Whirlwind

A novel by

Robin
DeJarnett

Copyright ©
2010
by Robin
DeJarnett
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of
1976
,

no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted

in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system,

without prior written permission of the publisher.

Omnific
Publishing

P.O. Box
793871
, Dallas, TX
75379

www.omnificpublishing.com

First
Omnific
eBook edition, December
2010

The characters and events in this book are fictitious.

Any similarity to real persons, living or dead,

is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

DeJarnett
, Robin.

Whirlwind / Robin
DeJarnett
–
1
st ed.

ISBN
978-1-936305-50-6

1. Romantic Suspense—Fiction. 2. Weddings—Fiction.
3. Contemporary Romance—Fiction. 4. California—Fiction. I. Title

Cover Design and Interior Book Design by
Coreen
Montagna

To Elizabeth and Meredith,

I love you like sisters.

And to my husband, Steve,

One

“The coroner listed the official cause of death as asphyxiation. A memorial trust fund has been set up for
Stanton
; see our website for details. Stay tuned for traffic and weather.”

“Like I need another traffic report.” I silenced the radio with a jab. After spending most of the day on
California
freeways—including a solid hour on a twenty-mile stretch of beach in
Malibu
—I was intimately familiar with the amount of traffic on the road.

Dial down the attitude, Melissa. You’re on vacation!
Finals had ended, the weather was perfect, and other than the one spot on the beach, the traffic wasn’t really
that
bad. I should have been in a better mood. So what if the summer was starting with my best friend getting married and moving away? I had other friends.

Just none as close as Mitch McAlister.

The first real friend I’d made at college, Mitch had been part of my life for almost three years. After a chance meeting—at, of all places, a rodeo—he’d literally shown me the ropes, cluing me in on everything from how to lasso a steer to where to find the hidden parking spots on the busy Santa Lucia Polytechnic campus. Hell, he’d even taught me to drink, financing my trip down Miracle Mile when I’d turned twenty-one. He was the big brother I never had.

“Turn right on
Sepulveda Boulevard
.” My Dutch-made GPS pronounced it “See-
puel
-VEED,” and I could imagine Mitch’s laugh filling my tiny car. I would’ve snickered too, if only the cold computer voice hadn’t been announcing how close I was to seeing my best friend for the last time.

I wanted to blame Ann, his high-class, high-style fiancée, for stealing him away, but I knew better. Our lives had always been headed in different directions. A week ago he graduated from our little school on the central
California
coast; that’s really what signaled the end. Married or not, next month Mitch was starting work in
L.A.
at his dream job, designing hybrid cars. I really had no grounds to complain; I was lucky he’d stuck around an extra year to get his master’s.

“You can always come down and visit, Mel. It’s only a few hours away,” he’d said, but I knew it was just a polite invitation. Distance wasn’t the issue. Even if Mitch moved in next door, I still wouldn’t see much of him. His new job, new friends, and new responsibilities would keep him more than busy enough; he wouldn’t have time for any of us still in school. Add in a new wife and I’d be lucky to get a Christmas card.

I ignored my heavily-accented navigator and turned onto Palos Verdes Boulevard with forty-five minutes to spare. Plenty of time to ditch my selfish doldrums, I hoped. I shouldn’t rain on Mitch’s big day—I wouldn’t. Maybe if I pretended this was just another story to cover, my reporter’s instincts would kick in.

The Pacific peeked between the apartment buildings lining the street on the right as I scanned for addresses. On the left, a tall A-frame building with a crucifix fit the bill, but it wasn’t the church I was looking for. Half a mile farther down I spotted my destination. Or did I?

Is this a church?

The answer was a symphony of horns and a flock of fingers as I rode the brakes in front of the modern stucco-and-glass structure. In sharp contrast to the traditional building I’d just passed, the two-story square pillars and blackened-glass front of
Beach
Cities
Community
Church
didn’t look like any house of worship I’d ever seen. It looked more like a deserted movie theater.

Of course, I wasn’t much of an expert on either religion or architecture. God had dispensed with me long ago, and I’d returned the favor without hesitation.

“You have reached your destination,” my GPS chanted. I wasn’t sure I believed it, but with a belated turn signal I entered the driveway marked
Church Parking
.

The one-way alley skirted what I assumed was the sanctuary, taking me down a slope toward a set of dark green hedges. The structure next to me seemed to grow, rising to more than three stories by the time I saw the narrow street curve around the back. My skepticism grew with it, but at least I still had plenty of time to find the right church before Mitch and Ann started their vows.

The road opened up to a boxed-in parking lot, which—as I expected—was empty. Well, almost.

I backed into one of the few shady spots next to a spectacularly clean Lexus and an equally detailed BMW. At least I could get my tired Civic out of the sweltering sun while I decided how lost I was.

With the pale lavender invitation in hand, I verified the address against what I’d programmed into the GPS. The matching numbers didn’t reassure me; the GPS had been confused on more than one occasion.

Just as I was about to snag an old-fashioned paper map from the glove box, I noticed a woman in a pink sundress crossing the parking lot. She shaded her face with one hand and waved with the other.

“Melissa! Is that you?” she called.

With a relieved sigh, I stepped out and waved back at Beth Miller, one of my few girlfriends.

“You cut your hair,” I said by way of a greeting once she’d reached the cover of the shade.

She twirled, showing off her new chin-length bob. Just three days ago her hair had been as long as mine, trailing down below her shoulders. “Yup, no one will mistake us for sisters anymore.”

“You must be so relieved,” I said. It’d been weeks since the barista had commented that we must be related; I was surprised she remembered. “So what’s going on? I wasn’t sure I had the right place at first.”

“Oh, shoot! I was supposed to put balloons on the parking sign too.” She slumped against my car. “Didn’t you see my fabulous decorations?”

I followed her finger, which was aimed at a staircase tucked between the buildings that formed two sides of the enclosed lot. Purple ribbon wound its way up the banister, punctuated by matching balloons floating above every third step.

“You did that? You definitely have a fall-back if psychology doesn’t work out for you.” I leaned against the car next to her. “I thought you were just a guest. Did Ann conscript you into service?” Ann Linwood was someone who knew what she wanted and would fight tooth and nail to get it.
No
was not a word she recognized.

Beth scowled at me. “Actually, I volunteered. You should cut Ann a break, Mel. She’s not the Wicked Witch of the West.”

I picked a wayward hair off of my black slacks, this one closer to blond than brown. It was a little late to buddy-up to Ann, but I curbed my tongue. “You’re probably right. It’s just that she’s so different.” Different from me—and from Mitch. I managed a half-smile, imagining her Jimmy
Choo’s
lined up in the closet next to his dirty cowboy boots.

“That’s the thing, though, she’s not,” said Beth. “She’s smart and confident…just like you, now that I think about it. Maybe that’s because you both work with so many men.” Beth plucked a leaf off the Lexus and traced it with her finger. “Too bad you couldn’t come down earlier. She took me and Linda out to lunch yesterday.”

To some posh restaurant, I’m sure.
“Somehow I doubt you chatted about baseball over pizza and beer.”

“No, we went to Panera. Nothing fancy. You would have enjoyed it more than you think.” She crumpled the leaf, but it sprang open when she dropped it. “She asked about you. When I told her you had to cover the baseball game—” Beth gave me a disbelieving glance “—she launched into a story about how baseball players had made steroids taboo for any cosmetic use. I guess her company was considering them for some kind of skin therapy.”

Steroid-based makeup? Who knew?
“You two must’ve really enjoyed that,” I said and was promptly poked in the ribs.

“
You
would have enjoyed it more. Bonds, Sosa, Macintyre—she knew them all.”

“McGwire, Beth. It’s McGwire.” I was impressed Beth remembered any of the names, let alone Ann.

She crossed her arms. “Whatever. The point is she has more in common with you than you think.” Glaring at my slacks, she continued, “After lunch, we went over to Del
Amo
and walked around. We could’ve helped you find something a little less…practical.”

The mall. I should’ve known. “I like practical. I’m not a girly-girl like you.” I couldn’t imagine spending two hours every day “putting on my face.” The shadow and blush I’d spent way too much time applying this morning now formed an uncomfortable second skin, an itch I couldn’t scratch.

“You think you’re just one of the guys, but you’d be surprised. With a little effort you’d have them clamoring after you,” Beth said.

“I thought we were talking about Ann, not me.” My love life, or lack thereof, was not up for debate. “You must’ve talked about something other than baseball.”

With a huff, Beth crossed her arms. “Well, Mitch did come up once or twice.” Perking up, she slipped her hand into a well-concealed pocket in her skirt. “Ann loves him to pieces. She’d do anything for him.” A folded piece of paper appeared in her hand. “And I mean
anything
.”

“What’s that?” I reached for the note, but Beth pulled it away.

“Ah-ah-ah, I don’t think so. It’s a note from Ann to Mitch. I’ve spent most of the day playing messenger.” Beth’s lips curled in a wicked grin.

“They’re passing notes? Why don’t they just text each other?” I followed Beth as she skipped around to the other side of my car.

“Probably because Ann confiscated Mitch’s phone. She found out the guys loaded about a thousand pornographic photos on it for…what did they call it? Oh yeah,
inspiration
.” She emphasized the last word with her fingers.

I held up my hands in defeat. It was too hot to chase her around the parking lot. “I’m surprised you looked at it, Beth. I always thought you were a good girl.” The stereotypical girl next door, Beth didn’t even swear.

“I didn’t open it when she gave it to me. I’d never do that.” She touched the folds of the note with a guilty finger. “But maybe I was looking over her shoulder when she wrote it.”

“You devious woman!” I nudged Beth’s arm. “It’s always the quiet ones.”

“Hey, I learned from the best,” she said, bumping me back.

“So? What does it say?”

Beth’s cheeks turned scarlet. “Um…Do you remember the slogan for Frank’s Famous Hot Dogs? Apparently those are Ann’s favorite.”

“Big Weenies are Better?” I covered my mouth with my hand. “No way! She didn’t write that.”

“Not in so many words, but that’s the gist of it.” Beth’s hair bounced up and down as she nodded, laughing.

“So that’s what Mitch sees in her,” I said with a smirk.

Catching her breath, Beth peeked in the passenger window. I cringed, remembering the mess I’d left on the seat. When she looked back at me, confusion wrinkled her brow. “You drove down by yourself? I thought you were bringing that guy from the
Daily
—your replacement.”

“Craig? I don’t think so.” My new freshman charge had followed me around like an eager puppy at the last event I’d been assigned to cover. Like me, his first article for the school paper was about Poly’s award-winning rodeo team.
Unlike
me, he got stepped on by a horse, banished to the stands by the team captain, Mitch, and locked in a
Porta
-John by…well…me.

“But he likes you,” Beth argued, batting her eyelashes. “Is there anything you don’t know about the rodeo, Ms. Williams? I wish I could be as good as you someday, Ms. Williams. I can call you Melissa? Gee, thanks, Ms. Williams!”

Her imitation of the pimple-faced kid was a little too good.

“Please, stop,” I begged, catching myself before I rubbed my eyes and screwed up my makeup. I wrung my hands instead, cracking a knuckle.

Beth picked up another leaf and twirled it between her fingers. “Oh well, I guess you’re free to hook up with someone here,” she said, a little too casually.

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t start. I don’t have time for a guy.”

Beth grabbed my arm. “But there are so many hot ones here to choose from. Maybe you should come with me. Then you’d have first pick!”

Like
I
was the one who had a choice. “Right. I don’t think so, Beth.”