Plain Jane's Texan. Jan Hudson
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“Eve, don’t be a goose,” Irish, had said. “I wouldn’t dream of having anyone but my little sister for my maid of honor.”
Eve had peered over her glasses and scowled. “I am not by any stretch of the imagination your little sister. I’m damned near six feet tall and not the type for ruffles and sweetheart necklines. I’ll do the flowers, I’ll bake the cake, I’ll even make cutesy little bags of birdseed and potpourri for the guests to toss, but please don’t ask me to put on a Scarlett O’Hara dress and walk down that aisle in front of everybody. Irish, you’re the beauty of the family, you’re the model who loves the limelight, not me. I’d feel like a fool.”
But Irish had planted her fists on her hips and gotten that determined look on her face, the one that said she planned on getting her way, no matter what. “Eve Ellison, I don’t know where you get your dumb ideas. You’ll be a lovely maid of honor. You’re much more beautiful than I ever was.”
Eve had snorted. “Yeah, sure. Everyone’s talking about how I have to beat off the hordes of men with a baseball bat. Sis, I haven’t even had a date in almost a year.”
“Then the men in Cleveland are blind. Anyone can see that you’re lovely. I suspect that it’s your attitude rather than your looks keeping them away. And...well, you could do a little something with your hair.”
Her hand had automatically gone to her head. “What’s wrong with my hair?”
“Other than the fact that it looks as if it were last cut with a weed whacker, hasn’t been brushed thoroughly in a week, and is tied into a lopsided mess with a shoe string?”
Eve had jutted her jaw. “Yeah, other than that?”
Irish had burst into laughter. “I swear, Eve, I think you go out of your way to look grungy. No makeup, shapeless clothes. What are you trying to prove?”
Actually Eve wasn’t trying to prove anything. She simply didn’t think much about her appearance. Never had. Irish had always been the beauty; Eve had the brains. Not that Irish was dumb, of course. She wasn’t. Irish was very bright, but she’d always been more interested in clothes and makeup and drama. Eve had been content to hide away with a book or her paints or a stray cat. She’d always cared more for digging in the dirt among the flowers and vegetables than polishing her fingernails.
Predictably, Irish had decided that the time had come for Eve to pay some attention to her appearance, and nothing would do but for the two of them to spend a week in New York. The prospective groom, Dr. Kyle Rutledge, agreed that it was a splendid idea and insisted on bankrolling the excursion.
Now here Eve was, her hair styled, her nails polished, her face made up, wearing new contact lenses and a Scarlett O’Hara gown and feeling like a damned fool. Sure that everyone must be staring at her, she’d kept her eyes on the toes of her satin pumps as she walked down the aisle to the altar, praying earnestly that she wouldn’t throw up or keel over. Terrified as she was, the walk had seemed ten miles long.
The first thing she saw when she finally looked up was a pair of flashing black eyes staring at her. The man, who she assumed was Kyle’s cousin, wasn’t just staring, he was gaping. He probably thought she looked like a damned fool, too. She wanted to disappear in a puff of smoke.
Automatically, she began to draw in her shoulders to protect her heart, but the new bra Irish had insisted she buy was taut as a bow string. The blasted thing gouged and pinched her and prevented her familiar postural shield.
So instead of drawing in like a turtle, she lifted her chin and defiantly gaped back.
Gaping at him wasn’t difficult. The man was gorgeous. Six and a half feet of gorgeous. Thick dark hair, cleft chin, sexy mouth, shoulders a yard wide.
He winked at her, and she almost pitched over on her nose. Heat rose from her chest and spread over her throat. Before she made a complete idiot of herself, she turned quickly as the congregation rose and Irish and their dad started down the aisle.
This must be Matt Crow, Eve thought as the wedding march swelled. She’d met Kyle’s cousin, Jackson Crow, at the rehearsal and subsequent dinner the night before, but Jackson’s brother couldn’t make it to Ohio until that morning, and Kyle’s brother Smith hadn’t been able to make the wedding at all. Even so, never had Eve seen so many tall, handsome men as the bunch of Texans Irish had met on her jaunt to find a millionaire. Eve had thought that Jackson was particularly good-looking, but his younger brother was unbelievable. He took her breath away.
Little colored dots began to dance in front of her eyes. Eve shook herself, sucked in a deep breath, and turned to face the priest.
Matt couldn’t keep his eyes or his thoughts off the maid of honor. She must be Irish’s younger sister. Ann? Karen? Lisa? For the life of him, he couldn’t remember. When Irish or Kyle had mentioned her, her name hadn’t registered. Everything about her registered now.
When Kyle finally kissed his bride and turned to grin like a possum at the audience, Matt could hardly wait until the bridal party got outside and he could make the angel’s acquaintance. Moments later the best man, Flint Durham, lucky dog, offered his arm to her, and they followed Kyle and Irish up the aisle. Jackson and one of the bridesmaids went next. Matt crooked his arm for Kim Devlin, another bridesmaid, and they brought up the rear.
“What’s Irish’s sister’s name?” he asked Kim as they hurried from the church.
Kim grinned. “Eve. Beautiful, isn’t she?”
“You got that right.”
Matt tried to make his way to Eve, but the group was herded by a photographer into an area for picture taking, and there was no opportunity to speak with her. Matt prayed that Jackson didn’t set his sights on Eve, and for once he was lucky. His big brother was busy trying to hustle another of the bridesmaids—a dark sultry type named Olivia.
Jackson, the prime stud of Texas who usually had willing women lined up four deep, put his arm around the woman’s waist and whispered in her ear. Olivia looked at him as if he were something she’d stepped in on a walk through the cow pasture and said, “I’ve told you for the last time, I’m not interested in anything you have to offer. And if you don’t move your hand, I’ll break your fingers.”
Matt nearly broke up laughing, and when the photographer said, “Smile!,” he didn’t have to put on.
Matt was tempted to carry Jackson high for striking out for once in his life. Jackson never struck out. He was the luckiest son-of-a-gun in the world, and everything had always come easy for him. All his life, Matt had to bust his butt for the breaks. But he wasn’t in the mood to razz his brother; he was preoccupied with meeting Eve. He could only stand and stare at her as she posed with Irish and their family for more pictures.
She had totally captivated him, and Matt couldn’t exactly define what it was that enthralled him so. Sure, she was beautiful, but he’d seen his share of beautiful women. Something else about her struck a chord deep within him. There was a guilelessness about her, sort of an innocence that shone in her pale eyes and made him want to protect her. And possess her.
Matt knew as sure as shootin’ that this was the woman for him. Knew it as certainly as if it had been announced with a blare of trumpets and a voice from the clouds.
As he watched, frown lines marred her smooth forehead. He had the craziest urge to hop on a horse, ride through the crowd, pull her up in the saddle with him, and rescue her from whatever was making her unhappy.
Eve would sooner have had her fingernails pulled out with pliers than pose for pictures—especially beside Irish. Irish was so astflnishingly beautiful, and she herself was so...not. Since she was a kid in grammar school, people had always looked at her with amazement and said, “You’re Irish Ellison’s sister?”
Many nights she had cried herself to sleep after such hurtful comments or after being teased by her classmates