The night before Virgil Duffy's wedding, a summer storm pounded the Puget Sound. But by the next morning, the curtain of gray clouds was gone, leaving in its place a view of Elliot Bay, and the spectacular skyline of downtown Seattle. Several of Virgil's wedding guests glanced up at the clear sky and wondered if he controlled Mother Nature the same way he controlled his shipping empire. They wondered if he could control his young bride as well or if she were just a toy like his hockey team.

John Kowalsky ignored the buzz of gossip around him. He had more pressing concerns. Raising a crystal tumbler to his lips, he drained the hundred-year-old scotch as if it were water. An incessant thud pounded his head. His eye sockets throbbed and his teeth ached. He must have had one hell of a good time last night.

John's gaze moved to a cluster of his teammates looking out of place and uncomfortable in their matching navy blazers and scuffed loafers. They didn't look like they wanted to be stuck in the middle of Seattle society any more than he did.

"Thanks for coming, son." The owner of the Seattle Chinooks approached John from behind and patted him on the shoulder.

"I didn't think any of us had a choice," he said, looking down into Virgil Duffy's lined face.

Virgil laughed and continued down the wide brick steps, the picture of wealth in his silver-gray tuxedo. Beneath the early afternoon sun, Virgil appeared to be exactly what he was: a member of the fortune five hundred, owner of a professional hockey team, and a man who could buy himself a young trophy wife.

"Did you see him last night with the woman he's marrying?"

John glanced across his right shoulder at his newest teammate, Hugh Miner. Sports writers had compared Hugh to James Dean in looks and reckless behavior on and off the ice. John liked that in a man. "No," he answered, reached beneath his blazer, and pulled a pair Ray Bans from the breast pocket of his oxford shirt. "I left fairly early."

"Well, she's pretty young. Twenty-two or so."

"That's what I hear." He shifted to one side and let a group of older ladies pass on their way down the stairs. Being a practicing womanizer himself, he'd never claimed to be a self-righteous moralist, but there was something pathetic and just a little sick about a man Virgil's age marrying a woman nearly fifty years younger than he was.

Hugh laughed and shook his head. "What do you think she sees in a man old enough to be her grandfather? I mean, she isn't ugly or fat or anything. In fact, she's real good lookin'."

"Take a look around," John answered. "The last I heard, Virgil's worth over six hundred millon."

"Yeah, well, money can't buy everything," the goalie grumbled as he started down the steps. "Are you coming, Wall?" he paused to ask over his shoulder.

"Nope," John answered. He sucked an ice cube into his mouth then tossed the tumbler into a potted fern, showing the same disregard for the Baccarat as he had shown for the scotch. He'd put in an appearance at the party last night, and he'd shown his face today. He'd played his part but he wasn't staying. "I've got one bitch of a hangover," he said as he descended the stairs.

"Mr. Duffy isn't going like it."

"Too bad," was his unconcerned comment as he walked around the side of the three-story brick mansion toward his Cadillac Eldorado parked in front. A year ago, the convertible had been a present to himself after he'd been traded to the Chinooks and had signed a multi-millon dollar contract with the Seattle hockey team. John loved his new Caddie. He loved the big engine, the power, and all that leg room. He figured once he got on the freeway, he'd open the Eldorado up.

As he shed his blue blazer, a flash of pink at the top of the wide brick steps caught his attention. He tossed his jacket in the back of the shiny black car and paused to watch a woman in a light pink dress slip through the massive double doors. A beige overnight case banged against the hardwood, and a breeze tossed dozens of dark corkscrew curls about her bare shoulders. She looked like she'd been shrink wrapped in satin from armpit to mid-thigh. A large white bow was sewn to the top of the bodice but did little to hide her centerfold bosom. Her legs were long and tan, and she wore a pair of flimsy strapless high heels on her feet.

"Hey, mister, wait a minute," she called to him in a slightly breathless, distinctly southern voice. The heels of her ridiculous shoes made tiny click-click sounds as she bounced down the stairs. Her dress was so tight, she had to descend sideways, and with each hurried step, her breasts strained and swelled against the top of the dress. John thought about telling her to stop before she hurt herself. Instead he shifted his weight to one foot, folded his arms, and waited until she came to a halt on the opposite side of his car.

"Maybe you shouldn't run like that," he advised.

From beneath perfectly arched brows, pale green eyes stared at him. "Are you one of Virgil's hockey players?" she asked, stepping out of her shoes and leaning down to pick them up. Several glossy dark curls slid over her tanned shoulder and brushed the tops of her breasts and the white bow.

"John Kowalsky," he introduced himself. With her full, kiss-me-daddy lips and tilty eyes, she reminded him of his grandfather's favorite sex goddesses, Rita Hayworth.

"I need to get out of here. Can you help me?"

"Sure. Where are you headed?"

"Anywhere but here," she answered and tossed her overnight case and shoes in the back seat of his car.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he slid into the Cadillac. He hadn't planned on having company, but having Miss January jump in his car wasn't such a bad fate. Once she sat in the passenger's seat, he pulled out of the circular drive. He wondered who she was and why she was in such a hurry.

"Oh God," she moaned and turned to stare at Virgil's rapidly disappearing house. "I left Sissy there all by herself. She went to get her bouquet of lilac and pink roses and I ran out!"

"Who's Sissy."

"My friend."

"Were you supposed to be in the wedding?" he asked. When she nodded he assumed she was a bridesmaid or some sort of attendant. As they sped past walls fir trees, rolling farm land and pink rhododendrons, he studied her out of the corner of his eye. A healthy tan tinted her smooth skin, and as John looked at her, he noticed that she was prettier then he'd first realized--younger too.

She turned to face the front again, and the wind picked up her hair and sent it dancing about her face and straight shoulders. "Oh, God. I've really messed up this time," she groaned, drawing out the vowels.

"I could take you back," he offered, wondering what had happened to make this woman run out on her friend.

She shook her head and her pearl drop earrings brushed the smooth skin just below her jaw. "No, it's too late. I've done it now. I mean, I've done it in the past..but this...this beats all with a stick."

John turned his attention to the road. Female tears didn't really bother him much, bu the hated hysterics, and he had a real bad feeling she was about to get hysterical on him. "Ahh...what's your name?" he asked hoping to avoid a scene.

She took a deep breath, tried to let it out slowly, and grabbed at her stomach with one hand. "Georgeanne, but everyone calls me Georgie."

"Well, Georgie, what's your last name.

She placed one palm on her forehead. Her sculpted nails were painted light beige on the bottom and white at the ends. "Howard."

"Where do you live Georgie Howard?"

"McKinney."

"Is that just south of Tacoma?"

"Cryin' all night in a bucket," she groaned and her breathing quickened. "I can't believe it. I just can't believe it."

"Are you going to get sick?"

"I don't think so." She shook her head and gulped air into her lungs. "But I can't breathe."

"Are you hyperventalating?"

"Yes--no--I don't know!" She looked at him with rounded wet eyes. Her fingers began to claw at the pink satin covering her ribs, and the hem of her dress slipped further up her smooth thighs. "I can't believe it. I can't believe it," she wailed between big hiccuping breaths.

"Put your head between your knees," he instructed, glancing briefly at the road. She leaned slightly forward then fell back against the seat. "I can't."

"Why the hell not?"

"My corset is too tight...Good Lord!" Her southern drawl rose. "I've done it up good this time. I can't believe it..," she continued with her now familiar litany.

John began to rethink helping Georgeanne. He pressed the gas pedal to the floor, propelling the Eldorado across a bridge spanning a narrow strip of the Puget Sound, quickly leaving Bainbridge Island behind. Shades of green sped past as the Cadillac chewed up highway 305.

"Sissy is never going to forgive me."

"I wouldn't worry about your friend," he said, somewhat disappointed to find that the woman in his car was as flaky as a croissant. "Virgil will buy her something nice, and she'll forget all about it."

A wrinkle appeared between her brows. "I don't think so," she said.

"Sure he will," John argued. "He'll probably take her someplace real expensive too."

"But Sissy doesn't like Virgil. She thinks he's a lecherous old leprechaun."

A real bad feeling tweaked the back of John's neck. "Isn't Sissy the bride?"

She stared at him with her big green eyes and shook her head. "I am."

"That's not even funny, Georgeanne."

"I know," she wailed. "I can't believe I left Virgil at the altar!"