Joe was all out of excuses.

Trapped in an elevator. A flat tire. Anaphylactic shock if Mac had somehow inhaled a shrimp cocktail by accident.

He’d waited until she was thirty minutes’ late before calling her, after reassuring the marriage celebrant that his bride-to-be was definitely on the way. But his call had gone straight to voice mail. As did his next calls, spaced five, ten, twelve minutes after that. He called the hotel’s front desk and was connected with their room—no answer. Then the car service, but the driver who’d been sent to collect Mac wasn’t answering his cell phone. Dispatch would get back in touch with Joe as soon as they could.

Mac wasn’t coming.

He sat in the Lincoln, parked at the rear of the chapel with the engine running, the AC blowing cold air on his already cold face.

There was no trapped elevator, no flat tire, no shrimp cocktail. She just wasn’t coming. But he still had to see for himself.

With ice stiffening his veins, Joe drove to The Venetian. Everything seemed brighter, louder, gaudier. The neon signs screamed, the sun blistered, and the body odor of the sweaty tourists crammed into the elevator with him more noxious than ever. The distance from the elevator to the room stretched out in an endless walk that went on and on.

He swiped his key card, and the door clicked open. He stood in the doorway, the only sound the hum of the AC. There was no need to call Mac’s name; her two suitcases were gone. Joe walked straight to the closet and slid open the door. Inside hung the empty garment bag that his suit had come in, but not a second one. This time, at least, his runaway bride had returned her own wedding dress.

He checked the dresser and the nightstands for a note, something to tell him what the hell was going on. There—on his pillow, a note written on the hotel’s branded paper.

Joe,

I’m so sorry I let you down, but I can’t marry you—not like this. If I had stayed, one look at you, and I would’ve let you convince me of forever all over again. But we would’ve been making a mistake. The timing isn’t right, and the last thing in the world I want is to make a mistake that will eventually hurt you more than I’ve already done. I’ve taken your nanny’s ring with me to keep it safe. It’s on a chain around my neck, close to my heart, like you are. Shit. I’m running out of paper. I love you, Joe, I’m SO sorry.

Mac.

Joe crossed to the window and looked down on Las Vegas Boulevard. So many emotions, so many urges fought for domination inside him that he was rendered helpless. He wanted to head to the airport and confront her. Demand further explanation. Kiss her until she changed her mind. Never kiss her again because she’d bloody run instead of talking to him. Take back his nanny’s ring. Tell her to keep the feckin’ ring because he’d never love another woman the way he loved her.

But there’d be no chick-flick chase to the airport; no swelling orchestral accompaniment as he ran through the terminal to stop Mac boarding the plane.

She was gone. Point made.

Joe yanked off his jacket and removed his tie. Toed off his shoes and threw them across the room. Swore while stripping off his suit pants and shirt, and dumped them on the back of a chair. In socks and boxer shorts he stretched out on the bed and hit the remote, surfing until he found a football game. Pissed off heartbreak would have to do as company tonight.

* * *

Twenty hours of air travel and airports didn’t do much to improve Joe’s mood. He strode out of Invercargill airport into a bleak, heavily clouded afternoon, the damp chill working deep into his bones as he loaded his suitcase into a waiting taxi. He sank into the back seat, and the driver had to ask twice where he wanted to go.

Bluff and the ferry terminal, that’s where he wanted to go. A one-hour buffeting of salt spray to clear his head before the inevitable return to his life. He told the taxi driver Mac’s address. While he wanted to slink back to Stewart Island, he needed to see Mac first.

The lights were on in Mac's building, so he asked the driver to wait.

Joe rang the bell. “Making a bloody bad habit of this,” he muttered under his breath.

Whether he meant standing on Mac’s doorstep or making a fool of himself over this woman, he wasn’t entirely sure.

The door opened—to Reid, who gave him a brief head-to-toe scan.

“Wondered if you’d show.”

“I’m here,” Joe said. “Is Mac?”

Reid’s mouth twisted thoughtfully. “She is. But do you really wanna speak to her looking like that?”

Yeah, no doubt about it. With only a few restless hours’ sleep under his belt before he’d driven back to LA and caught his flight, the medical school cadavers he’d dissected probably looked more appealing.

“I’ve come straight from the airport. I don’t want to do this at all, but Mac gave me no choice.”

Reid folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe, effectively blocking the entrance. “You could walk away.”

Joe had the inappropriate urge to laugh. But with his level of frustrated exhaustion he probably wouldn’t be able to stop, so he bit the inside of his cheek until he regained control.

“A smarter man would,” he said. “But I won’t. I can’t.”

“Are you planning on starting a fight?”

A confronting, rip-roaring, clear-the-air fight with the woman had been his first, knee-jerk reaction after directing the taxi to Mac’s house. But during the short trip, with the driver’s radio tuned to a classic rock station and Pat Benatar singing about love being a battlefield, he’d come to the tired realization that it didn’t have to be. He didn’t want to fight now, but he wasn’t ready to quit either.

“I just need to see she’s okay.”

Reid stepped aside, angling his head toward the stairs. “She’s not okay, and I’ll suffer the consequences later for allowing you in. But go on up.”

As Joe climbed, his throat grew dry and tense as if someone had sutured his windpipe closed. Unlike a lot of his guy friends, a weeping woman didn’t cause him to head for the hills or roll belly up in submission. You couldn’t be in medicine and not cope with your fair share of feminine tears. Didn’t mean he liked them—especially when it was a woman he cared about—but they didn’t make him lose his shite. So Joe was prepared for tears, tissues, pajamas, and cheese. While many women reached for the ice cream when having a pity party, Mac said she hit the Camembert and blue vein.

Go figure; that was his woman.

What he wasn’t prepared for was Mac sitting on her sofa in a red merino sweater, skinny black jeans, and…red, break-neck-high stilettos. She was sexy as hell with her hair in perfect waves down her back—that was all he could see of her from his position at the top of the stairs. In her hands was what appeared to be a small drawstring bag made from gauzy, wine-colored fabric and a needle threaded with a darker shade of red.

“Unless there’s a squadron of hot firefighters wanting to take me for a joyride at the door,” she said without turning around, “you’d better have told whoever it was I’m busy and sent them on their way.”

Mac certainly appeared busy. The needle flew in and out of the fabric, embroidering the letter H, if he wasn’t mistaken. Near her on the coffee table was a pile of plain bags, a small cardboard box, and a platter with a tiny chunk of Camembert and cracker remains.

“I’m not a hot firefighter, but Reid let me in anyway,” he said.

Mac’s needle froze halfway into the fabric, and she twisted on the sofa to face him. While her hair was perfectly styled, and her makeup skillfully applied, not even the goop women spread under their eyes could disguise the shadows and puffy skin. Even so, she caused his breath to back up in his lungs.

“Or did he disobey a direct order to keep me out?” he added.

She blinked her long, darkened lashes, but her gaze laser-locked on a spot just to the left of his shoulder. “I didn’t expect you to come.”

Her tone was devoid of all emotion, as if the sound of his voice had triggered her to switch off like a robot.

“You didn’t think I’d be curious to find out more about why I was left in Las Vegas with a wedding ring in my pocket and no bride to put it on?”

Joe kept his voice as mild as possible, but he could detect the note of incredulous disbelief slipping in. He shut it down, dammed in the hurt threatening to spill out in a tidal flood, and crossed to sit on the other sofa.

“What’re you making?” he asked.

She glanced down at the little bag as if she’d forgotten it was still in her hands. “Wedding favor bags. The ones Holly ordered looked cheap and nasty, she told me in her e-mail, so I’m making new ones. With her and Ford’s initials.” She ran a fingernail along the straight edge of the F or H she’d embroidered. “They deserve something special.”

Was that how he’d screwed things up with Mac? No wedding bags and three-tier cake. No champagne toasts to the bridal party at a lavish reception. He’d thrown in all his chips and counted on winning before checking to see if anyone had a royal flush to beat his four aces.

“You deserve something special,” he said. “I guess you wouldn’t want a hired dress and a cheap bouquet, and with strangers witnessing our marriage. I went overboard impulsive and dragged you along with me, and I didn’t give you the wedding you needed.”

Her gaze shot to his, hot and full of emotion.

“Fuck, Joe.” Her voice cracked. “Don’t apologize to me, just don’t…” She lurched to her feet, tossing the little bag in her hands on the coffee table. “Me leaving wasn’t about a Vegas wedding. It wasn’t about a dress or flowers or a fancy reception. I sometimes tell my brides, ‘if you’d think twice about getting married in blue jeans with zero makeup and bed-hair, then you’re in it for the wedding and not the marriage.’”

“Why did you run, then?”

Did he really want to know the answer to that question? Was it better to take the blow to his pride now than down the road when he’d have grown to love her even more?

“I told Reid I wasn’t here to grill you about your decision. And I don’t mean to. I just want to know you’re okay. That we’re okay in spite of this little hiccup.”

Her hand flew to press against her mouth, and she squeezed her eyes shut for an instant. “We’re okay? Joe, I left you at the altar—literally—and flew halfway around the world to avoid talking to you about it. This isn’t a hiccup.”

“I’ll concede it’s more a speed bump than a hiccup, but we’ll work it out.”

She sat down again, crossing one slender leg over the other. “Your life is on Stewart Island; mine is in Invers.”

His heart, which had been punching his rib cage, slowed to a soft thud again. “Is that it, Mac? Is that why you freaked out, because of a ferry trip between us?”

“Fine. But there’s a lot we don’t know about each other.”

“Are you saying you don’t love me, that you were mistaken?”

The tender, wounded look on her face slayed him.

“No, Joe. I’m not saying that at all. God. I do love you”—she rocked back, wrapping her arms around herself—“but eloping with you, with none of our family and friends around us, it just didn’t feel…real. Solid. I was sinking in quicksand, and if I married you then and there, I’d drag you down with me. And look at how you reacted when Kerry announced she was eloping. You were convinced it wouldn’t last. How would we be any different?”

“Because we’re us, and neither one of us are quitters. I was wrong about Kerry and Aaron. I admitted that.”

“You were wrong about Sofia, too,” she said quietly. “If I hadn’t interfered, you wouldn’t have known how wrong until you were badly hurt. If I hadn’t called a halt to my marriage to Richard, I would’ve hurt him, too, eventually. We’ve both got a history of bad decisions, and I can’t—I won’t—be the one responsible for hurting you again.”

He got it then. Like an invisible hand had slapped him upside the head. She loved him enough to never want to hurt him. But maybe she didn’t realize the fear hidden deep in herself. Fear that he’d eventually hurt her. That he’d walk away from their marriage without a fight like Mac’s father had from her mother.

She dragged a gold chain out from under her sweater, his nanny’s ring dangling from it. She unclasped the chain and slid off the ring.

“Here.” She stood and held it out. “I couldn’t leave this behind in Vegas and risk losing it. I know it means a lot to you.”

“It’d mean more to me seeing it on your finger.” But Joe stood and let her drop the ring into his palm. It was warm from her body heat, and the diamonds glittered in the overhead lights. Did his grandda have this much difficulty convincing the woman he loved that he’d love her forever?

“I can’t,” she said.

“Then it’ll wait in my nightstand until you can.” He stepped forward and pressed a soft kiss to her quivering lips. “I love you, and I’m as patient and as stubborn as the day is long. It took me many, many years to become a doctor, and I’m willing to put in the same amount of effort, if not more, into becoming your husband.”

She fisted a hand in his shirt, her eyes growing shiny. “But I—”

“Go back to making your little bags,” he said. “Take whatever time you need.”

Then Joe left her before he changed his mind and tried to convince her that their love was worth the gamble.