an in-law? The very idea was preposterous!

“Oh, and Hol, the bridal party is going to meet next weekend to shop for my gown and bridesmaids dresses,” Lizzie said. “Do you believe we have an appointment at Bettina’s Bridal salon? Only the most expensive dress shop in town! Dylan told me to spare no expense for our wedding. Holly, you can come dress shopping, can’t you? I especially made our appointment for next weekend because I know summer school will be over for you by then and maybe you could even stay with me until the wedding. Oh, Holly, that would mean the world to me. There’s so much to do and hardly any time! And you will be my maid of honor, won’t you? I didn’t even think to ask—I just assumed!”

Holly took a deep breath. “Of course, I’ll be your maid on honor, Lizzie. I’d do anything for you. You know that.” But stay in Troutville for three weeks? Could I do that? Holly wasn’t sure she could stomach Troutville for a half hour, let alone three weeks.

“I do know that,” Lizzie said. “And the most important thing you can do for me is be happy for me. I know the sudden marriage must be quite a surprise, but Dylan and I are so happy together and we want to be married. We want to spend the rest of our lives together. He is so wonderful, Holly! I can’t wait for you to get to know him.”

I could, Holly thought, then chastised herself. She owed Lizzie respect.

“Did you get an invitation to the class reunion the weekend after next?” Lizzie asked. “I was, um, thinking of maybe going.”

O-kay, Holly thought. Now I know I’m hearing things. My cousin couldn’t have possibly said she was actually going to our ten-year high school reunion. Voluntarily.

“And since you’ll be in town,” Lizzie continued, “we could all go. The whole gang—me, you, Gayle, Flea. And Dylan, too, of course.”

Of course. Because Dylan Dunhill always accompanied our gang, Holly thought sarcastically.

“Lizzie, I don’t know about the reunion ...”

“Well, we’ll see, then,” Lizzie said. “I’m just so excited you’re coming! I can’t wait to see you, Holly-Molly. It’s been way too long and there’s so much I have to tell you.”

Such as how you and Dylan ever got to talking, let alone dating or marrying.

“Oh, Holly,” Lizzie said, “I know it all must sound so strange to you, but love is love. It’s about caring and sharing and happiness—it’s not about who your family is or where you grew up.”

It was in Troutville.

“I can’t wait to tell the gang you’re coming!” Lizzie exclaimed. “Flea asks after you all the time, Holly. She’s missed you so much. Gayle, too. They’re going to be so excited!”

Holly smiled as the image of Gayle, with her long red hair and movie-star smile, and Flea, with her pretty blue eyes and trademark black silk scarf around her neck, came to mind. “It’ll be great to see them,” Holly said, and she meant it. She hadn’t seen her old friends in way too long. “And it’ll be great to see you, too, Lizzie. No one’s missed anyone as much as I’ve missed you.”

After promises to arrive promptly on the ten A.M. train next Saturday, Holly and Lizzie said their good-byes, Holly clamping her mouth around the many questions she had. And with a shake of her head to clear her mind of Troutville and Dylan and Lizzie’s impending marriage, Holly headed into the kitchen to start baking a masterpiece for the one wedding in her future that did make perfect sense.

“You have a safe trip now, Holly-girl.”

Holly set down her suitcase on the train platform and gave Ellie and her new husband of one week a kiss each on the cheek. “Thanks for seeing me off, you two.”

Herbert wrapped Holly in a hug. “There’s nothing like going home for a visit,” he said. “Nothing like it at all.”

Unless you’re me and headed to Troutville, Holly thought. And Troutville isn’t home.

“Then again, home for. . .