The Bride Wore Tie-Dye

To Barbara: For all your support during the years before

I “made it.” You’ve been the greatest

boss anybody could ever have.

To John, Susan and Diane: Thanks!

One (#ulink_20757410-8936-58ee-96a2-fd34a32ad105)

“Miss Melodie?”

Melodie Allford whirled in surprise at the deep, decidedly masculine tone. On any given day, she heard her name called a hundred times, but the chorus of voices was usually several octaves higher. In fact, the chorus had just gone squealing to the four-through-six-year-old’s playground at Little Angels Day Care, leaving her—and the beginnings of a whopper headache—in blessed quiet to finish stacking the mats.

She took one look at the body that belonged to this voice and decided that yes, Virginia, there was a Santa Claus, and he had been very, very good to this man.

She suppressed a wry grin and decided there was just enough small-town girl in her to be a little dazzled by what she saw. She clutched the tumbling mat to her like a lifeline.

She rarely met the parents of the children she taught dance to, as her classes were over well before pick-up time. This, however, was one father she truly regretted not getting to meet sooner.

He was tall—easily six-three or six-four. Mmm…perfect. At five foot nine, she was hardly a giant, but she liked looking up at her dance partners.

He also had black hair with just a whisper of gray starting to show at his temples. Very distinguished.

And blue eyes. Deep, dark blue, fringed by thick, black lashes. Lashes that most women would kill for. Dark brows that arched like guardians.

Tanned. Not a dark tanning-bed tan, but a warm, I-get-out-in-the-sun tan that his crisp white shirt showed off to perfection.

And what a body! For all that his perfectly proper navy suit probably had a Brooks Brothers or Joseph Banks or heaven only knew what other label in it—which she could forgive this once—the body in the suit was great. It included broad shoulders, a narrow waist and legs she would pay good money to see in a pair of cutoffs. Or better yet, biker’s shorts. In fact, she wondered just what he did to look so mouth-wateringly good. Jog? Swim?

Melodie couldn’t wait until he left so she could check out the rear view.

On second thought, yes, she could. She could stand here and watch him for the next hour. If he’d oblige.

She wondered if his wife appreciated just what she had. Then again—she straightened a little—where was it written that he was married? There were lots of single dads out there these days…

When she realized she had yet to speak to the man, she felt that dratted blush creep up her neck. No doubt, next to her red hair, her usually paler-than-a-bedsheet complexion now looked like an anemic sunburn—as it did any time she got flustered.

“Um, yes, I’m Melodie Allford. Can I help you?”

There. That sounded casual, businesslike and refined. Nothing to reveal her still-erratic pulse.

As if her belated greeting were his cue, he took a step closer and held out his hand. “I’m Trenton Laroquette. Amber Dawson’s uncle.”

Ah, yes. Trenton James Laroquette, Esquire, to be precise. Or so his letterhead had read. Then the man smiled. And Melodie’s knees melted.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, surprised at how flustered she felt by a mere handshake.

Hope sprang eternal in her young heart. Uncle, not dad. No wedding ring, although that was no guarantee. Charming, urbane, handsome.

Hope strangled itself when she realized how she was dressed. Her outfit of white leggings embroidered with pigs, black jogging shorts and a purple tie-dyed shirt was a little wild, even by her own standards. If she dared move the tumbling mat which, for the moment, was an effective shield, she had the sinking feeling Mr. Wonderful would become Mr. Displeased. Somehow she doubted that a guy who looked as if he’d stepped off the cover of GQ would understand how well children responded to outfits such as this. After all, this was a creative dance class…

In fact, the more she thought about it, the more mournful hope’s sigh became. This guy was all Wall Street and black lacquer desks—or whatever passed for uptight-corporate-mogul in Austin, Texas, these days. She doubted he’d have much tolerance for a single thirty-something who spent her days teaching improv dance to little kids and her nights deciding between chicken noodle or vegetable beef. On an exciting evening, she added oyster crackers.

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Allford. I’m sorry for my informal address when I arrived, but Amber only calls you Miss Melodie. Could I inquire if you’ve received my letter?”

Could he inquire? Melodie felt hope give one last kick as it turned up its toes and fell into the grave. She wished he had let her keep her illusions just a bit longer before confirming he was completely uptight. He was probably going to pick a wife who wore little lace collars and blushed demurely at every turn. Not that Melodie was one to cast stones. She blushed all the time—the common curse of a redhead—but never demurely.

“Peanut butter and all,” she said, almost laughing at his confused expression. She decided she’d better cut out the wisecracks. Too many jokes might confuse the poor man. “Your concept for a children’s workout video is interesting, and the role of instructor sounds intriguing, but…”

Her voice faded and her eyes widened when he shrugged out of his jacket and slung it over his shoulder, hooked on one finger. She’d seen it in the movies and thought the move was incredibly sexy. Without a doubt, it was more potent in person.

“Trenton!”

A voice boomed from behind the tall man. Melodie had never been so glad to see Serena, the owner of the day-care center, as she was right now. Serena’s entrance had beautifully covered her momentary gapemouthed loss for words.

“Good afternoon, Serena. How has your day been?”

“Busy. I see you’ve met Melodie,” she said, gesturing with the antenna of the walkie-talkie that was so much a part of her. Melodie thought Serena probably felt naked without it.

“Yes, we were just talking about the video,” Trenton said, casting a polite glance to both women.

We were? Melodie kept her expression carefully neutral.

Serena smiled, obviously glad one task was off her hands. “Great! I’ve got to stop by the baby room, but then I’ll head back to the playground and get T-1 and T-2 ready to go for you.”

When they were alone again, Trenton spoke first. “Could I assist you with these mats?”

“No! Um, I—I mean, thank you,” she stuttered, covering her reaction and clutching the mat even tighter. “It won’t take me a minute to finish.”

“Uncle Trenton!”

The squeal could belong to no one but Amber. She barreled by Melodie, knocking the mat out of her hands and sending it crashing to the floor.

Joey came to a skidding halt behind his younger sister. “Hey, Uncle Trenton.” He glanced at the mat as if wondering whether he should pick it up.

Trenton bent for it at the same time Melodie did, and they knocked foreheads. They both raised fingers to their now-tender temples as Serena came hurrying up behind them. Her hand unit began hissing static, adding to the chaos.

“Serena? This is Ginger. Amber and Joey saw their uncle’s car and took off like jackrabbits. Are they up there?”

Serena keyed her walkie-talkie. “We got ‘em, Ginger. Don’t leave your class. They’re fine.”

“Tell those two rapscallions we’re going to have a little talk tomorrow.”

“Ten-four.”

Amber ducked her head and looked at her uncle from beneath her lashes. With her arms behind her back, she said, “I’m sorry, Uncle Trenton.”

Melodie took the moment to retrieve the mat and place it on the stack against the wall. The damage was done so there was no sense hiding any longer. As she walked back to the center of the room, she watched Trenton bend down on one knee and chuck the little girl under the chin.