Suddenly One Summer Read online

  Praise for

  It Happened One Wedding

  “James is a contemporary romance superstar, known for intelligent characters and quick, witty dialogue that ratchets up intense sexual tension . . . Sexy and effervescent.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Modern storytelling, witty dialogue, and the sizzling chemistry between Vaughn and Sidney shine in this story . . . [A] delightfully fun and sexy read.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Sparkling, sexy . . . James’s smart heroines and fun dialogue are becoming her signature elements.”

  —Booklist

  “Fun, sexy, sweet, and delightful—this book is the whole package. It is everything you could possibly want in a contemporary romance.”

  —All About Romance

  “If you are looking for the perfect escape book, then look no further . . . It Happened One Wedding features smart, sassy, confident characters at their wittiest best.”

  —HeroesandHeartbreakers.com

  “If you haven’t read Julie James yet, you are totally missing out . . . This book, as well as the entire series, is a must-read.”

  —Kindles & Wine

  “Well-written and witty; a hallmark of this author’s writing.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “There is just something so charming and smart about a Julie James contemporary . . . Pure entertainment.”

  —Happily Ever After-Reads

  Praise for Julie James and her novels

  “[James is] a master at creating sexual tension . . . It’s fitting that the last word in the book is ‘perfect,’ because this book is.”

  —USA Today

  “Julie James writes books I can’t put down. A Lot Like Love kept me up way past midnight!”

  —Nalini Singh, New York Times bestselling author

  “Remind[s] me of Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy movies: they have that funny edge.”

  —Eloisa James, New York Times bestselling author

  “Fantastic, frolicking fun . . . Read Just the Sexiest Man Alive, and you will be adding Julie James to your automatic-buy list!”

  —Janet Chapman, New York Times bestselling author

  “Fueled by equal measures of seductive wit, edge-of-the-seat suspense, and scorching-hot sexual chemistry, James’s latest scintillating novel of romantic suspense is a rare treat.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “A tantalizing dessert—a delicious, delightful read that all hopeless romantics will enjoy.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  “A fast-paced romantic comedy, packed with hilarious situations and sharp dialogue . . . A talented writer . . . Expect a lot of sparks to fly.”

  —San Francisco Book Review

  “A sophisticated contemporary romance . . . proves that [James] is a master at conveying both courtroom and behind-the-scenes maneuvering.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “From first impressions to the last page, it’s worth shaking your tail feather over . . . This is a contemporary romance well worth savoring, and laughing over, and reading all over again.”

  —Smart Bitches, Trashy Books

  Titles by Julie James

  JUST THE SEXIEST MAN ALIVE

  PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT

  SOMETHING ABOUT YOU

  A LOT LIKE LOVE

  ABOUT THAT NIGHT

  LOVE IRRESISTIBLY

  IT HAPPENED ONE WEDDING

  SUDDENLY ONE SUMMER

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  SUDDENLY ONE SUMMER

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2015 by Julie James.

  Excerpt from Love Irresistibly copyright © 2013 by Julie James.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  JOVE® is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  The “J” design is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  For more information, visit penguin.com.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-15321-9

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Jove mass-market edition / June 2015

  Cover design by Rita Frangie.

  Cover photograph of waves © Katarina Stefanovic / Getty; photograph of grass on sand dune © Asaf Eliason.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  To Mr. James

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, I owe special thanks to my wonderful friend Kellie Cross for sharing her insight and experience as a family lawyer and for going above and beyond in answering all my pesky questions. Huge thanks, as well, to Pamela Clare, for graciously imparting her knowledge and experience as an investigative journalist, and to Amy Guth for helping me with some questions about the Tribune.

  I’m also indebted to John Robertson, private investigator, for teaching me the ins and outs of Internet people searches, and to Kevin Kavanaugh and Brent Dempsey for their additional insight into the investigatory field. Thanks, also, to Beth Kery, for chatting with me about the therapy process and “difficult” clients.

  Many thanks to my agent, the fantastic Robin Rue, to the entire team at Berkley, and to my editor, Wendy McCurdy, for all her support and creative insight, and for brainstorming with me when I needed to “talk out” this book. I’m also tremendously grateful to Elyssa Patrick, Kati Brown, Brent Dempsey, and “Mr. James” for beta reading the book—sometimes more than once—under tight deadlines and for their helpful critiques.

  Last, but certainly not least, thank you to all the readers who take the time to reach out to me and let me know that my words put a smile on your face. The feeling is definitely mutual.

  Contents

  Praise for Julie James and her novels

  Titles by Julie James

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Epilogue

  An excerpt of LOVE IRRESISTIBLY

  Prologue

  ALTHOUGH PEOPLE OFTEN said that divorce was an ugly business, Victoria Slade had a different perspective. Typically, by
the time clients arrived on her office doorstep, it was the marriage that had gotten ugly. Divorce was simply the part where the truth came out.

  In a cab on the way to her town house on Chicago’s north side, Victoria leaned her head against the seat and thought about the case she’d wrapped up today. Her client, a forty-five-year-old stay-at-home mom, had been blindsided three months ago after being served with a divorce petition by her husband of fourteen years. According to the terms of the couple’s prenuptial agreement, Victoria’s client was not entitled to receive any portion of the sizable business empire her husband had amassed, throughout the course of their marriage, as one of the most successful celebrity chefs in Chicago. The three lucrative restaurants, the bestselling cookbooks, and the income derived from his Food Network cooking show had all been designated “separate assets” per the prenup and thus untouchable by his wife in the event of a divorce.

  Unless, of course, Mr. Celebrity Chef violated the no-cheating clause in the couple’s prenup, thereby rendering the entire agreement invalid.

  Knowing this, Victoria naturally had done a little digging.

  She would say this for Mr. Celebrity Chef: he’d covered his tracks better than most cheating spouses she’d come across—and that was coming from someone who’d made virtually a cottage industry out of the unfaithfully wed. Most got caught after leaving a text message or e-mail trail, others because of suspicious activity on their credit card or bank statements. But this guy had been smart: he’d bought his twenty-six-year-old mistress a one-bedroom condo in the Ritz-Carlton Residences via a limited liability company that he’d created under false pretenses—supposedly a “food supply” company—to which his restaurants had made bimonthly payments in the amount of twenty thousand dollars.

  Unfortunately for him, however, the forensic accountant Victoria had hired to comb through Mr. Celebrity Chef’s books was even smarter.

  And the rest was history.

  Because of the diligent work of Victoria Slade & Associates, their client had walked out of this afternoon’s settlement conference with significantly more money than the maintenance award she would have received had they not busted her husband with his hands in the metaphorical cookie jar. So to celebrate, Victoria had taken all six of her associates—and Will, her assistant and right-hand man—out for a well-earned evening of dinner and drinks.

  Lots of drinks, judging from the tab Victoria had signed off on when leaving the restaurant.

  She, herself, was basically sober when the cab pulled up in front of her three-story townhome. She enjoyed a good bourbon on the rocks as much as the next girl, but tonight she’d been wearing her Badass Boss hat, and as far as she was concerned, badass bosses didn’t get falling-down drunk in front of their employees.

  She tipped the driver an extra twenty when the taxi came to a stop. “Would you mind waiting until I get inside before you drive off?” She was playing it safe, of course, given the recent string of burglaries in the Lincoln Park and Lakeview neighborhoods. Not to mention the fact that it was one o’clock in the morning.

  He nodded. “Sure. No problem.”

  After getting out of the cab, she crossed the sidewalk and headed up the front steps of the brick town house she’d lived in for the last ten months. Her first home. In truth, she probably could’ve afforded to buy the place a couple of years earlier given the success of her firm. But with childhood memories of “Notice of Foreclosure” dancing in her head, she’d wanted to be confident she wasn’t biting off more than she could chew with the mortgage.

  Victoria unlocked the front door, triggering the warning beep of her security system, and immediately punched her code into the keypad. When the alarm went silent, she turned around and waved to the cabdriver.

  All clear.

  She brought in the mail, deposited it on the kitchen counter, and headed upstairs. After rearming the security system from the keypad in her bedroom, she changed into a T-shirt and shorts, quickly scrubbed the makeup off her face, brushed her teeth, then climbed into bed. She debated whether to return some work e-mails, then decided—nah—that she’d earned a few hours off given the success of today’s settlement conference.

  With a satisfied smile, she snuggled into the covers and began to drift off.

  * * *

  BEEEEEEP.

  Victoria shot up in bed when she heard the warning signal from her security system that the front door had been opened.

  She heard the door shut downstairs, followed by the sound of footsteps.

  Oh my God. Someone was in her house.

  She slid out of bed and grabbed her cell phone from the nightstand. The alarm signal stopped, and the house fell silent again.

  Her heart started thumping in her chest when she heard a man’s voice downstairs.

  “We’re good to go,” he said.

  Victoria moved silently into her walk-in closet, a space almost as large as her bathroom. Her laundry hamper was tucked between the wall and a row of long dresses. Sliding past the clothes, she crouched down and hid behind the hamper.

  Her hand was trembling as she dialed 9-1-1 on her phone.

  A woman’s voice. “9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

  Victoria whispered, her words coming out in a rush. “My name’s Victoria Slade. I live at 1116 North Garner. Someone’s broken into my house.”

  “Is the intruder in your home right now, ma’am?”

  “Yes, I think there are two of them. I’m hiding in a closet upstairs and—” She paused, hearing something that made her palms sweat. “Someone’s coming up the stairs. I can’t talk—they’ll hear.”

  “Ma’am, I’ll stay on the li—”

  Victoria turned the volume on the phone all the way down and covered the speaker with her hand. Through a small space in between the hamper and the wall, she could see the closet doorway.

  She held her breath as the footsteps on the hardwood floors grew louder.

  A man dressed in dark clothing came into view in front of the closet. He paused, and then reached for his hip and pulled out a gun.

  “You sure she hasn’t been home?” he called out to someone, in a gruff voice.

  Another guy stepped in front of the closet. “Yeah, I’m sure. Why?”

  “The bed’s been slept in.”

  “So? You make your bed every fucking day? Come on, let’s get to work.”

  She heard the second guy walk out of her bedroom, but the man with the gruff voice stayed where he was, gun in hand. From behind the laundry hamper, she watched as he moved toward the master bathroom across from the closet and turned on the light. He paused in the bathroom doorway, and then headed for the closet.

  He reached in and flipped the switch that turned on the light.

  As light flooded the small room, Victoria saw that he wore a black mask with openings at his eyes and mouth. He stepped inside the closet.

  Her heart began to beat so hard against her rib cage she was afraid he might actually be able to hear it.

  She stayed absolutely still, praying he didn’t see her through the gap between the hamper and the wall.

  A soft whirring sound came from the other side of the closet.

  The man spun around, pointing his gun. Then he relaxed when he spotted a brown case, her automatic watch winder, sitting on a shelf. Tucking the gun into the holster at his hip, he walked over, opened the front of the case, and picked up her watch. He examined it for several moments, flipping it over in his hand, and then pulled a medium-sized cloth bag out of the front pocket of his black hoodie. After dropping the watch inside, he moved on to the jewelry box that sat next to the watch winder.

  With his back to Victoria, he spent what felt like an eternity rifling through the jewelry box, then picked it up and dumped the entire contents into his bag. Something fell to the floor with a clink against the hardwood floors, and he crouched down to pick it up.

  There was a loud crash downstairs.

  Victoria started at the sound at the same moment the
masked man shot up to a standing position. He shouted to his partner, “What the fuck was that?”

  She heard a loud commotion downstairs. Someone shouted, “Police!” and then—

  A gunshot.

  Instantly, the intruder was out of the closet. Suddenly remembering the cell phone in her hand, Victoria put it to her ear. “Hello?”

  “It’s okay, Victoria. I’m still here. Help is on the way,” the 9-1-1 operator said.

  The unwanted memory washed over her with the force of a tidal wave, carrying her back to a stranger’s voice on the other end of a phone line, all those years ago.

  Hang in there, Victoria. Help is coming, I promise.

  Suddenly, she felt . . . off. The space between her and the hamper began to contract, closing in on her. The air seemed stifling hot, and she felt dizzy.

  “Victoria? Are you there?”

  The voice sounded faint, far away, and she couldn’t tell if it was real or in her head. Past and present blurred together.

  “Are you okay, Victoria?” the voice repeated, more urgently.

  As her vision narrowed and darkness closed in, her last thought was of course she was okay. Victoria Slade could handle anything. She was tough, she was strong, she—

  —was blacking out from her first-ever panic attack.

  One

  A month later

  “THOUGH I WALK through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me . . .”

  As the priest wrapped up his homily, Ford Dixon’s eyes fell once again on the photograph of his father that rested on a stand in front of the casket.

  They’d gotten lucky with the photo. As he, his mother, and his sister, Nicole, had realized when preparing for this memorial service, John Dixon had posed for very few pictures by himself, particularly in recent years. Fortunately, they’d been able to crop a photograph taken just four months ago, one of him holding his granddaughter, Ford’s niece, in the hospital after she’d been born. It wasn’t a professional-quality photo—Ford had taken it with his phone—but his father looked happy and proud.

  It was a good memory, one that he and his mother and sister could look back on without the uneasiness that clouded many others.