Staying Single. Millie Criswell

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      Mark’s stepmom had always been a practical woman—practical, loving and wise. After his mother had died in a tragic car accident, Mark had lucked out the day his father had found such a wonderful woman to marry and to make a new life with.

      Mark had been four years old at the time of Helena Fielding’s death, and six by the time his dad had re-married his former secretary, Laura Carson. And he had never felt anything but love and kindness from the pretty petite blonde.

      Laura had stepped into her role as his mother with enthusiasm and caring, giving Mark all the love and attention he craved. And even though she had a son of her own, two years his junior by a previous marriage, Mark had never felt slighted or the need to compete with his stepbrother. In fact, he and Matt were as close as or closer than brothers who’d been delivered from the same womb.

      Spotting his brother seated at a table across the large ballroom, the lights of the crystal chandelier glittering down upon him, illuminating his cheerless expression, Mark moved to join him.

      Sympathetic friends and family had surrounded Matt all evening, making it impossible for Mark to have a serious discussion about the flighty woman in white satin who’d deserted his little brother.

      Trisha Yearwood’s version of “How Will I Live?” blared from the DJ’s oversize speakers, and Mark thought it a fitting tune for the occasion—maudlin without being overly sickening.

      Pulling out a chair, he sat. “I’m sorry as hell about all this, Matt, but I guess you already know that.”

      Matt, who’d already consumed four beers and was halfway through his fifth, looked up and nodded, his slightly crooked smile sad. “I never saw it coming, Mark. It was love at first sight, a whirlwind courtship. Francie seemed so perfect for me. I thought for sure that she loved me as much as I loved her.” He heaved a deep sigh. “Guess I was wrong.”

      Noting the hurt in his brother’s eyes, the slump to his shoulders, Mark cursed softly under his breath, wishing he had Francesca Morelli in front of him at that moment.

      Didn’t the woman have a conscience?

      Didn’t the selfish bitch know how much she had hurt Matt?

      Didn’t she care?

      Obviously the answer was no, on all three counts.

      Grabbing one of the Bud Lights, he popped it open and downed the liquid in one gulp. “I haven’t had much luck with women, bro. I find them to be heartless creatures with a phobia to commit.”

      “You’re probably right. Francie’s run before. A mutual friend told me that she’d left her two previous fiancés at the altar. Even so, I never expected it to happen to me. Guess I was stupid to think it’d be different this time.”

      Mark’s look was incredulous. His brother was even more naive than he thought. “You knew this about the woman and still you wanted to marry her? Unbelievable.”

      “I loved her. Still do, as a matter of fact. Love is funny like that. It blinds you to people’s flaws, makes you do crazy things. You’ve never been in love, so you wouldn’t know what I’m talking about, Mark.”

      Wrong! Mark knew in spades. He’d been in love once, with the faithless Nicole Gordon. The woman had cheated on him, lied about it, ripped out his heart and stomped all over it with her four-inch heels, then married the bastard with whom she’d been having the affair.

      Mark knew all he wanted to know about women.

      “You shouldn’t have rushed into marriage, Matt. Three months is not long enough to get to know someone you intend to spend the rest of your life with.”

      “You’re not trying to give me advice, are you?” Matt shook his head. “Not with your track record and failure rate? Unfriggingbelievable.”

      “Touché. But you looked like you needed some advice and cheering up, so here I am.” Grinning, Mark knocked his brother on the arm. “Come on, bro. Buck up. You dodged a bullet today, if you ask me. Obviously this Francie isn’t in her right mind if she’s willing to give up a great guy like you. And what do you really know about her?”

      “She comes from a large Italian family. Josephine and John Morelli are nice people, though the mother is a bit controlling.”

      “I take it Josephine was the harridan in the blue dress that kept screaming and wailing that this couldn’t be happening again, then crossing herself in front of the altar and vowing revenge?”

      Matt finally smiled. “That’s the one. Josephine’s a bit high-strung. She drives Francie nuts. I admit I was a bit apprehensive about having her for a mother-in-law, but Francie assured me that her mom’s bark is worse than her bite, which is good, because the woman seemed a bit rabid at times.”

      “I take it Francie doesn’t live with her parents, then?”

      “She’s got an apartment near Rittenhouse Square. Lives with some guy named Leo Bergmann. He has money, apparently.”

      Mark’s brow lifted. “Maybe he’s the reason she’s hesitant to wed. Maybe they’ve got something going.”

      “I’ve met Leo. He’s a really nice guy, but women aren’t his thing, if you get my drift.”

      “Gotcha. So, what does Francie do for a living? Does she have a job?”

      “She works at a small public relations firm downtown.”

      “Which one?”

      Matt’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Why are you asking so many questions about Francie? It’s a bit moot at this point, don’t you think? It’s over. I only allow myself one public humiliation in a lifetime.”

      Sipping his beer, Mark tried to look nonchalant. He had his reasons for asking the probing questions. If he had anything to say about it—and he was pretty sure he did—Francie Morelli had dumped her last groom.

      Of course, he didn’t intend to let his lovesick brother in on his plan, which was just starting to take shape.

      It was time someone taught this Morelli woman a lesson, gave her a bit of her own medicine, so she could experience just how rotten it was to play with other people’s emotions and lives.

      At the moment he wasn’t sure how, but he intended to extract a pound of flesh for what his brother had gone through.

      An eye for an eye. A wedding for a wedding. A bride for a groom.

      THE DOORBELL BUZZED three times and Francie froze, a sick feeling forming in the pit of her stomach.

      “Please, God, don’t let it be my mother!”

      Her mother knew, by osmosis, voodoo or tarot readings that Francie was back in town. How she knew, Francie wasn’t certain. The woman had a sixth sense when it came to her children, and Francie lived in fear that Josephine was standing on the other side of her apartment door, waiting to pounce.

      “Francie, it’s me. Open up. I know you’re in there.”

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