Detective Barelli's Legendary Triplets
Autor
Melissa Senate
Lecturas
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17
HarlequinChapter One
The first thing Norah Ingalls noticed when she woke up Sunday morning was the gold wedding band on her left hand.
Norah was not married. Had never been married. She was as single as single got. With seven-month-old triplets.
The second thing was the foggy headache pressing at her temples.
The third thing was the very good-looking stranger lying next to her.
A memory poked at her before panic could even bother setting in. Norah lay very still, her heart just beginning to pound, and looked over at him. He had short, thick, dark hair and a hint of five-o’clock shadow along his jawline. A scar above his left eyebrow. He was on his back, her blue-and-white quilt half covering him down by his belly button. An innie. He had an impressive six-pack. Very little chest hair. His biceps and triceps were something to behold. The man clearly worked out. Or was a rancher.
Norah bolted upright. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. He wasn’t a rancher. He was a secret service agent! She remembered now. Yes. They’d met at the Wedlock Creek Founder’s Day carnival last night and—
And had said no real names, no real stories, no real anything. A fantasy for the night. That had been her idea. She’d insisted, actually.
The man in her bed was not a secret service agent. She had no idea who or what he was.
She swallowed against the lump in her parched throat.
She squeezed her eyes shut. What happened? Think, Norah!
There’d been lots of orange punch. And giggling, when Norah was not a giggler. The man had said something about how the punch must be spiked.
Norah bit her lower lip hard and looked for the man’s left hand. It was under the quilt. Her grandmother’s hand-me-down quilt.
She sucked in a breath and peeled back the quilt enough to reveal his hand. The same gold band glinted on his ring finger.
As flashes of memories from the night before started shoving into her aching head, Norah eased back down, lay very still and hoped the man wouldn’t wake before she remembered how she’d ended up married to a total stranger. The fireworks display had started behind the Wedlock Creek chapel and everything between her and the man had exploded, too. Norah closed her eyes and let it all come flooding back.
* * *
A silent tester burst of the fireworks display, red and white just visible through the treetops, started when she and Fabio were on their tenth cup of punch at the carnival. The big silver punch bowl had been on an unmanned table near the food booths. Next to the stack of plastic cups was a lockbox with a slot and a sign atop it: Two Dollars A Cup/Honor System. Fabio had put a hundred-dollar bill in the box and taken the bowl and their cups under a maple tree, where they’d been sitting for the past half hour, enjoying their punch and talking utter nonsense.
Not an hour earlier Norah’s mother and aunt Cheyenne had insisted she go enjoy the carnival and that they’d babysit the triplets. She’d had a corn dog, won a little stuffed dolphin in a balloon-dart game, which she’d promptly lost somewhere, and then had met the very handsome newcomer to town at the punch table.
“Punch?” he’d said, handing her a cup and putting a five-dollar bill in the box. He’d then ladled himself a cup.
She drank it down. Delicious. She put five dollars in herself and ladled them both two more cups.
“Never seen you before,” she said, daring a glance up and down his six-foot-plus frame. Muscular and lanky at the same time. Navy Henley and worn jeans and cowboy boots. Silky, dark hair and dark eyes. She could look, but she’d never touch. No sirree.
He extended his hand. “I’m—”
She held up her own, palm facing him. “Nope. No real names. No real stories.” She was on her own tonight, rarely had a moment to herself, and if she was going to talk to a man, a handsome, sexy, no-ring-on-his-finger man—something she’d avoided since becoming a mother—a little fantasy was in order. Norah didn’t date and had zero interest in romance. Her mother, aunt and sister always shook their heads at that and tried to remind her that her faith in love, and maybe herself, had been shaken, that was all, and she’d come around. That was all? Ha. She was done with men with a capital D.
He smiled, his dark brown eyes crinkling at the corners. Early thirties, she thought. And handsome as sin. “In that case, I’m...Fabio. A...secret service agent. That’s right. Fabio the secret service agent. Protecting the fresh air here in Wedlock Creek.”
She giggled for way too long at that one. Jeez, was there something in the punch? Had to be. When was the last time she’d giggled? “Kind of casually dressed for a Fed,” she pointed out, admiring his scuffed brown boots.
“Gotta blend,” he said, waving his arm at the throngs of people out enjoying the carnival.
“Ah, that makes sense. Well, I’m Angelina, international flight attendant.” Where had that come from? Angelina had a sexy ring to it, she thought. She picked up a limp fry from the plate he’d gotten from the burger booth across the field. She dabbed it in the ketchup on the side and dangled it in her mouth.
“You manage to make that sexy,” he said with a grin.
Norah Ingalls, single mother of drooling, teething triplets, sexy? LOL. Ha. That was a scream. She giggled again and he tipped up her face and looked into her eyes.
Kiss me, you fool, she thought. You Fabio. You secret service agent. But his gaze was soft on her, not full of lascivious intent. Darn.
That was when he suggested they sit, gestured at the maple tree, then put the hundred in the lockbox and took the bowl over to their spot. She carried their cups.
“Have more punch,” she said, ladling him a cup. And another. And another. He told her stories from his childhood, mostly about an old falling-down ranch on a hundred acres, but she wasn’t sure what was true and what wasn’t. She told him about her dad, who’d been her biggest champion. She told him the secret recipe for her mother’s chicken pot pie, which was so renowned in Wedlock Creek and surrounding towns that the Gazette had done an article on her family’s pie diner. She told him everything but the most vital truth about herself.
Tonight, Norah was a woman out having fun at the annual carnival, allowing herself for just pumpkin-hours to bask in the attention of a good-looking, sexy man who was sweet and smart and funny as hell. At midnight—well, 11:00 p.m. when the carnival closed—she’d turn back into herself. A woman who didn’t talk to hot, single men.
“What do you think the punch is spiked with?” she asked as he fed her a cold french fry and poured her another cup.
He ran two fingers gently down the side of her cheek. “I don’t know, but it sure is nice to forget myself, just for a night when I’m not on duty.”
Duty? Oh, right, she thought. He was a secret service agent. She giggled, then sobered for a second, a poke of real life jabbing at her from somewhere.
Now the first booms of the fireworks were coming fast and there were cheers and claps in the distance, but they couldn’t see the show from their spot.
“Let’s go see!” she said, taking his hand to pull him up.
But Fabio’s expression had changed. He seemed lost in thought, far away.
“Fabio?” she asked, trying to think through the haze. “You okay?”
He downed another cup of punch. “Those were fireworks,” he said, color coming back into his face. “Not gunfire.”
She laughed. “Gunfire? In Wedlock Creek? There’s no hunting within town limits because of the tourism and there hasn’t been a murder in over seventy years. Plus, if you crane your neck, you can see a bit of the fireworks past the trees.”
He craned that beautiful neck, his shoulder leaning against hers. “Okay. Let’s go see.”
They walked hand in hand to the chapel, but by the time they got there—a few missed turns on the path due to their tipsiness—the fireworks display was over. The small group setting them off had already left the dock, folks clearing away back to the festival.
The Wedlock Creek chapel was all lit up, the river behind it illuminated by the glow of the almost full moon.
“I always dreamed of getting married here,” she said, gazing up at the beautiful white-clapboard building, which looked a bit like a wedding cake. It had a vintage Victorian look with scallops on the upper tiers and a bell at the top that almost looked like a heart. According to town legend, those who married here would—whether through marriage, adoption, luck, science or happenstance—be blessed with multiples: twins or triplets or even quadruplets. So far, no quintuplets. The town and county was packed with multiples of those who’d gotten married at the chapel, proof the legend was true.
For some people, like Norah, you could have triplets and not have stepped foot in the chapel. Back when she’d first found out she was pregnant, before she’d told the baby’s father, she’d fantasized about getting married at the chapel, that maybe they’d get lucky and have multiples even if it was “after the fact.” One baby would be blessing enough. Two, three, even four—Norah loved babies and had always wanted a houseful. But the guy who’d gotten her pregnant, in town on the rodeo circuit, had said, “Sorry, I didn’t sign up for that,” and left town before his next event. She’d never seen him again.
She stared at the chapel, so pretty in the moonlight, real life jabbing her in the heart again. Where is that punch bowl? she wondered.
“You always wanted to marry here? Then let’s get married,” Fabio said, scooping her up and carrying her into the chapel.
Her laughter floated on the summer evening breeze. “But we’re three sheets to the wind, as my daddy used to say.”
“That’s the only way I’d get hitched,” he said, slurring the words.
“Lead the way, cowboy.” She let her head drop back.
Annie Potterowski, the elderly chapel caretaker, local lore lecturer and wedding officiant, poked her head out of the back room. She stared at Norah for a moment, then her gaze moved up to Fabio’s handsome face. “Ah, Detective Barelli! Nice to see you again.”
“You know Fabio?” Norah asked, confused. Or was his first name really Detective?
“I ran into the chief when he was showing Detective Barelli around town,” Annie said. “The chief’s my second cousin on my mother’s side.”
Say that five times fast, Norah thought, her head beginning to spin.
And Annie knew her fantasy man. Her fantasy groom! Isn’t that something, Norah thought, her mind going in ten directions. Suddenly the faces of her triplets pushed into the forefront of her brain and she frowned. Her babies! She should be getting home. Except she felt so good in his arms, being carried like she was someone’s love, someone’s bride-to-be.
Annie’s husband, Abe, came out, his blue bow tie a bit crooked. He straightened it. “We’ve married sixteen couples tonight. One pair came as far as Texas to get hitched here.”
“We’re here to be the seventeenth,” Fabio said, his arm heavy around Norah’s.
“Aren’t you a saint!” Annie said, beaming at him. “Oh, Norah, I’m so happy for you.”
Saint Fabio, Norah thought and burst into laughter. “Want to know a secret?” Norah whispered into her impending husband’s ear as he set her on the red velvet carpet that created an aisle to the altar.
“Yes,” he said.
“My name isn’t really Angelina. It’s Norah. With an h.”
He smiled. “Mine’s not Fabio. It’s Reed. Two e’s.” He staggered a bit.
The man was as tipsy as she was.
“I never thought I’d marry a secret service agent,” she said as they headed down the aisle to the “Wedding March.”
“And we could use all your frequent flyer miles for our honeymoon,” Reed added, and they burst into laughter.
“Sign here, folks,” Annie said as they stood at the altar. The woman pointed to the marriage license. Norah signed, then Reed, and Annie folded it up and put it in an addressed, stamped envelope.
I’m getting married! Norah thought, gazing into Reed’s dark eyes as he stood across from her, holding her hands. She glanced down at herself, confused by her shorts and blue-and-white T-shirt. Where was her strapless, lace, princess gown with the beading and sweetheart neckline she’d fantasized about from watching Say Yes to the Dress? And should she be getting married in her beat-up slip-on sneakers? They were hardly white anymore.
But there was no time to change. Nope. Annie was already asking Reed to repeat his vows and she wanted to pay attention.
“Do you, Reed Barelli, take this woman, Norah Ingalls, to be your lawfully wedded wife, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?”
“I most certainly do,” he said, then hooted in laughter.
Norah cracked up, too. Reed had the most marvelous laugh.
Annie turned to Norah. She repeated her vows. Yes, God, yes, she took this man to be her lawfully wedded husband.
“By the power vested in me by the State of Wyoming, I now pronounce you husband and wife! You may kiss your bride.”
Reed stared at Norah for a moment, then put his hands on either side of her face and kissed her, so tenderly, yet passionately, that for a second, Norah’s mind cleared completely and all she felt was his love. Her new husband of five seconds, whom she’d known for about two hours, truly loved her!
Warmth flooded her, and when rice, which she realized Abe was throwing, rained down on them, she giggled, drunk as a skunk.
* * *
Reed Barelli registered his headache before he opened his eyes, the morning sun shining through the sheer white curtains at the window. Were those embroidered flowers? he wondered as he rubbed his aching temples. Reed had bought a bunch of stuff for his new house yesterday afternoon—everything from down pillows to coffee mugs to a coffee maker itself, but he couldn’t remember those frilly curtains. They weren’t something he’d buy for his place.
He fully opened his eyes, his gaze landing on a stack of books on the bedside table. A mystery. A travel guide to Wyoming. And Your Baby’s First Year.
Your Baby’s First Year? Huh?
Wait a minute. He bolted up. Where the hell was he? This wasn’t the house he’d rented.
He heard a soft sigh come from beside him and turned to the left, eyes widening.
Holy hell. There was a woman sleeping in his bed.
More like he was in her bed, from the looks of the place. He moved her long reddish-brown hair out of her face and closed his eyes. Oh Lord. Oh no. It was her—Angelina slash Norah. Last night he’d given in to her game of fantasy, glad for a night to eradicate his years as a Cheyenne cop.
He blinked twice to clear his head. He wasn’t a Cheyenne cop anymore. His last case had done him in and, after a three-week leave, he’d made up his mind and gotten himself a job as a detective in Wedlock Creek, the idyllic town where he’d spent several summers as a kid with his maternal grandmother. A town where it seemed nothing could go wrong. A town that hadn’t seen a murder in over seventy years. Hadn’t Norah mentioned that last night?
Norah. Last night.
He lifted his hand to scrub over his face and that was when he saw it—the gold ring on his left hand. Ring finger. A ring that hadn’t been there before he’d gone to the carnival.
What the...?
Slowly, bits and pieces of the evening came back to him. The festival. A punch bowl he’d commandeered into the clearing under a big tree so he and Norah could have the rest of it all to themselves. A clearly heavily spiked punch bowl. A hundred-dollar bill in the till, not to mention at least sixty in cash. Norah, taking his hand and leading him to the chapel.
She’d always dreamed of getting married, she’d said.
And he’d said, “Then let’s get married.”
He’d said that! Reed Barelli had uttered those words!
He held his breath and gently peeled the blue-and-white quilt from her shoulder to look at her left hand—which she used to yank the quilt back up, wrinkling her cute nose and turning over.
There was a gold band on her finger, too.
Holy moly. They’d really done it. They’d gotten married?
No. Couldn’t be. The officiant of the chapel had called him by name. Yes, the elderly woman had known him, said she’d seen the chief showing him around town yesterday when he’d arrived. And she’d seemed familiar with Norah, too. She knew both of them. She wouldn’t let them drunk-marry! That was the height of irresponsible. And as a man of the law, he would demand she explain herself and simply undo whatever it was they’d signed. Dimly, he recalled the marriage license, scrawling his name with a blue pen.
Norah stirred. She was still asleep. For a second he couldn’t help but stare at her pretty face. She had a pale complexion, delicate features and hazel eyes, if he remembered correctly.
If they’d made love, that he couldn’t remember. And he would remember, drunk to high heaven or not. What had been in that punch?
Maybe they’d come back to her place and passed out in bed?
He closed his eyes again and slowly opened them. Deep breaths, Barelli. He looked around the bedroom to orient himself, ground himself.
And that was when he saw the framed photograph on the end table on Norah’s side. Norah in a hospital bed, in one of those thin blue gowns, holding three newborns against her chest.
Ooh boy.
