Here Come The Grooms . . .

Theo here.

Theo Savas.

The Groom. You know, the one who is supposed to be marrying The Santorini Bride. Martha's groom . . .

Yeah, well, tell that to her. Martha is a hard woman to pin down. Has a mind of her own, that one. She's Trouble . . . with a capital T. (And I wouldn't have it any other way, but don't tell her that. She's kept me guessing long enough.)

I thought we had things sorted and settled. The wedding was set - and I had a race to win (it's what I do -- race sailboats, America's Cup, that sort of thing) and Martha said, "Go ahead. It will get you out of my hair while I get this wedding sorted."

So I went. And there I was in the middle of the Pacific Ocean when I kept getting bits and pieces of messages from women all over the place (which isn't exactly unusual -- ever since I named World's Sexiest Sailor in that insane magazine). But the messages didn't contain their phone numbers for a change.

No . . . everyone wanted to know what Martha's last name was!

What's that all about?

I decided I'd better find out.

I called my brother Demetrios to see if he knew. He didn't. Too busy chasing girls all over New York is our Demetrios. But he at least has a social circle. He knows people. But he didn't know why everybody wanted to know Martha's last name.

So I called my brother Yiannis. Yiannis is, if you can believe it, a forest ranger. A forest ranger who was born in Queens! He talks to trees. He lives in Montana! And he has a girlfriend. He must talk to her. But he didn't know what was happening with Martha. I kept getting more messages.

So I tried George. George is always the brother of last resort. He's a physicist, for God's sake. George has more theories about strings than about women. I'm not sure he knows women exist. He said, "Who's Martha?"

See what I mean? So I came back. As fast as I could. I had visions of hundreds of guys trying to get Martha's last name so they could get her phone number or track her down where she was (you'll never guess!). I figured they'd put their sisters up to asking which was why the messages were from women. Guys are sneaky that way. I should know. And I wasn't letting anyone run off with My Woman.

So I get back last night and Martha isn't there. She's gone off with her bride buddies. "What bride buddies?" I wanted to know.

Seems like she's made friends with another couple of women getting married this coming month. And no one knows where they are except some authors who put them up to it.

An author! Wouldn't you know? So I go halfway across the country to hammer on Anne (McAllister -- we all know her last name!)'s door and say, "Where's Martha? Why does everyone want to know her last name? What have you done with Martha?"

Because Anne -- and Martha -- have been making my life miserable for months and I wouldn't put it past them to make me jump through a few more hoops . . . and you know what she says?

She just smiles and says airily, "Oh, Martha and two friends of hers, Louise and Alice, are having a contest."

A contest? What the hell sort of contest?

To win your book, she told me. And Louise's and Alice's. People can send in entries telling us all three women's full names, and if their name is drawn they get a chance to win three brand-new books."

Not just one chance, either. Three. Three chances to win at Anne's website and at somebody named Kate Walker's and somebody else named Liz Fielding's.

"Isn't that great?" Anne said. "Isn't a Here Come the Brides contest a good idea? You look odd, Theo? Are you all right? Do you want to sit down?"

"I want Martha," I said. "Here. Now."

"Well, you can't have her," Anne said. "Not yet. You get her at the end of the month -- when the book comes out."

"But -- "

"No. You have to be patient, Theo."

Like hell. I told her I'd been patient long enough. "It's weeks away!" I told her. "Weeks!"

"As opposed to months," she said unsympathetically. "As if you didn't make me wait around while you two argued and fought -- "

"And made up," I reminded her with a grin. But that just made me think about what I was missing!

"Stop it," Anne said. "Get a grip. In two weeks, you'll have your happy ending. Go run a contest of your own or something! I've done my job." And damned if she didn't shut the door!

So fine. Two weeks. Martha is off-limits for two weeks. I suppose I can go scrape barnacles off the hull or something. But running a contest sounds better.

Damn right. If Martha can run a contest, so can I. And if she can get her bridey girlfriends to run one with her, there's no reason why their grooms wouldn't run one with me.

I banged on the door again and made Anne tell me their names -- Domenico and Max -- and I'm giving them a call when it's not the middle of the night their time (they're both on the other side of the Atlantic from me).

We'll come up with a contest that will make those brides sit up and take notice.

Watch this space!

Here come the grooms . . .