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Rebecca Winters has written over forty-five books for Harlequin Romance^® and is an internationally bestselling author. Her wonderfully unique, sparkling stories continue to be immensely popular with readers around the world.

Praise for
Rebecca Winters:

“Winters weaves a magical spell that is unforgettable.”

—Affaire de Coeur on The Nutcracker Prince

“[A] rare gem…an emotionally gripping story of forbidden love.”

—Romantic Times on Second-Best Wife

“A delightful tale in which love conquers all.”

—Romantic Times on Three Little Miracles

Rebecca Winters, an American writer and mother of four, was excited about the new millennium because it meant another new beginning. Having said goodbye to the classroom where she taught French and Spanish, she is now free to spend more time with her family, to travel and to write the Harlequin Romance^® novels she loves so dearly.

Rebecca loves to hear from readers. If you wish to e-mail her, please visit her Web site at: www.rebeccawinters-author.com

Rush to the Altar
Rebecca Winters

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

“HE WAS good-looking before in a dark, dashing way. Now he’s handsome as sin, but you wouldn’t want to tangle with a man fighting his demons! I’ll do his vital signs before I leave the floor.”

Riley Garrow had been lying propped in his hospital bed at St. Steven’s counting the minutes until Bart Adams arrived.

Some of Riley’s friends and colleagues as well as those of his deceased father had been in and out of his room at one time or other in the last two months. However faithful Bart, his dad’s closest buddy and confidant, had been the one to serve as Riley’s lifeline to the outside world during his convalescence.

But it was Sister Francesca’s voice, not Bart’s, he heard out in the hall. He had the strongest suspicion the head nurse had intended for him to overhear her.

Theirs had been an ongoing battle of the wills. Her psychiatric training hadn’t prepared her for Riley’s refusal to let her explore his inner self—the core, as she put it, where he really lived. The persona he showed to the world was a mere facade hiding the wounded soul struggling for help from within.

He loved baiting her when she started to pull her psychobabble on him. Since there wasn’t anything else to do during the long boring hours, it made his day pushing her buttons.

“Uh-uh-uh,” he would say to her, waving his index finger before her shrewd brown eyes. “Control, Sister. Control. Don’t forget you’re a role model for the sweet young postulants under your care.”

At that point the gentle lines of her face would harden while she fought with herself to remain calm and collected.

“You’re absolutely impossible,” she would mutter before leaving the room in exasperation.

“I’ve been told that before by a number of women who’ve warmed my bed,” he would call after her before bursting into laughter.

When she went off the day shift she briefed the night staff personally if they were new to the floor. After eight weeks and several plastic surgeries to graft skin from his leg to the area around his right eye and cheek, he knew everyone’s schedule.

Unfortunately the only female nursing help who came and went from his room were lay nuns. That was something Sister Francesca had probably rigged up too. Surely there couldn’t be that many women in Santa Monica, California, rushing to take vows of chastity and obedience.

He stared at the four sterile walls of his cage. “Sixty days without a real woman— No wonder I’m chomping at the bit to get out of here!”

“Your protest has been noted.” Sister Francesca floated into his room pretending she was mother serenity herself this evening. “It appears heaven has heard your prayers at last, Mr. Garrow.”

He smiled up at her. “I didn’t think heaven listened to impossible men.”

“They’ve made an exception in your case on behalf of all the sisters at St. Steven’s who go to their knees the moment before they enter your room, and as soon as they leave.”

“All?” He arched one black brow. “Isn’t it a sin to exaggerate, Sister?”

She started taking his vital signs. “After examining you on his rounds before dinner, Dr. Diazzo informed me you’re being discharged in the morning.”

Riley’s eyelids closed tightly for a moment.

“I thought that news would please you.”

He opened them again. “Since I know you’d be forced to do penance if you lied, I have to assume you’re telling me the truth. For once I’m happy you invaded my privacy.”

Her brows lifted. “For once I’m overcome by the admission.”

“Don’t let pride carry you away, Sister, otherwise you’ll have to say extra novenas after vespers. Tell me—are you going to be here in the morning to make certain I never darken your doorstep again?”

“I’m afraid not. After the burden it has been taking care of you, I’m going on retreat with some other sisters.”

“Where does a nun go exactly for a well-earned vacation?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Ah, come on. You can tell me. I can keep a secret as well as a saint.”

“If it will prevent you from bothering the other sisters, let’s just say I’m returning to the Good Shepherd Convent for a short period of rejuvenation and study. I need it after the draining last eight weeks being in charge of your case.”

Riley chuckled. “Rumor has it you’re a devotee of Thomas Aquinas. He would be proud of you for following his example. You work in a hospital, serve the sick. You preach purity and peace to the heathen,” he teased her. “I’m partial to Francis of Assisi myself.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. No doubt like him you’ve done your share of street brawling because of a misspent youth.”

“Would it surprise you to learn I even spent time in a Perugian prison?”

She took off the blood pressure cup. “Nothing about you surprises me. Unfortunately the similarities between you and Francis of Assisi stop there, Mr. Garrow. His incarceration led to a spiritual conversion.”

“How do you know mine didn’t? Uh-uh.” He put up his finger. “Don’t judge this book by its cover.”

“It’s the cover that has gotten you into so much trouble.”

If he weren’t mistaken, her eyes took on a haunted look as she studied him. For a brief moment they reminded him of Mitra’s eyes when she used to worry about him.

“I’m leaving the hospital, not dying, Sister. You won’t be getting a last rite’s confession out of me, but I do have a gift for you.”

“A nun doesn’t ac—”

“Spare me the lecture,” he broke in without remorse. “This is one I guarantee you won’t refuse.”

Acting as if she hadn’t heard him, she placed a jug of fresh ice water from the cart on his bedside table, but he knew she was dying to hear more.

“You’re not even going to ask what it is?”

“Need I remind you that for it to be a true gift, the right hand mustn’t let the left hand know what it’s doing?”

“I’m not the one striving for perfection. You, however, are very close to that sublime state and wouldn’t dream of stooping to a petty weakness like curiosity. Therefore I’ll tell you I’ve made a donation to your convent in honor of Sister Francesca.”

When his declaration penetrated, she bowed her head.

“You may not have succeeded in getting me to bare my soul, but you’ve convinced me there are angels on earth. Thank you for preventing me from giving up when I was at my lowest ebb. For that you’ve earned a permanent place in this sinner’s heart.”

No doubt she was hiding her face because she didn’t want him to see the moisture filling her eyes, another sign of weakness she was determined not to display.

As she turned to push the cart out of the room she said, “Ever since you were brought in here, you’ve been in my prayers, Mr. Garrow. You always will be.”

“That’s a comforting thought. With you as my advocate, maybe there’s hope for me after all. Take care, Sister.”

“God bless you,” she whispered before disappearing from the room.

No sooner had she left him alone than Bart entered.

“Sorry I’m late, but I think you’ll forgive me when you see what I’ve brought you. I dug through my old things in the trailer to find this for you. It was published while you were working in Brazil with your father.” He handed him a copy of International Motorcycle World.

The October issue from last year showed a female on the cover with a blond braid swinging below her helmet. She was riding through a farmer’s muddy field on a motorcycle. There was a doctor’s satchel strapped to the back. The caption read: Even a modern day American vet still rides an old Danelli-Strada 100 Sport Bike to work because they’re built to last forever.

“Go ahead and take a look while I get us a couple of soft drinks from the machine.”

“Thanks, Bart.”

The magazine had been printed the same month his father had been killed doing what he loved best. With an eagerness Riley hadn’t felt about anything for a long time, he opened the magazine. A small paragraph on the inside about the cover said, “The children in Prunedale, California, call her the ‘mad’ vet as she rides around on her trusty cycle.”

He chuckled before turning to the main article. His first surprise came when he learned there were two men involved in the creation of the original company; Luca Danelli and Ernesto Strada. Riley had always thought Strada meant it was a street bike because strada was the word for street in Italian.

The story followed their fascinating lives from their childhoods in Italy, through the World War II years and beyond to the culmination of their dream to build a motorcycle empire in Milan.

Riley and his father had always performed their stunts on Danelli-Strada bikes. Then much to the motorcycle world’s chagrin, all manufacturing suddenly ended. His parent had insisted Danelli-Strada was the only brand to be trusted and never could understand why it had gone out of business.

“Listen to this—” Riley said as soon as Bart came back in the room. “After Ernesto Strada died, Luca Danelli lost heart, stopped production and dropped out of the manufacturing scene.” He put down the magazine. “So that was the reason.”

The older man opened one of the colas and handed it to him. “Keep reading.”

After swallowing the contents in one go, Riley picked up where he’d left off.

International Motorcycle World has learned that once again Danelli motorcycles are being manufactured at their new headquarters in Turin, Italy. This announcement comes from CEO, Nicco Tescotti, who granted International Motorcycle World’s chief staff writer Colin Grimes an exclusive interview.

Racers around the globe are ecstatic in welcoming back this manufacturing giant after a long dearth. Already the new prototype called the Danelli NT-1 is clocking faster race times than any of the competition. Everyone else better move over because once again Luca Danelli is making his genius known. According to Tescotti, the company is here to stay.

Excitement swept through Riley’s body. Maybe Sister Francesca’s prayers for him hadn’t been in vain after all. He lifted his head to find Bart smiling at him.

“I thought that article might put a light in your eyes.”

“Might?” Riley blurted. “This has to be my lucky night.”

“How come?”

“I was just told I’m getting out of here tomorrow.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard since the plastic surgeon promised he could fix up your face like new.”

Not exactly like new, but Riley could live with the subtle changes and wasn’t about to complain.

“With this article I know exactly where I’m headed after I leave the hospital. You must have been inspired to bring it to me.”

“For years now I’ve been aware you wanted to pursue your own career, but you couldn’t do anything about it while your father needed you so badly.”

If Bart knew that, then he knew a lot more than Riley had given him credit for.

“I also happen to know the only reason you worked as a Hollywood stuntman for the last year was to make some fast, big bucks to pay off the bills he left owing.

“Now that you’ve accomplished your objective, I’m anxious to find out what you’re going to do with the rest of your life. I figured the news about Luca Danelli would get your mind thinking. As I recall, Italy always did feel like home to you.”

Riley nodded. “It was home to me for many years. Now I’ve got another reason to go back.” There was one more debt to pay…

He eyed the other man for a long moment. “Dad said you were the best friend a man ever had. He knew what he was talking about. Thanks for being here for me, Bart.”

The burly older man’s eyes watered. “I never had a wife or family. You kind of filled that spot, you know?” he said in a strangely gruff voice.

“Until Mitra straightened me out, I thought you were my uncle.”

When they’d both had a good laugh, Riley levered himself from the bed to give him a bear hug. “I promise to keep in touch with you.”

“That’s all I needed to hear.”

“You didn’t like any of the scripts I had sent over?” D.L. thundered.

Annabelle Lassiter, known to her family and closest friends as Ann, met her agent’s incredulous gaze across the lunch table at Pierre’s without flinching. “I’m sorry, D.L., but I don’t want to be typecast, and I don’t happen to think any of these scripts are worth the paper they’re printed on.”

His thick red brows bumped together. “Listen to me—if you want to make a real name for yourself in this town, you’d better stop being so choosy. You may be a long-legged, classy looking blonde with a load of natural talent, but one successful film with Cory Sieverts doesn’t guarantee a lifetime of work. You have to pay your dues, honey.”

“I’m aware of that, but I refuse to act in a film aimed at sex-obsessed eighteen-year-old boys. That’s all these are.” She stared pointedly at the four scripts she’d put on the table.

“That’s what’s selling these days!”

“It’s disgusting, D.L. I want something meaty like an Anne of a Thousand Days.”

He pursed his lips. “A plum like that only comes along once in a decade. Even then those historical films don’t always bring in the big bucks for the studios. You need to keep in mind you’re already twenty-eight years old, that’s over the hill for an actress.”

“Thank you very much.”

She knew it was true, but like any woman with red blood in her veins, she hated to hear it.

“I’m your agent. You pay me to tell you things like that for your own good. In your case you have to keep your name and gorgeous face before the public on a continual basis or it’s curtains for you.”

Maybe it was…

“Perhaps I should move to England and try to get work in the theater.” It had been Colin Grime’s idea. Their long distance romance was difficult with him based in London and her in L.A.

D.L. looked scandalized. “You’d be a fool to do that when you already have a foot and a leg in the door here. Before you ruin what we’ve already got going for you, I have something else to tell you about. It’s still in the works, but I can guarantee you a part.”

“What is it?”

“A couple of writer friends of mine have been kicking around the idea of a survivor movie. It’s strictly hush-hush at the moment. You’d be perfect for one of the older female roles.

“All I have to do is let them know you’re interested. It’ll be the biggest box office hit of the season. At that point you’ll receive the kind of attention that will allow you to pick more of the type of projects you want.”

“Thanks, but no thanks, D.L. That’s not the kind of acting I’ve dreamed of doing since I was a teen. If you want to know the truth, I’d be ashamed to show my face in anything so crass.”

His eyes squinted at her. “What happened to the woman who was one of those television contestants on, Who Wants to Marry a Billionaire? And what about that Hollywood benefit you were in, Who Wants to Marry a Prince? The one your twin sister had to make good on instead of you? You want to talk crass?” he bellowed.

Trust D.L. to hit her where it hurt most.

“I admit there was a time when I was so desperate to get noticed by a Hollywood mogul I’d do just about anything, but I’ve changed since then.”

“You’ve changed all right.” He got up and tossed three twenty dollar bills on the table. He was furious. “When you’re down to counting pennies again, don’t phone me.”

“D.L.?” she called to him before he’d stalked away with the rejected scripts. “I appreciate everything you’ve done to help build my career. Please don’t be so angry that you write me off prematurely.”

He eyed her for a long, uncomfortable moment. “I had you figured for someone a lot hungrier.”

“You mean you thought I was capable of selling my soul.” Pain shot through her. “It hurts to realize I gave you that impression. I have only myself to blame.”

“You’re damn right about that! When I get back to my office there’ll be at minimum forty calls my secretary has taken since nine this morning from two-bit actresses who’d walk through fire to be in your position right now.”

“I know.” Once upon a time she’d been one of them. “Thank you for the delicious lunch. I’ll pay next time.”

“There may not be one.”

“All I’m asking for is a decent script!”

“Don’t hold your breath,” he muttered before skirting the tables to make his exit.

As soon as he was gone, a dejected Ann left the restaurant and headed for her condo only a couple of miles away. After letting herself inside, she dashed to the kitchen to call her sister. But the red blinking light on the phone prompted her to listen to her messages first.

“Ann?”

It was Colin.

“How come you haven’t been returning my calls? What’s going on? I don’t care if it’s the middle of the night. Phone me, otherwise I’m getting on a plane to L.A. to find out what’s wrong!”

He didn’t bang down the receiver, but she sensed he’d wanted to. She couldn’t deal with him right now and clicked to the next two messages from some actress friends of hers. After listening to their various plights, she punched in her sister’s phone number.

There was a nine hour time difference between Hollywood, California, and Turin, Italy. It would be quarter to ten at night there. She doubted her sister was in bed yet…unless their baby Anna was being good and Nicco wanted some private time with his wife. He always wanted to be alone with her.

Ann had never seen a couple more in love.

Since her return from witnessing the christening of their adorable daughter a month ago, Ann had been experiencing a vague dissatisfaction with her own life.

The kinds of scripts D.L. had told her to look over only added to the strange emptiness building inside of her. She was almost frightened by the feeling because it reminded her of the way she’d felt after her father had died years ago.

She closed her eyes tightly. D.L. was right. She had changed in recent months. She’d been restless and out of sorts. Unable to focus.

In truth she longed for the comfort of precious Anna in her arms. The first time that tiny bundle of wiggling warmth cuddled up against her body, Ann’s heart had melted. It had been a wrench to leave her niece when it came time to return to L.A.

Colin had attended the christening service with her. Afterward he’d accused her of caring more for the baby than she did for him.

“Ann?” her sister cried out excitedly after picking up on the fourth ring. “Nicco and I were just talking about you! We’ve been waiting to hear if you’re contracted to do a new film yet.”

Ann bit her lip. “Not yet…Callie? H-how would you like a babysitter for a couple of weeks so you and Nicco could go on a trip?” she stammered. “I know you could both use some time alone together. I promise to love her like my own and guard her with my life.”

There was a pregnant pause.

“Until Anna’s quite a bit older we couldn’t bear to leave her for that long, but you don’t have to be her babysitter to visit us!” Her sister sounded hurt. Callie always did have a heart of gold.

“As we told you before, there’s a whole suite in the palace that will always be your home when you come. You can live here forever if you want. There’s nothing I’d love more. You’re the only family I’ve got, you know,” she said in a quiet voice.

Ann did know. That’s what was wrong. Callie was her only family and they were separated by an ocean. Tears stung her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I don’t intend to live with you, but I’m between scripts at the moment and—”

“And things aren’t working out with you and Colin,” her sister read between the lines.

Being identical twins made the two of them telepathic.

“Listen to me Annabelle Lassiter—you’re getting on the next plane to Turin. Little Anna misses you terribly. We all do.”

“As soon as I get off the phone I’ll make reservations.” She gripped the receiver tighter. “Are you sure Nicco won’t mind? He must feel so stressed with all the responsibility now that Luca Danelli has passed away. The last thing he needs is another worry.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. From the beginning he’s been doing Luca’s work along with his own. His death was very sad, but he was getting on, it was expected.

“Nicco’s the one who told you you’d always have a permanent home with us. My husband never says something he doesn’t mean.”

“That’s because he’s so in love with you, he wouldn’t do anything to upset you if he could help it.”

“That’s true,” Nicco’s rich male voice spoke into the phone, surprising Ann. “But there’s another reason and you know what it is. If it hadn’t been for you, I’d have never met Callie.

“Because of you I’ve found my happiness. I love you, Ann. We both do. Let us know the number and time of your flight and we’ll be there to pick you up.”

By now the tears were streaming down her cheeks. “I love you both, too. Thank you, Nicco. See you soon.”

The sights and smells of any carnival grounds brought back so many vivid memories of Riley’s childhood, he had difficulty believing he hadn’t been swept back in time.

Before he’d left L.A., Riley had made a phone call to determine the exact location of Rimini’s Traveling Circus. When he’d found out it was performing in Rome for the latter half of September, he’d booked his flight there.

That part was easy. The hard part was tracking down Mitra.

The circus Riley’s father had performed in for close to fifteen years was under new management. Though a few of the old troop members were still working, no one seemed to know what had happened to the Gypsy woman who’d once traveled with them and had read tea leaves for the crowds.

But Mitra had done a lot more than that. She’d been a surrogate mother to Riley though he hadn’t recognized it at the time.

With a few more questions, Riley found out another Gypsy with a bear act had been added to the circus repertoire. He walked to the older man’s trailer, speaking to him in the Romany tongue he’d picked up from Mitra. That broke the ice.

He learned she’d left the circus a year ago to join her own people in Perugia, north of Rome. The Gypsy had no idea if she was still alive.

After thanking him for the information, Riley left for the charming hill town overlooking the Tiber where he’d received his first formal schooling. It had all been thanks to Mitra who knew his father had been drinking heavily again after his third wife left him.

Though Mitra shied away from schooling, she’d said Riley was a Gadja, an outsider, and Gadjas belonged in the classroom.

Now he understood why she’d suggested that particular town. Years before her Gypsy heritage had brought her ancestors to the old Etruscan settlement that had become Perugia. The people who’d housed and fed Riley during those years his father struggled had been Mitra’s extended family.

At first he’d fought his schooling and had gotten into serious trouble on several occasions. But with hindsight he realized she’d done him an enormous favor. He’d learned history and math, and of course how to speak fluent Italian.

None of that could have been accomplished without money which Riley’s father didn’t have. That meant someone else had to have put up the funds, probably at great personal sacrifice. Only one person would have cared enough about Riley to do that.

Once he’d revisited his old haunts, one of the men he remembered recognized him and gave him directions to her apartment. Thankful she was still alive, he hurried to her door and knocked. A deep voice called out in Romany, “Who’s there?”

He answered back in kind. “Your Gadja child!”

In a moment Mitra opened the door. She was a medium sized woman in her late seventies now. She wore a familiar looking purple scarf around her hair which was turning white, but her black eyes were as alert as ever. They studied him with the same intensity that used to make him feel guilty if he’d done something wrong.

“You—” she whispered as if she’d seen a ghost.

He smiled. “You remember.” He handed her a bouquet of lavender flowers he’d bought at a stall near the bottom of the hill.

She clutched them to her bosom. “Who could forget such a beautiful face? Now you are a beautiful man.”

With her free hand she touched his cheek where the skin had been grafted. “I saw you in the tea leaves. I saw fire. Life has been hard for you.”

“My father died last year.”

She nodded, “I know. Come in.”

Though modest, her place appeared comfortable. She’d decorated the living room in the same vivid purple color he recalled seeing in her tsara.

“Sit down.”

Riley complied while she put the flowers in a vase on her small dining table. Then she sank into the black hand-painted rocking chair he’d admired as a youngster. “How is it you have come to call on an old woman after all this time?”

“I meant to visit you long before now, but circumstances made it impossible.”

“Life with your father has taken its toll on you.”

“Let’s not talk about me. You look well.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You always were a good liar. You see the picture of us there? I felt good then.”

Riley glanced at the framed photograph propped on the end table. The two of them had sat on a bench inside a doorless closet hooked up with a camera that took their picture at the carnival. He’d been six years old. She’d had black hair. A lump lodged in his throat to think she’d kept that photo all this time.

“I took care of you from the age of two until seventeen when your father left the circus and dragged you away. He should have left you with me.”

With that statement he realized what a wrench that must have been for Mitra who’d never married or had children of her own.

“My father needed me too much and was jealous of my relationship with you. But even if he took me thousands of miles away, I always missed you. Did you get the postcards I sent you through the circus?”

She motioned to a black lacquered basket sitting on a bookshelf. He walked over to it and looked inside. It appeared she’d kept all of them.

Pleased to know she’d received them he said, “Why didn’t you get one of your family members to help you write back? I always left an address where you could reach me.”

“I didn’t want to give your father any more reasons to make your life miserable.”

Mitra had understood everything.

“When he didn’t drink, he was all right.”

“You deserved better,” she muttered.

Riley took a deep breath before reaching in his pocket for an envelope. Enclosed was Italian lire amounting to five thousand dollars. Anything more and he knew she wouldn’t accept it. He put it on the table next to the picture.

“What is that?”

He stared into her eyes. “I know what you did. No amount of money in the world could compensate for the mother’s love you gave to me. This represents a small token of my affection for you.”

Like Sister Francesca, she turned her head to hide her emotions. Whether disciplined saint or stoic Gypsy, both were women with hearts bigger than their bodies. Riley had been the lucky recipient.

“You once told me that if you could have your wish, you would buy fresh lavender flowers for your tsara every day. This apartment isn’t the exciting Gypsy wagon I used to play in. It needs flowers. Now you can buy all you want.”

After an extended silence she fastened haunted eyes on him. “You are in a great hurry, rushing down a path even more dangerous than the one before.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Did you read death in the tea leaves for me, too?”

Her expression grew fierce. She made a fist and pounded her breast. “Without a woman in your life, you’re already dead here.”

“There’ve been plenty of women.”

A guttural sound came from her throat. “You think I don’t know that? But they’re always the wrong kind for my Gadja!”

“There was one exception,” he drawled. “But it turns out she didn’t want me.”

“You mean she had too much respect for herself to fight a duel over you like those two she-cats? Good for her!”

“You have to admit that duel was really something.” He grinned.

“Go ahead and laugh, but remember it was I who had to get you out of that filthy prison after the police carted the three of you off.”

“I could always depend on you, Mitra. You know what the problem was? You were too old for me to marry,” he teased her the way he’d done Sister Francesca.

She pushed her hand away as if to say, enough! “I have lived too long to find out you are still tormented. Go—”

Mitra always meant what she said. Nothing about her had changed except that she was twelve years older than the last time he’d seen her. He rose to his feet. “I’m leaving now, but I’ll be back.”