The Borrowed Bride by Susan Wiggs

One
    I sabel Wharton’s dreams were finally coming true—or so she thought. Surrounded by a burst of springtime and eleven chattering women, she prepared to join their intimate circle, to become their daughter, sister, niece, cousin when she married Anthony Cossa.
    The bridal shower, held in the garden of a cottage café on Bainbridge Island, was winding down. Isabel tore open the second-to-last package and peered at the gift, then beamed at her future sister-in-law.
    “It’s lovely, Lucia. Simply lovely.” What is it? The thing resembled something she had seen in her ob-gyn’s office. She bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from asking. Lucia and Connie and Marcia would be the sisters she’d never had.
    “A silver pasta server.” Connie, Lucia’s younger sister, set aside the package. “Leave it to Lucia to assume you want to cook pasta.”
    Ah, but Isabel did want to cook pasta. And cannoli and tiramisu and gnocci, all for Anthony. She wantedto do everything for Anthony. He would make the perfect husband, and better still, he came with a family that was so large, so boisterous and so loving that she was engulfed by a feeling of belonging.
    They would warm the cold, empty places inside her. At least she hoped so.
    “I saved the best for last.” Connie perched on the edge of her white wicker garden chair.
    Isabel caught Mama Cossa’s eye and winked. “I’m not sure I trust your daughter.”
    “I haven’t trusted Connie since she tried out for the seventh-grade wrestling team.”
    Isabel laughed and removed the slick, metallic gold wrapping paper. Female hoots filled the garden as she lifted a wispy silk garment from the box.
    “Now that, ” Connie said with great pride, “is hot.”
    Isabel stood, holding the lacy red teddy against her. The silk felt as cool and insubstantial as mist. The lace plunged to her navel; the legs were cut sinfully high. Even held against her India-cotton skirt, the teddy felt wicked and wild.
    “I figure Tony will have a heart attack when he sees you in it,” Connie said. “But at least he’ll die happy.”
    The women’s laughter chimed like music in the garden. Isabel felt a wave of affection and gratitude, along with a feeling of contentment so sharp and sweet that her chest hurt. These women—Anthony’s sisters and aunts and nieces, his beautiful mother—were to be her family. Her family.
    Ever since she’d moved to Bainbridge Island and established her plant nursery, she’d begun to feel as though she really belonged somewhere. All that hadbeen missing was a family, and now she was about to get that, too.
    They began to drift homeward then; most of the guests were staying on the island, where the wedding would take place in just one week. Mama Cossa, good-humored but limping from bursitis, gave Isabel’s hand a squeeze. “See you at the rehearsal dinner, dear.”
    Only a few women remained when a faint hum sounded in Isabel’s ears. She gazed down the length of the garden. The flower beds and trees were drenched in the glory of sunshine. Just past the tops of the towering fir trees, she could see the sparkling waters of Puget Sound.
    The island, she decided, was paradise on earth. She had built her life on a foundation of shattered dreams, but finally everything was falling into place.
    The roaring grew louder. It was the sound of a boat motor or a car without a muffler—urgent, industrial, a faintly animalistic low grumble.
    Connie and the others, who had been bagging up torn paper and ribbons, paused and turned. Isabel frowned. And then, right where the gravel driveway turned off from the road, he appeared.
    He was an image out of her worst nightmare. Clad in black leather. A bandanna around his head. Inky, flowing hair. Mirror-lens sunglasses. The Harley beneath him bucking and spitting gravel like a wild animal.
    “I smell testosterone,” Connie murmured as the machine roared up a terraced garden path.
    Isabel stood frozen, immobile as a block of