Meg had no trouble finding the Moorish mansion where Shelby and Warren Traveler lived. According to gossip, Kenny and Torie hadn’t been happy when their father had married a woman thirty years his junior who also happened to be Torie’s sorority sister. Even the birth of a half brother hadn’t appeased them, but eleven years had passed since then, Kenny and Torie were both married, and all seemed to be forgiven.

An impressive mosaic fountain sat in front of the house, which was built of rose-colored stucco with a crenellated tile roof straight out of the Arabian nights. One of the catering staff let her in through a set of carved wooden doors bracketed by arched windows. The English country decor was a surprise in a house with such pronounced Moorish architecture, but somehow the chintz, hunting prints, and Hepplewhite furniture Shelby Traveler had chosen sort of worked.

A pair of doors with mosaic inlays led to a terrace with high, stucco walls, long benches covered in jewel-toned prints, and tiled tables holding brass buckets spilling over with red, white, and blue flower arrangements augmented with small American flags. Shade trees and a mist cooling system kept the guests comfortable in the late-afternoon heat.

Meg spotted Birdie Kittle and Kayla huddled together, along with Kayla’s BFF Zoey Daniels, the local elementary-school principal. Several country-club staff members were helping serve, and Meg waved at Haley, who was passing a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Kenny Traveler stood next to an attractive woman with honey brown curls and baby-doll cheeks. Meg recognized her from the rehearsal dinner as his wife, Emma.

Meg had showered in the ladies’ locker room, scrunched some hair product into her rowdy curls, applied lipstick and eye makeup, then slipped into the chartreuse tank dress from the resale shop. With the elongated Modigliani woman’s head printed down the front, the dress didn’t require a necklace, but she hadn’t been able to resist attaching a couple of quarter-size purple plastic discs to each of her Sung dynasty earrings. The dramatic juxtaposition of ancient and mod complemented the Modigliani print and pulled the whole posh-meets-kitsch look together. Her uncle Michel would have approved.

Heads began to turn at her appearance but not, she suspected, because of her great earrings. She’d expected hostility from the women, but she hadn’t anticipated the amused glances some of them exchanged as they took in her tank dress. It was a perfect fit, and it looked great on her, so she didn’t care.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

She turned to see a tall, thin man in his early forties with straight, slightly disheveled brown hair and wide-spaced gray eyes visible through the lenses of wire-rimmed glasses. He reminded her of a college lit professor. “Arsenic?” she asked.

“I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“If you say so.”

“I’m Dexter O’Connor.”

“No, you’re not!” The words came out before she could stop them, but she couldn’t believe this bookish man was the glamorous Torie Traveler O’Connor’s husband. It had to be the mismatch of the century.

He smiled. “Obviously, you’ve met my wife.”

Meg swallowed. “Uh . . . It’s just that—”

“Torie is Torie, and I’m . . . not?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Well, I mean . . . I guess that could be a good thing, right? Depending on how you look at it?” She’d just unintentionally insulted his wife. He waited, a patient smile on his face. “I don’t mean that Torie’s not terrific . . .” She stumbled on. “Torie’s practically the only nice person I’ve met in this town, but she’s very—” Meg was only digging herself in deeper, and she finally gave up. “Crap. I’m sorry. I’m from L.A., so I have no manners. I’m Meg Koranda, as you probably know, and I like your wife.”

His amusement at her discomfort seemed more appreciative than mean-spirited. “So do I.”

At exactly that moment, Torie came over to join them. She was startlingly beautiful in a sleeveless, embroidered Chinese red top and royal blue mini that showed off her long, tanned legs. How could a firecracker like this be married to a man with such a quiet, scholar’s manner?

Torie hooked a hand through her husband’s elbow. “See, Dex. Now that you’ve met Meg you can see she’s not the bitch everybody makes her out to be. At least I don’t think so.”

Dex gave his wife a tolerant smile and Meg a sympathetic one. “You’ll have to forgive Torie. Whatever pops into her head comes out her mouth. She can’t help it. She’s spoiled beyond belief.”

Torie grinned and gazed at her egghead husband with such affection that Meg felt a surprising lump form in her throat. “I don’t get why you think that’s a problem, Dex.”

He patted her hand. “I know you don’t.”

Meg realized that her initial impression of Dexter O’Connor as a gullible egghead might not be accurate. He had a quiet manner, but he was no fool.

Torie dropped her husband’s arm and grabbed Meg’s wrist. “I’m getting bored. It’s time to introduce you to some people. That’ll liven things up for sure.”

“I don’t really think—”

But Torie was already pulling her toward Kenny Traveler’s wife, who’d chosen a cheery tangerine shift with eyelet petals at the hem. The warm color enhanced her brown eyes and butterscotch curls.

“Lady Emma, I don’t think you’ve officially met Meg Koranda,” Torie said. And then, to Meg, “Just so you know . . . one of Lady Emma’s closest friends is Ted’s mother, Francesca. Mine, too, but I’m more broad-minded. Lady Emma pretty much hates your guts like everybody else.”

Kenny’s wife didn’t bat an eyelash at Torie’s bluntness. “You’ve caused Francesca a great deal of pain,” she said to Meg in a quietly clipped British accent. “I don’t know all the circumstances, however, so ‘hates’ is much too strong a word, but Torie prides herself on creating drama.”

“Don’t you just love the way she talks?” Torie gave the smaller woman a bright smile. “Lady Emma is a stickler for fairness.”

Meg decided it was time to give these blunt-spoken females a small dose of their own medicine. “If being fair toward me is too much trouble, Lady Emma, I give you permission to set aside your principles.”

She didn’t even blink. “Just Emma,” she said. “I have no title, merely an honorific, as everyone here very well knows.”

Torie gave her a tolerant look. “Let’s put it this way. If my daddy was the fifth Earl of Woodbourne like yours was, I’d sure as hell call myself Lady.”

“As you’ve made abundantly clear.” She turned her attention back to Meg. “I understand Mr. Skipjack has taken an interest in you. May I ask if you intend to use that against us?”

“Oh, so tempting,” Meg said.

Ted stepped out on the patio along with Spence and Sunny. He wore a boring pair of tan shorts and an equally boring white T-shirt with a Chamber of Commerce logo over the breast. Predictably, a shaft of sunlight chose that moment to cut through the trees and spill all over him so it looked as though he’d stepped into a string of twinkle lights. He should be embarrassed.

Haley took her job as his personal assistant seriously. She abandoned the elderly man reaching for one of the buffalo wings on her tray and rushed to Ted’s side to serve him.

“Oh, dear,” Emma said. “Ted’s here. I’d better go out to the pool and check on the children.”

“Shelby’s got three lifeguards on duty,” Torie said. “You don’t want to face him.”

Emma sniffed. “The contest to spend a weekend with Ted was entirely Shelby’s idea, but you know he’ll blame me.”

“You are president of the Friends of the Library.”

“And I planned to talk to him first. Believe me, I had no idea they’d get the flyers out so quickly.”

“I hear the bidding’s already up to three thousand dollars,” Torie said.

“Three thousand four hundred,” Emma replied, a little dazed. “More than we could make in a dozen bake sales. And Kayla had trouble with the Web site last night or the bidding might have gone higher.”

Torie wrinkled her nose. “Probably best not to mention the Web site to Ted. It’s a sore spot.”

Emma pulled a very full bottom lip between her teeth, then released it. “We all take such advantage of him.”

“He doesn’t mind.”

“He does mind,” Meg said. “I don’t know why he puts up with all of you.”

Torie waved her off. “You’re an outsider. You have to live around here to understand.” She gazed across the patio toward Sunny Skipjack, cool and sexy in white slacks and a powder blue tunic with a keyhole neckline that displayed an enticing amount of cleavage. “She sure is giving Ted the works. Look at that. She’s rubbing her boob against his arm.”

“He seems to be enjoying it,” Emma said.

Was he? With Ted, who could tell? Only thirty-two years old, and he was carrying not only the weight of Sunny Skipjack’s breast on his arm but also the burden of the entire town.

He surveyed the crowd and almost immediately found Meg. She felt her own internal twinkle lights begin to flash.

Torie lifted her long hair off her neck. “You got yourself a bit of a dilemma, Meg. Spence is champing at the bit to get his hands on you. At the same time, his daughter has your love object in her high beams. Tough situation.” And then, in case Emma had missed the point, “Meg told Spence she’s in love with Teddy.”

“Who isn’t?” Emma’s smooth brow furrowed. “I’d better go talk to him.”

But Ted had already turned the Skipjacks over to Shelby Traveler so he could make a beeline for Kenny’s wife. First, however, he took in Meg with a slow shake of his head.

“What?” she said.

He regarded Torie and Emma. “Is anybody going to tell her?”