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Bridegroom On Her Doorstep
Renee Roszel
The ad had appeared. She'd interviewed the candidates. Jennifer Sancroft was close to selecting a husband who would help secure a vital promotion.But when she met Cole Barringer all the potential candidates paled in comparison to this sexy bachelor. The solution was obvious….Cole was dead against Jen's crazy, half-baked marriage scheme! Marry for convenience rather than for love–no way! So how come it was Cole walking with her down the aisle…?



“Tell me again why you’re interviewing for husbands?” Cole prodded.
Her cutting glare could have drawn blood from a lesser man. Even Cole felt its jab. She turned away. “Oh, right,” he drawled. “It’s that career move. What job could be so all-fired important that you’d make this mad dash to snag a husband?”
“You have some nerve!” She kneaded her temples as though trying to ward off a headache. “You don’t know me! You don’t have any right to presume anything about me!”
“I know plenty of women like you. Only a guy with nothing going on between the ears would agree to some half-baked marriage scheme.”
“Then you’d be perfect for the job!” she cried, her eyes a blink away from tears.
“So where do I get in line?” That crazy question came out of nowhere. The shock on her face was no more staggering than the shock Cole felt from hearing the inquiry in his own voice.


It’s the countdown to the Big Day: the guests are invited, the flowers are arranged, the dress is ready and the sparks between the lucky couple are sizzling hot.…Only, our blushing bride and groom-to-be have yet to become “engaged” in the bedroom!
Is it choice or circumstance keeping their passions in check? Read our thrilling miniseries WHITE WEDDINGS to find out why a very modern bride wears white on her wedding day!

Bridegroom on Her Doorstep
Renee Roszel




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To:
Doug and Randy
How about a hug?

CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#ua8211a8d-98f4-5a36-9522-446a8d836c66)
CHAPTER TWO (#u6016015f-043e-559a-8395-f8f0bdff75e4)
CHAPTER THREE (#u896a696e-a92a-589d-a099-25d42b75be0d)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE
WHAT caught Jennifer Sancroft’s eye—and her breath—wasn’t the majestic view of the Gulf of Mexico. It was the powerful flex of muscle in the stranger’s back and shoulders, even two hundred feet away impressively conspicuous. She noticed him immediately. Tall, tanned and shirtless, he slathered white paint on a picket fence separating a manicured lawn from a pristine beach.
Her engine coughed and the car shuddered. Forcing her gaze away from the hunky vision, Jen turned off the engine of her mid-size rental car. Now that she no longer looked at the man, her brain let her in on the complication he could present. “How am I supposed to hold discreet interviews for a husband with some blue-collar hunk lurking around?”
Ruthie Tuttle, Jen’s assistant, had pushed open her car door and leaned halfway out. With Jen’s muttered comment she hunched back inside and turned around. “Did you say something, boss?”
Jen shook her head. “No, I was thinking out loud.” She indicated the bare-chested man in the distance. “I hope he was only hired for the weekend. I don’t need anybody scaring away my applicants.”
Ruthie glanced in the direction of her boss’s wave, her serious expression changing to curiosity, then fascination. Her lips parted in a silent “Oh” that spoke volumes.
“Well, well…” Ruthie finally said, with a lewd grin. Jen had never seen such a lustful expression on her assistant’s freckled face. Annoyed with herself for feeling exactly the way Ruthie looked, she lightly elbowed the woman in the ribs, prodding her out of fantasyland.
“Tuttle! You have a perfectly nice husband. Close your mouth!”
Ruthie cleared her throat, her violet gaze sliding to her boss. “Just ’cause I’m tied to the porch, doesn’t mean I can’t bark!” She looked at the painter, her gaze lingering. “Didn’t I mention the leasing agent said there might be a maintenance guy on the property?”
“No,” Jen said, experiencing a rush of aggravation. “You did not.”
“Oops.” Ruthie’s grin refused to dim as she surveyed the stranger. “Just between you and me, he is a great example of prime guy maintenance!”
Jen glowered at her assistant. So what if he was prime? That didn’t make him any less of an impediment to her plans. She shifted her gaze away to stare, unseeing, at her hands, clutching the steering wheel. Why couldn’t things ever run smoothly? The corporation-owned property she’d rented for the next three weeks was somewhat isolated for her peace of mind, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and this was the only property available. The accounting firm’s presidency had opened up so abruptly, she’d been forced to make some quick—possibly even rash—decisions.
She didn’t dare hold husband interviews in Dallas. The word would surely get back to the firm that she wasn’t actually on her honeymoon. Exposed as a liar, she would lose her chance at the top job of the conservative firm—not to mention she would be so disgraced she’d have to leave the state to find a job!
No! She wouldn’t let that happen! She’d worked too long and hard for Dallas Accounting Associates, given the company her body and her soul for a decade. She deserved the presidency. To get it, she planned to move heaven and earth if she had to!
“That painter had better not get in my way,” she muttered. “I have less than a month to find, and marry, an appropriate husband. I don’t need some hulking hired hand stomping all over my timetable in his size-twelve boots!” She looked at her assistant, a stocky, curly top, ex-marine. “I might have to sic you on him, Tuttle.”
Ruthie gave a quick, surprised laugh. “He’s pretty big, boss. I’ll need more marines.” She pressed her lips together and frowned as though having a dark thought. “Or I could call my in-laws to come on down and join us. They could chase anybody away.” She grinned wryly. “Case in point, if my mother and father-in-law—or as I like to refer to them, the Wicked Witch of Wichita Falls and Toad-man—hadn’t decided to invade the happy Tuttle abode for an extended visit, you’d never have talked me into taking three whole weeks away from Ray and the kids.” She shook her head and eyed heaven. “Considering the thousands of my-son-could-have-done-much-better glares you saved me from suffering through, boss, I owe you big.”
Jen unclenched a fist from the wheel and patted her assistant’s arm. “Let’s call it even, Ruthie. I need your ability to keep a schedule and a confidence.” She took a quick scan of the place, on the secluded stretch of beach. “Considering we’re so isolated here, and considering I’ll practically be propositioning a steady stream of single, heterosexual men, I might need your proficiency in the martial arts.” Jen unlatched her door and stepped onto the gravel drive. “Speaking of men, I’m going to find out what’s what with that painter.” She slammed the car door and marched across the lawn toward her quarry.
Concentrating on the tall stranger who seemed oblivious to the fact that she’d driven up, Jen tromped toward him. As she stormed along the lawn, she hardly noticed the two-story brick house with its white trim, or the window boxes brimming with red geraniums. She tramped past a white cottage trimmed in blue, off to her left. More window boxes, overflowing with vivid reds, yellows and greens, went virtually unseen.
Jen was by nature a positive, confident and logical person. At the moment, however, she was less than her usual efficient self. She was on a tight timetable and more than a little angry. She would not be passed over for the promotion she deserved! Not this time! The tang of the sea rode in on the breeze but went virtually unnoted. Jen’s senses were wholly focused on the all-important task ahead of her. It was going to be difficult enough to do what she had to do without an audience. Ruthie could be trusted, but the stranger was a major question mark.
A six-and-a-half-foot-tall question mark!
Tension intensified her hostility for this outsider who dared intrude on her secret itinerary. It was bad enough that Ruthie had to know. Putting up with her sidelong looks of disapproval was plenty to deal with. She didn’t need some stranger blundering around in her private business. She didn’t think she could cope with one more person looking at her like she was a fool or worse—crazy.
It was nobody’s business how she found a mate but her own! She’d trusted her heart once and fallen madly in love with…
Tony.
She stumbled at the recollection, but caught herself. Even after four years it still hurt just to think his name.
Tony Lund had been hired at Dallas Accounting Associates as her immediate superior. From the first time the elevator doors opened and he’d stepped onto her floor, she had been lost. He was handsome, suave, brilliant, with a mystical way of knowing exactly what to say to make her feel wonderful. Even his casual smiles as they passed in the hallway sent her into fits of dizzy euphoria.
It had taken six months for Jen to catch Tony’s eye—as a woman rather than a mere work colleague. That magical moment had come at the company Christmas party. She’d taken excessive pains with her clothes, at last dressing for a man rather than for success. She’d had her hair restyled and highlighted and devoured makeup hints in slick women’s magazines. Before Tony she’d been completely preoccupied with her career; suddenly she found herself giddily playing all the feminine games to get Tony to notice her. By Christmas he had a reputation for being a lady’s man, but Jen hated gossip and ignored the stories.
New Year’s Eve had been their first official date. Tony was the epitome of gentlemanly, and was worldly enough to sense her reticence at moving too quickly to intimacy. After all, he was her boss, though there were no strict rules against dating a co-worker. Jen loved her job, or had loved it until a newer, brighter love swept into her life.
Tony.
Even with her concern about getting physically involved too quickly, one month after they’d begun to date, Tony confessed his love for her. Though ultra-conservative and cautious, Jen was on the brink of giving up everything for him that she’d held so dear—her career and her virginity.
Feeling cherished and desired, Jen dwelled in a perpetual pink haze of love. All she wanted in the world was to be Tony’s wife and the mother of his children.
On Valentine’s Day, Jen had been the happiest woman in Texas. Wearing a new dress she could hardly afford, she felt like a giddy teenager. She’d been ready for Tony to pick her up for what she knew would be a romantic, life-changing evening, when the phone rang.
It was her mother, tearfully calling from a Fort Worth hospital. Jen’s favorite Aunt Crystal had been in a car accident and was in a critical condition. Rushing to the hospital, distraught and in tears, Jen caught Tony on his cell phone and canceled their date. He’d offered to come to the hospital, but she’d told him it wasn’t necessary.
That Valentine’s Day ended tragically when Jen’s aunt passed away. Deep in the night, broken up with grief, Jen found herself driving back to Dallas toward Tony’s apartment, needing his comfort and closeness. She had made the decision to give him her most precious gift, her unqualified, physical love—an affirmation of life. She would be his completely, and he would be hers—lovers, soul mates, forever.
When he met her at the door, she knew immediately something wasn’t right. Bare-chested, in black, silk pajama bottoms, he smiled that magical smile. Even bleary with sleep he was godlike in his perfection. Yet, something in his eyes frightened her. Intuition made her brush past him and head for his bedroom, dreading what she would find.
When Jen burst into the room, another woman sat up in bed, fumbling to cover her bare breasts. As the two women stared at each other, Tony grabbed Jen’s arm, whispering it didn’t mean anything. “It just happened,” he’d said, his expression more sheepish than repentant, as though suggesting that these overnight seductions were of no consequence.
She recalled so vividly, with such stark pain, how he’d swung her into his arms, managing somehow to cleverly maneuver her out of the bedroom and close the door. How smooth he was, even caught flagrante delicto!
He’d murmured that he loved her and that “It was only sex,” all the time smiling and softly cajoling, his tongue in her ear. What a resilient cheat he was!
In a twilight world of the brokenhearted, she had stood there, crushed. The man she’d almost given herself to was cleverly and cold-bloodedly plying his wiles while a casual sexual conquest lay in his bed on the other side of a door, wholly forgotten.
She pushed away from him, staring in disgust and disbelief at his perplexed expression. He didn’t even have the decency to recognize his betrayal. Her heart had gone down, literally sank as she grieved to the depths of her soul. She had been so irrationally in love she’d allowed herself to be blinded to his lies, evasions, infidelities, no matter how often her friends had tried to warn her.
That night Jen endured two very painful deaths—a beloved member of her family, and her desire to ever again be caught up in the thick, mind-clogging pink fog called love! She had been out of control once, and it shattered her. Never again!
Tony had the nerve to call her several times after that, his silver-tongued vows of devotion seemingly ardent and heartfelt. Though Jen suffered the tortures of the damned, she resisted falling for his sly charm. Two endless months passed. Months of enduring his presence at work, his casual touches and melting looks, those warm, hazel eyes—eyes that softly tempted, promising never to lie, even as they lied. Eyes that could drive a sane woman mad and turn an intelligent one into a fool.
Tony’s cunningly subtle come-ons at the office became almost too persuasive to resist. Jen began to fear for her sanity and her resolve to resist him. Then, as suddenly as he had come, Tony left D.A.A., his natural charisma and business acumen landing him a splendid position in New York City’s financial district.
Tony was too aggressive, too commanding to be content to remain at a small, conservative firm like D.A.A. As his final coup de grâce, proving his ruthless amorality, he eloped with a co-worker, someone he had surely been making love to even as he’d sweet-talked Jen, attempting to destroy her resolve. His unlucky, deluded bride wasn’t even the same woman she’d caught him in bed with!
Sadly, Jen found the pain and sense of betrayal did not diminish after Tony’s departure from her life. His easy, unapologetic and persistent breaches of faith taught her an agonizing lesson. Tony had not been the only betrayer in this. She had also been betrayed by the treachery of her own emotions, allowing her to be so blind and deaf to the man’s true, black character. Never again would she let her emotions run riot.
Logic and intellect became her watchwords. After Tony was gone, Jen threw herself into her career, reestablishing it as supremely important in her life, and she’d risen rapidly through the ranks at D.A.A. Any desire to attract a man with physical trappings, like sexy clothes or makeup, was gone, crushed with her naiveté.
The presidency of D.A.A. would be hers, this time, or she would die trying! She knew from unhappy experience the company was severely conservative. The presidency had always gone to, and would always go to, a settled, married man. Though she could do nothing about her gender, Jennifer Sancroft was determined to mold herself into the perfect presidential candidate—which required an immediate and respectable mate.
This husband hunt she’d hurriedly put into motion would be conducted on a strictly analytical basis. She would not let emotions blind her and open her up to pain.
Never again.
She would play it safe, be in total control. She would secure for herself a mate who was not only successful in his own right, but who shared her interests and beliefs. Finding a life’s partner with intellect instead of insubstantial and untrustworthy hormone-induced emotion was certainly possible. Her own parents were the perfect example of a well-oiled team with like minds who had never been slobbery over each other. Jen simply needed a plan, a few good candidates, and some privacy—which at the moment was the subject at hand.
She marched down the sloping lawn, her attention riveted on the man painting the fence. When she was within stone-throwing distance, he startled her by glancing in her direction. His features were as grim as hers, as though her approach had not been a surprise.
Before she reached him, he laid his brush across the paint can and straightened, bracing his hands on his hips. His unfriendly expression suggested she was the one intruding. Well! He had some nerve! Just who was the executive and who was the hireling?
She thought she detected the flare of his nostrils. “So you’re the tenant.” He sounded as though he’d expected her but would not have grieved extravagantly if she’d driven off a cliff.
“Yes, I am.” Her aggravated tone matched his. “When will you be finished with your chores? This weekend, I trust, because Monday morning I begin some very important —meetings, and I can’t have a lot of banging and—and—whatever…” She waved away the rest of the sentence. Of all people, a maintenance man would know what noises a maintenance man made.
He remained silent, his skeptical examination giving off insolent vibes. Even as annoyed as his cheeky impudence made her, a corner of her brain whispered that he had an amazing face. His eyes were an otherworldly pale, spectacular, almost hypnotic. Though she assumed their color was a very light blue, in the bright June sun, they exhibited an iridescence reminding her of fire opals. Staring into them she lost her train of thought as well as a fraction of her animosity.
His striking eyes narrowed, masked by a dark frill of lashes. He pursed his lips for a beat, then shrugged. The movement caused a sinewy ripple across his chest. “I can’t do much about the banging, but I’ll try to keep the whatever down.”
She scowled, confused. What was he talking about? She met his eyes, not realizing until that moment that her gaze had strayed lower. Her cheeks grew hot and she feared she might be blushing. “Excuse me?” The snapped inquiry came out breathier than she would have preferred.
He inhaled, nostrils flaring again, drawing her attention to the symmetry of his straight patrician nose and how nicely it fitted above a handsome, if cynically twisted, mouth. Her gaze traveled down again, and she took conspicuous notice of his square chin, bisected by a sexy cleft.
“Look, Miss…” As he paused, she shook off her odd preoccupation, mentally scrambling to regain focus on why she’d confronted him.
Before continuing his thought, he leaned slightly forward. If he were anyone else Jen wouldn’t have noticed, but he was so—so big. The move unsettled her and she took a step backward. “Whether you like it or not,” he said, “I’m here for the month of June. The leasing agent made a mistake.” He gave her a curt but brazen once-over. “Since you’re a woman who, by your own admission, has an aversion to banging, I suggest you make other arrangements.”
She stared at him, hoping his remark had no underlying sexual content. Surely not. He couldn’t have the mental dexterity to juggle a double entendre. “What do you mean by mistake?” she asked.
His brow wrinkled at her question. “I mean the usual—error, blunder, oversight, slip—”
“I understand the word!” she cut in. “I mean, what mistake?”
“The corporation never rents this property in June.”
“Of course it does,” she said. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“That was the mistake.”
She had a sinking feeling, but didn’t respond.
“Your being allowed to rent the place was a mistake,” he said.
Refusing to take his word, she demanded, “Why should I believe you?”
“Call and ask.”
Not one to be bullied, she whipped her cell phone from her shoulder bag and punched in the corporate headquarters’ number.
“It’s Saturday,” he said.
She realized what he meant, scowled at him and snapped her cell phone shut. “Right.” Disconcerted, she slipped the phone into the bag, working to regain her self-assurance. “Look, I don’t care what day it is. I’ve leased this place for the next three weeks, so that’s that.”
His dark, lustrous hair fluttered appealingly, ruffled by the fingertips of a sea breeze. An ebony curl fell across his creased brow, cavorted there for a few heartbeats, then dashed up to rejoin the dark waves of his hair. Troubled by the way that dancing wisp affected her, she shifted her attention to his scintillating gaze and experienced a jolt when their eyes met.
“For years, June has been set aside for m…” His jaw bunched. “…maintenance. Apparently the new leasing manager isn’t on the ball.”
His revelation penetrated. From the hostile conviction glittering in his eyes, she felt renewed misgivings.
“This isn’t going to work,” he said.
“It has to work,” she countered. “I’ve made arrangements. I have appointments scheduled all next week. Some of the—my applicants are coming from out of state. My advertisement runs through next week and gives this address. I can’t possibly change my plans!”
“Neither can I.”
Jen detected no hint of concern or apology in the statement. If anything there had been a knife edge of resentment in his tone. If his sparking stare was any indicator, he was far from sympathetic to her predicament.
She adjusted her shoulders to make sure she stood as erect as her five-foot-six frame would muster. The difference in their dimensions was still laughably one-sided. If he took it in his head, he could squash her like a jelly doughnut. Judging by his expression, he was poised on the verge.
Unwilling to let his hostility cow her, she met him scowl for scowl. This guy had never come up against Jennifer Sancroft when she had set a goal. “Then…” she said, keeping her voice composed, “it looks like we’re at an impasse.”
He glared for a long moment, then surprising her, he nodded. “That’s how it looks.”
Jen didn’t like compromise, especially with someone who should have been easy to deal with. She’d misjudged this hunky hulk. She’d thought he’d fold, groveling and begging her pardon. Apparently he took his time schedule as seriously as she took hers. Maybe reshuffling this job to a later date would mean having to cancel something else, which would take a bite out of his livelihood. Being a logical person, she could understand his obstinacy, if allowing her to force him off the property would steal bread from his family’s table.
Jen’s turn had come to shrug. Maybe she was being paranoid. It wasn’t likely that a Texas coast handyman’s gossiping would get all the way to a Dallas accounting firm. Besides, looking at that set jaw, she sensed he wasn’t the gossipy type. She had enough to worry about without getting overly mistrustful. “Well, I suppose…” The sentence died from lack of enthusiasm. With effort, she forged on, facing the fact she didn’t have a choice. “I guess—you can stay. I only ask that you don’t bang around inside the house while I’m—I’m interviewing.” She met his hard, pale gaze. “You’ll keep your distance. Agreed?”
Even filled with animosity his brilliant, fire-opal eyes were awe-inspiring. After a silent interlude that seemed like a year, his head dipped in a slow, begrudging half nod.
Cole glowered at the woman standing before him, stunned to realize he’d actually agreed to any concession. His plan had been to grab whoever showed up by the scruff of the neck and haul him bodily out to the highway. What had it been about this female that made him change his mind? Or more correctly, lose it?
Frowning at her, he took in the tailored suit. The muddy cotton broadcloth, cut to make her look like she wore two cardboard boxes, thoroughly hid any evidence of her femininity. And that hair. Parted in the center, she’d slicked it back into a tight twist at her nape. She might as well wear a sign that read I Am A Dowdy, Finicky Virgin. Approach At Your Own Risk.
Unfortunately for his plans, her glistening eyes told a different story. They were large, shiny. The lids rode low over the most vibrant green he’d ever seen. Her slumberous lids and a sweep of sooty-brown lashes whispered sly seductiveness. The come-hither sensation, however unwittingly given, was impossible to ignore. Then there was her mouth. Those lips had a pouty way about them that, even amid all that muddy-brown fabric and skinned-back hair, gave off a stirring eroticism.
He had the strong sense the sexiness of those cupid’s bow lips was unintentional, unlike most of the women he’d brushed up against in his life—designing femme fatales angling for personal gain. But not this one. She hadn’t come on to him. Far from it. That fact alone—the “I’m sexy but I’ll never tell” vibe—so intrigued Cole it addled his brain to the point of this crazy compromise.
Suddenly the quiet month of June he always looked forward to, vacationing in his family summer home on the Gulf, was to be shared by a quarrelsome little Puritan with sultry lips and wide-set, bedroom eyes that spoke bewitching volumes, but not a syllable they spoke was a conscious come-on.
Muttering a curse, he turned away and grabbed up his paintbrush, furious with himself for caving in. This was his month, blast it! He’d looked forward to this vacation as a balm to help ease his grief over the recent death of his father. Not to mention his need for an escape from business stress, which up to yesterday had been brutal, battling a hostile takeover bid for the largest of his holdings, Quad-State Oil and Gas. The pressure had been incessant and deadly. The poison pill he devised to hold on to the company had been a successful tactic, making the purchase unpalatably expensive for the challenger. He was weary from eighteen-hour days, mentally and emotionally drained. He needed the escape he found here to do nothing but relax, listen to the surf or take on some welcome, physical exertion.
He loved this house and the childhood memories it brought with it, of happy times with his doting father. The man who, at fifty-five years of age, took in a newborn child, gave him a name, raised him, nurtured him and passed on his wisdom. Seeing to the property’s upkeep restored Cole, made him happy. Because of his care, year by year, he kept the beloved place whole and beautiful.
Working with his hands in solitude by the sea, Cole could quietly reflect, spend time getting reacquainted with his imagination. Through unaccompanied toil and thought, he connected with men of bygone ages who helped steer his hands. These reclusive vacations exercised his mind and his soul as well as his body. Each year he looked forward to June, to this place, coming away from it energized, revived, ready for the rat race again.
He began to brush white paint on the fence, his failure to handle the intrusion as he’d planned affecting him in deep, disturbing ways. What was his problem? What was it about this female that had the power to short circuit his intentions?
“Maybe we should—exchange names?”
He shot her a perturbed look and she stared at him. Her annoyance was so evident from her pinkened cheeks and sparking eyes, he experienced a surprise prickle of appreciation. Damn, she was stubborn. He wondered what her meetings were all about. What her applicants might apply for. Nothing kinky, he suspected. She was too prim and punctilious to be up to any pornographic shenanigans.
“Call me Cole,” he muttered. “Cole—Noone.” Though he was “Cole” to his friends, he smirked inwardly at the hurriedly conjured last name. Noone—shoving together the words “no” and “one.” She thought he was a handyman. He’d let her. It might be interesting to observe how a woman reacted to him when she didn’t know he was J. C. Barringer, wealthy capitalist. Ordinarily women fawned over him, cooing, petting and fluttering lashes. So far, from this female, he hadn’t detected a single coo or flutter.
She surprised him by sticking out a hand, apparently expecting him to take it. “I’m Jennifer Sancroft.”
Something about that name nudged his memory. Jennifer Sancroft. Why did that name seem familiar? He closed his eyes for a moment, too tired and annoyed to worry about it. It would come to him. Since she was renting the corporate property, she had to work for one of his companies, or one of his father’s that he’d just taken over. He’d no doubt heard it in a business reference.
For some unfathomable reason—possibly the insidious influence of those sensual lips—he took her hand in his. Her skin was cool, as he’d expected, her handshake firm. “How do you do, Miss Sancroft,” he said, his tone wholly unwelcoming.
“How do you know it’s Miss?” she asked, her features quizzical.
He couldn’t contain the amused twitch of his lips. Was she kidding? “Just a guess.”
Her cheeks flushed. She’d caught his sarcasm. Tugging her fingers from his, she lifted her shoulders. Any more attempts to be intimidatingly tall and her sensible brown pumps would lift off the ground. “Well…” She backed up another step. “I’ll go get unpacked.” She pivoted away, retreating across the lawn.
He watched her go, aggravation twisting his gut. Now that he could no longer be affected by those cupid’s-bow lips and unconsciously sexy eyes, he willed her to walk to the car, slide in and disappear.
When she reached her vehicle, she popped the trunk and pulled out a suitcase. Cole gritted out an oath. So much for his telepathic powers.
Ruthie flung open the front door as her boss approached. “So, is he leaving on Sunday?” Her expression more worried than hopeful, she hurried off the covered porch and grabbed one of the bags. Married or not, the look on Ruthie’s face made it clear she’d be happy to have Mr. Eye-Candy hang around for the whole three weeks.
Jen heaved a sigh, mounting the two steps to the columned colonial porch. “He’s not leaving.” Once inside, she set down her suitcase and looked around absently. “He seemed—reluctant—to change his plans. I said he could stay.” The ugly truth, that “reluctant” was a mild description of his attitude, remained Jen’s secret. Her assistant didn’t need to know she hadn’t graciously allowed the handyman to stay on out of the goodness of her heart.
“Excellent!” Ruthie’s expression brightened. “We need a good view around here.”
“The Gulf of Mexico is practically in the backyard.”
Ruthie waved that off as insignificant. “No offense, boss, but you’d think considering why you’re here, you’d be more interested in looking at men.”
Jen ignored her assistant’s gibe. “Yes, well—this is more of a partnership than a—a—physical attraction match.” She didn’t like Ruthie’s doubtful expression. “There’s no logical reason why I can’t find a perfectly respectable husband this way. Compatibility and common interests are very important. Why, my own parents—”
“I know, boss,” Ruthie cut in, her tone pensive, almost pitying. “Your parents are a great team—with mutual goals. A great example of a sensible union.”
“Don’t forget, I know all about the treacherousness of blind devotion,” she said, a knee-jerk defense.
Ruthie nodded, looking sad. “Tony.” Her rueful gaze met her boss’s. “I know. Remember, I was your assistant when he broke your heart. But I think it’s wrong to give up on love because of one jerk.”
“I’m not giving up on love.” Jen was weary of trying to get Ruthie to understand.
“Sure, boss,” Ruthie mumbled. “You think love can grow if two compatible people work at it.” She couldn’t make it plainer she wasn’t one hundred percent on board with Jen’s theory.
Refusing to defend her rationale again, Jen clamped her jaws. She’d made it abundantly clear why she’d decided to find a husband in such an unorthodox way.
Jen felt fortunate her assistant was accustomed to keeping her own counsel and wouldn’t gossip about Jen’s so-called “vacation.” Everybody else at the accounting firm thought Jen was getting quietly married and on her honeymoon. All but Ruthie. Looking at her dubious expression, if there had been any way Jen could have handled this husband hunt alone, she would have.
“Well, at least the place is nice.” Ruthie’s remark drew Jen from her mental wanderings. Indicating a staircase at the end of the wide entry, her assistant went on. “That leads up to the bedrooms. Naturally, you’ll want the master. There’s a guest room right across the head of the stairs for me.”
Jen cast a glance at the staircase. A landing, halfway up, caught her eye. A tall window in the back wall revealed a cloudless sky. “Mm-hmm. Bedroom,” she mumbled.
“I figured we could set up interviews at the dining table here.” Ruthie indicated the formal dining room to the left of the entry. A carved oak china cabinet dominated the wall behind a glass-topped table. Jen noted the table’s base looked like four columns set into a central pedestal. The massive base had been created from some kind of light-colored stone. The table wasn’t huge, but it looked to be about six feet square. Two elegant chairs made of light wood stood on each of the four sides.
“Unless you’d rather interview over there.” Ruthie indicated a location behind Jen and she turned to view the sprawling living room. A fireplace with a white, marble surround dominated the far end. Though situated on the north of the house, three tall windows let in plenty of light.
Decor in pale pastels helped keep the room airy and light. Sheer window treatments swagged and swooped and puddled attractively. While not so sheer as to prevent a degree of privacy, they allowed in diffused sunlight. Strategically located in massive ceramic pots, scatterings of green foliage enlivened the space. The pale hues and muted radiance of the room reminded Jen of a certain pair of eyes.
“Pretty,” Ruthie murmured, coming up beside her boss.
“Yes, he is.”
“Huh?” Ruthie’s skeptical query yanked Jen from her musings. “I was talking about the house, not the hunk.”
Jen had a bad feeling she’d said something she hadn’t meant to say—and would deny to her dying day. “So was I—talking about the house!” She made sure neither her tone nor her expression allowed room for argument. She had enough to deal with without entering into a debate over whether she suffered from some daft fixation for a certain arrogant handyman.

CHAPTER TWO
COLE couldn’t help noticing the prissy little gate-crasher kept her distance for the remainder of the weekend. The other one, the freckled one with the barking laugh, was more sociable. She waved greetings whenever their paths happened to cross. The frosty one, the one he’d dubbed Miss Priss, stayed inside. That was too bad. Not that he had any desire to see her. It wasn’t that. It was just that she was pale. Walking on the beach, catching a few rays, would do her some good.
Monday morning, as he headed out of the surf after an energizing swim, he noticed a strange car in the drive. Toweling his hair, he wondered what kind of interviews these two women were holding. He shrugged it off. What in blazes did he care? He had things to do.
Even though Cole worked hard on his disinterest, he couldn’t help noticing that every half hour a car pulled into the drive as the previous one drove away. Around two in the afternoon, he decided to trim dead limbs high in a live oak near the front of the house.
From up there he had an excellent view of the driveway. The sound of tires crunching over gravel caught his attention as one car drove off and another arrived. A thin, balding man in a chocolate-brown suit stepped out of the ebony compact. It occurred to Cole that not once today had he seen a woman arrive. All visitors had been men in three-piece suits. Most carried briefcases.
Cole had a healthy curiosity, but he wasn’t nosy. Nevertheless, every time a car pulled up and another man got out, he couldn’t help but wonder what was going on inside the residence.
At four, he finished the tree trimming and climbed down. Aggravated with himself for this weird preoccupation with the goings-on in the main house, he grabbed up his toolbox. He had to know what those females were up to. Miss Priss had made it plain she didn’t want him banging around inside the house. But the leaky kitchen faucet required nothing noisy, only a washer. He could do that very quietly.
He headed around the rear of the house and bounded up the eight wooden steps to the expansive, covered deck. With as little noise as possible, he slipped inside the back door that led into a rustic den and open kitchen. This was his favorite place in the big house. Less formal than the front rooms, its leather furniture and American-Indian decor was more to his taste. Instead of carpeting, the floor consisted of wide oak planking. The fireplace was constructed of stone instead of marble. Though he enjoyed staying in the cottage on these solitary visits, preferring its rustic intimacy, the big house brought back fond memories.
He ambled around the green- and gold-flecked granite eating bar separating the kitchen from the den, and set his toolbox on the stone countertop. Metal against granite clanked and he grimaced. So much for being quiet. He heard shuffling and turned. Little Ms. Freckle-face peered around the door frame from the entry hallway. Her concerned expression opened in a grin, and she whispered, “Oh, I thought you were a burglar.”
He gave her a skeptical once-over. “What would you have done if I were?”
“Kicked you to heck-and-gone, handsome.” She entered the kitchen and leaned against the counter nearest the doorway. “I was a sergeant in the Marines. Covert Ops. If I wanted to I could drop you where you stand.”
He grinned. “Are you flirting with me?”
Laughing, she held up her left hand to show him her wedding set. “No—but it crossed my mind.”
“Ruthie?” Miss Priss called from the living room. “The next candidate just drove up.”
“So your name’s Ruthie?” Cole kept his voice low enough so he couldn’t be heard outside the kitchen.
“Ruthie Tuttle.” She headed toward him, hand outstretched. “And the boss tells me you’re Cole Noone,” she whispered. “Nice to officially meet you, Noone.”
He took her hand and leaned closer to murmur, “I think it’s best if you don’t mention I’m here.”
She winked conspiratorially. “Gotcha. The boss’d have my head if she knew. She’s got enough to do without beheading me. Besides, I really, really want that dripping to stop. The last two nights it drove me bonkers.”
“You could hear it all the way upstairs?”
Her grin wrinkled her nose. “I have the ears of a bat.”
The doorbell chimed. “Ruthie! What are you doing in there? Please, get the door.”
The redheaded assistant made a face, mouthing, “Duty calls.” She hurried around the corner. “On my way, boss.”
Cole turned to his work. During the next fifteen minutes, he slowly, soundlessly replaced the washer, his attention focused more on the interview in the living room than on the repair job. He couldn’t make out every word, but what he did hear he found difficult to believe.
It sounded as though Miss Sancroft was interviewing for a husband. Finished with the repair, he laid the flats of his hands on the cool granite and shook his head, strangely disappointed. He wasn’t surprised by much, but that surprised him. He had a hard time restraining his irritation. Why in the name of all that was nuts in the world, would she resort to such a stupid, sterile plan? With eyes like hers? And those lips! Surely some of the men she’d dated would have looked past her drab, frumpish clothes and seen—
“Well—thank you for your time, Mr. Robertson.”
Cole glanced over his shoulder. Miss Sultry-lips sounded closer.
“It was—interesting,” the man said with a tense laugh. “Goodbye, Ms. Sancroft. Good luck.”
“Thank you for coming.”
Cole heard the door close, then silence.
“When’s the next appointment, Ruthie?”
“Not for fifteen or twenty minutes. He called to say his flight had been delayed.”
“Thank heaven.” Cole heard her sigh. “I need a break. I think I’ll have a health nut bar and a cup of instant—” She rounded the corner into the kitchen. Her sentence and her forward movement ended when she saw him. Outrage transformed her features. “You!”
He shifted to fully face her and lounged against the counter. Crossing his arms over his bare chest, he eyed her critically. She wore a white blouse with long sleeves and a high, Puritan neckline. Her shapeless, gray skirt hit her midknee. Between the skirt hem and her sensible pumps, he saw slender, attractive legs that could be shown off to better advantage.
She wore her hair slicked back the same, sexless way she’d worn it on Saturday. Even so, the extremely unattractive style couldn’t quite make her plain. Her vivid, jade eyes, full lips and great bone structure were difficult to spoil, no matter how hard she might try. He wondered why she was trying so hard.
The stillness crackled with tension. Cole was unaccustomed to being glared at by women. He ignored the prickle of irritation and eyed her without smiling. “Afternoon.”
His chilly greeting seemed to revive her from her paralysis and she threw him a stiff-armed point. “You are not supposed to be in here.”
Another thing Cole was unaccustomed to was being told he wasn’t supposed to be somewhere. His irritation billowed, but he didn’t let it show. “I didn’t make noise.”
She gasped. “You—that’s not the point! You were not supposed to come inside during my interviews! I specifically ordered you not to!”
He stared for a count of ten. During the stretched-out silence she exhaled with agitation, plainly upset by his dawdling to get on with his groveling and apologizing. Well, she’d have a long wait.
“I don’t take orders well,” he said, then turned away, dismissing her with body language. Hefting his toolbox he strode around the eating bar toward the rear door. With his hand on the knob, he halted and glanced back. “Why in Hades are you interviewing for a husband?”
Her mouth dropped open at his bluntness. “Get out!” she demanded, her voice as rusty as an old tin can.
Jen felt shell-shocked. After nearly three days holed up inside that house, she needed to get out, walk off her frustrations. Even if it meant chancing a run-in with the insolent handyman. Why should she hide? She was the sanctioned occupant here, legally leasing this place. She had a right to enjoy the beach. After the horrendous day she’d had, if she didn’t do something besides stare at the walls, she would scream. She was customarily optimistic and confident, but today both her optimism and her confidence had been sorely tested.
She vaulted off the sofa where she’d held so many unproductive interviews. “I’m going for a walk, Ruthie.”
Her secretary sat on a wing chair placed at an angle to the couch. She looked up, flipped her notepad closed and nodded. “It’s about time you got out and enjoyed the nice weather.” She stood. “I’m going upstairs to call Raymond, see how he and the kids are dealing with his parents’ visit.” She rolled her eyes. “I can hardly stand the suspense.”
“Fine,” Jen murmured, too preoccupied with today’s futile interviews to say more. She was out of the living room and almost to the kitchen before Ruthie called after her.
“Boss?”
Jen glanced back. “Yes?”
“Should I order take-out for dinner?”
Jen shrugged, not feeling much like eating. “Sure.”
“For about an hour from now?”
“Sure.” She glanced at her watch. Five-thirty. She had plenty of time to walk off her anxieties. Well, at least she had some time. She didn’t think all the time in the world, or all the strength she could muster, would allow her to walk off all her troubles.
She went out the back door and stood for a moment on the wood deck. Wicker furniture with red-and-blue-striped cushions brightened the shady area. Potted gardenia plants, with glossy green leaves and a multitude of white blossoms, lent delicate beauty to the space, their breeze-tossed, flowery fragrance mingling agreeably with the briny tang of the Gulf.
The rustling of a wind through the sea grasses on the dunes beyond the freshly painted pickets, the rush of the surf, eased her stress slightly. How miraculous that only a moment in the relaxing magic of nature’s grandeur could have an effect.
She inhaled, deciding this walk on the beach was days overdue. Provoking handyman or not, she needed this, needed the gentle relief of sun and surf to ease the coil of anxiety that had taken up residence inside her.
She walked down the steps to the lawn, focusing determinedly on the beach. She strode to the fence, unlatched the gate and headed over the dunes to tawny sand. She came to a stop just out of reach of the skittering surf. The high-pitched cry of a seagull swooping nearby attracted her attention. She watched the bird dip and soar over the boundless Gulf. The view was gorgeous, with the brilliance of a late-afternoon sun glinting off the azure blue. It was so quiet, so restful, she could feel the pressures of the distressing day melt away.
Edgy, worrisome thoughts tried to intrude—of the reason she had to be there, of all that depended on these next weeks. She tried not to let her anger and frustration over the unfairness of the world come to the surface. She’d spent too much time lately letting it get to her.
Here she was, on a pristine beach, breathing in fresh, sea air, her face caressed by sunshine. She shouldn’t contaminate the moment by dwelling on her troubles. Through exhaustively long work days and total devotion to her career, she’d becoming the youngest, and only female, of three vice presidents. Then last week, when the current president abruptly announced he was leaving for a job out of state, Jen knew, by any fair measurement, she deserved the presidency.
It was her tough luck that the owner and absentee CEO of the firm had ruled with raging conservatism over the years, never promoting a bachelor to the presidency—let alone a female—always opting for a settled, family man. Though the elderly owner recently passed away, and control passed to his son, Jen feared the governing beliefs of the heir would be equally unprogressive. What did it matter to this newest owner that the firm had become a substitute for a family? The fact that she was a thirty-one-year-old woman and single should not matter! Unfortunately, at the heart of the accounting business was a hard knot of conservatism that couldn’t be unraveled. Inflexible, old-guard thinking made her crazy.
The new CEO, equally reclusive and all-powerful, had sent a gold-embossed missive to each of the three vice presidents that he would interview the candidates within the next three weeks. Jen’s discovery that her interview would be last was like a slap in the face. She took it as a bleak sign, since as Tax Vice President, she had what was considered the most prestigious post. Suddenly, and with stark clarity, she had seen the handwriting on the wall.
Maybe she had gone a little crazy. Maybe it was partly because over the past year or so her biological clock’s ticking had grown loud in her head. What had begun as a faint whisper, had grown steadily, bringing with it flutterings of a desire for more in life than business success, a craving for her own two-point-four children.
She wanted a career and she wanted a family. As president she could have both. Her plans included working-mother-friendly programs, like on-site day care and job sharing for support staff who would like to work half days so they could spend more time at home with children. Jen also planned to initiate eight weeks of paid maternity leave. In addition, mothers would be allowed to keep newborns in the office, and a lactation and child care consultant would be hired.
D.A.A. was woefully behind the times when it came to its married female employees and their needs. The company, too, could use updating in other ways, and Jen had plans there, too. She had no doubt she could transform the small, prestigious firm into one of the most respected in Texas.
She hadn’t planned to find a husband quite this quickly, or precisely this way, but to have a shot at the presidency she must be stable and settled. The presidential-quality Jennifer Sancroft must arrive at that interview with a legitimate, accomplished spouse.
She’d had no choice but to act and act now. In her unwavering, intense way, the plan to correct her marital status had been hatched and put into action. With a mere eighteen days until the fateful audience with the company’s CEO, she had to focus like she’d never focused before. She must have a supportive spouse, must be settled and family oriented.
By heaven, she would succeed!
Jen stretched then lowered her arms, exhaling. She raised her arms again, taking in a deep breath, working to restore her confidence. “Don’t worry, Jen,” she told herself. “Tomorrow will be better. They won’t all be as discouraging as they were today. So what if a few of them looked at you like you’re insane?”
Maybe she should have put the word “marriage” in her Wall Street Journal advertisement. The closest she’d come to even hinting at matrimony had been a few phrases like, “successful businessman, tired of the rat race, looking for new challenges,” sprinkled among more sterile requirements like “excellent people skills,” “degree required” and “loyalty a plus.”
What had she thought would happen, that Mr. Right would sweep in, take one look at her and fall to his knees begging her to marry him? “Ha!” she scoffed. “Way to go, Jen. Your optimism certainly isn’t hindered by sound reasoning!”
She hadn’t been able to bring herself to place a personal ad. It seemed too lurid for her high-minded intention. The truth was, her pride hadn’t allowed her to solicit a mate in a personal ad. Considering her restrained, conservative upbringing, a businesslike request through the Wall Street Journal held the right note of respectability and civility.
Besides, her mind whispered, keeping your search on a business plane reduced the taint of desperation.
She winced, muttering, “Unfortunately, your precious business plane didn’t have the directness that would have cut down on the looks of horror on a few faces.”
A handful of the men looked at her like she was from another planet. The memory stung. Deflated, she dropped her arms to her side. Today’s interviews were too depressing to dwell on. “How dare they be insulted!” she muttered.
She felt something wet and looked down to see the surf skittering across her shoes and sloshing inside. “Oh, fine!” She hopped back, too late. Pulling off one pump then the other, she dumped out seawater. “That’s just great!”
“What do you expect, coming out here wearing those?” came a voice from behind her.
Jolted by the nearness of the male voice, Jen jumped, almost stumbled. She made a pained face, willing him to disappear.
“Why don’t you take off your stockings, Miss Sancroft? Beach sand is meant to seep between your toes.”
Trying to appear unruffled, she didn’t respond or turn around, but went about shaking the last of the water from her suede shoes.
“Here.” He nudged her arm.
She didn’t want to acknowledge him, but he was making it tough. Annoyed that she couldn’t seem to stop herself, she peered in his direction. To her astonishment, he held out a glass of iced tea. A sprig of fresh mint sprouted festively from the tumbler. She eyed the glass suspiciously, then transferred her stare to his face. “What’s this?”
His lips twitched as though he found her question ludicrous. “Take a wild guess.”
She faced him, holding up her pumps, one in each fist. “I don’t have any place to put it.”
He examined her shoe-filled hands. Without a word he snatched first one shoe then the other, tossing them over his shoulder. She gasped as they sailed above the fence and landed on the lawn. “There.” He held out the tea. “Now you do.”
She glowered at him. “You—you threw my shoes!”
His laugh was deep and rich even with its derisive edge, causing a tingle to dance along her spine. She squelched the tickle with a shoulder-squaring stance.
“Take the tea, Miss Sancroft.” He indicated her with a nod. “You have to be sweltering in all those clothes.”
She couldn’t believe his audacity. “I don’t care for any tea,” she said. “And I’m not a bit hot.”
His lips twitched again, as though he were laughing at her. “I won’t argue that.”
She eyed him dubiously. Had he deferred to her or insulted her?
He lifted the glass as though in a toast, and took a sip. “Your loss. I make great tea.”
She didn’t like to admit it, but she was hot and uncomfortable and she was ruining a perfectly good pair of stockings. With a harrumph, she turned away. Grateful her skirt was full, she inched it up until she could reach the elasticized rim of her thigh-high stocking and began to roll the nylon down her leg.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Go away.”
“Ah—taking off your stockings.”
She cast him a grim look. “I hope you’re enjoying the show!”
He’d cocked his head to better check out her stocking striptease. When their gazes clashed, he lifted his glass in her direction, as though in a toast to her bare leg. Heat flamed in her cheeks and she flipped her skirt down to cover her thigh.
He indicated her with the tumbler. “I feel like I owe you a sip now.”
“I’m not taking off my stockings for your gratification, Mr. Noone!” She turned her back, easing the stocking off her foot. Her balance wasn’t good in the damp sand, but she managed it. Not knowing what else to do with the nylon, she draped it across her shoulder and eased up her skirt on the other side to get the second stocking off.
“There ought to be music for this.”
She ignored him, but her face flamed. It wasn’t all due to the fact that she was overdressed for standing on a Texas beach in June. She finally got the other stocking off and tossed it across her shoulder with its mate. Straightening, she unbuttoned a cuff and rolled her sleeve up to her elbow, then did the same with the other.
She hadn’t heard any lewd comments for a full half minute, so she had high hopes he’d gone away as quietly as he’d arrived. She peered around to check and was unsettled to find that he’d taken a seat on the sand, crossed his legs at the ankles and was watching her. “Don’t stop now,” he said.
She faced him, irked. She would not let herself be flustered by this guy! She disciplined her voice. “I hadn’t planned to stop.” She unbuttoned the top two—no three—buttons of her blouse.
His eyes swept over her speculatively. “Go on.”
She wiped a hand across her forehead to banish telltale beads of sweat. “That’s the end of the show.”
“What a shame,” he said, his mocking evident. He held up the half-empty glass. “Thirsty, yet?”
Refusing to admit she was, she shook her head. “I’m going for a walk.”
He nodded. “Good idea.” He indicated the incoming tide. “Walk in the surf, it’ll cool you down.”
She made a guttural sound of aggravation. “I’m from Dallas, I know all the ins and outs of walking on Gulf of Mexico beaches.”
“Right.” He glanced pointedly at the stockings riding her shoulder. “Just to update you, some people take off their stockings before they hit the sand.”
She blew out a puff of air, aiming the draft at her bodice, hoping some of it would slip beneath the fabric and cool her sweltering skin. “It’s a free country,” she said. “You have a right to pass along unwanted advice.”
She spun away and headed toward the undulating surf. He was right, of course. The water rushing around her ankles would make her cooler. She sloshed into the tide. Oh, how refreshing it felt. And the squishy sand between her toes was delicious. If she’d been alone, she might even have allowed herself a smile.
“You didn’t say why you were interviewing for a husband,” he said, sounding like he’d stood up and was trailing her. “Pregnant?”
Unsettled by his nearness and his choice of subjects, she aimed a dagger-filled glare his way. “Do not follow me and no, of course I’m not pregnant!”
“I didn’t think so.” He caught up with her. “Okay, I admit you might not be the sexiest thing on two legs, but you’re no dog. Why advertise?”
She stopped and glared at him. “Are you horribly insensitive or just horribly dense?”
He halted beside her. Taking a sip of the tea, he considered her over the rim of the glass. The eye contact seemed to go on forever and Jen began to detect an odd, disconcerting buzzing in her head—as though brain wires were shorting out. His eyes had a debilitating effect but she continued to endure the contact. If he thought she was going to justify herself to him, he was very wrong.
He lowered the glass to the accompaniment of clinking ice, and drawled coolly, “Just curious.”
Her anger flared. “Look, you have a job to do, so do it and stay out of my personal life.”
His dark hair ruffled as saucy Madam Sea Breeze ran flirtatious fingers through it. He watched her for a few seconds, his expression hard. “If an employee of mine did something as idiotic as advertising for a husband,” he said, “I’d fire her.” He continued his direct inspection until she was so uneasy she had to turn away.
How dare he have the gall to speak to her that way. Her focus shifted and skidded over the water, up to the clear sky as inwardly she bridled at her rare bout of uncertainty. Regaining her conviction she scowled at him, so angry she could hardly breathe. “Well, Mr. Noone,” she said, “since the way I find a husband isn’t my employer’s business, it’s fortunate for you—because of the lawsuit I’d slap you with—that I don’t work for you!”
Cole watched her stalk off through the surf, the irony of her frosty threat chilling the air around him. Since his beach house was only available to employees of the companies he owned, at some level or other, Miss Priss did work for him. Not directly, of course, but somewhere in the pecking order of one of his firms. He rubbed his eyes. She was right about the lawsuit. How she got a husband wasn’t his business, as long as she did her job. His personal prejudices shouldn’t enter into his business dealings.
He wasn’t about to tell her she really did work for him. Not yet, anyway. She confounded him, intrigued him and annoyed him. She had no idea he was anything other than a handyman. For that reason alone she was worth scrutinizing—to see how a woman who was oblivious to his wealth and power reacted to him. So far his little experiment hadn’t done his ego much good.
Mainly, his curiosity was driving him nuts. He had to know why she would resort to a bizarre plan to acquire a husband the way most people would buy a used TV. The outcome of her project, not to mention discovering her reasons for it, drew him even though the very idea infuriated the fire out of him. He wasn’t sure when—if ever—any one woman had brought out so many conflicting emotions in him all at one time.
His resentment gaining intensity, he mumbled, “Stubborn little idiot.” He shook his head, staring after her. “How did women get the reputation for being the romantic sex?”
Cole knew plenty of females who didn’t take love into consideration when picking a mate. Over the years, he’d had his share of clinging opportunists with varying self-serving motives. Money, position, power, prestige and celebrity were just a few.
But what was Miss Priss’s motive? What did she have against falling in love?
Cole knew how powerful an emotion love could be. Albert Barringer, his father, never got over his love for Adrianne Bourne, a twenty-year-old high-fashion model he’d had a brief affair with. The elder entrepreneur was wise enough to understand that the young beauty was using him to gain access to his wealth and position. But Albert had been in love, so he simply reveled in her affection for as long as she offered it, keeping his foreboding of her looming abandonment locked in his heart.
Not once over the years after Adrianne dumped him had Albert spoken negatively of her. Even though she readily, even eagerly, gave up all rights to their newborn son in exchange for Albert’s Hollywood contacts.
All these years, knowing his own mother bartered him away—for stardom—had been a difficult truth for Cole to live with. His father’s unwavering devotion to his only son made up for a lot. He’d taught Cole well in the ways of business. Yet he also taught him something else, something unspoken and tragically sad, that abided forever in his father’s eyes—how all-consuming and tragic love could be.
Long ago Cole vowed never to lose his heart unless it was real for both him and that one, special woman. He would not end up like his father, with only distant, tattered memories of love lost.
He flicked his glance to the woman on the beach. She stooped to pick up a seashell, straightened brushing sand from her prize. “Love is a dangerous thing to trifle with, Miss Sancroft,” he murmured. “What in Hades are you scheming?”

CHAPTER THREE
COLE had lots of time to reflect on the frustrating and fascinating Miss Sancroft as he cut and stacked limbs he’d pruned from the live oak the day before. The metal rack where he piled the wood was around the back of the house. Even so, he could hear cars come and go all day. Every time another set of tires crunched over the gravel and pulled to a stop in front of the beach house, his anger heightened a notch.
Old memories of his youth, sneaking off to the movies to see his mother on the huge screen, smiling, faking sweet vulnerability, added fuel to the fire. Adrianne Bourne, the queen of grasping females, had become the Hollywood star she’d schemed and clawed to be. Now, in her mid-fifties, she was still a beauty and occasionally played character roles. Married to her fifth boy-toy, she may have been a beloved Hollywood icon, but to Cole, his mother was a cold-hearted, calculating woman who’d never once contacted her only son.
By the time six o’clock rolled around, Cole was hot, tired and thoroughly incensed—mainly at himself—for letting the woman interviewing for husbands in his beach house get under his skin. Let her do whatever she wanted. What was it to him?
Even after counseling with himself, when she came out of the back door onto the deck to gaze out to sea, he stopped work, leaned against the warm brick wall and observed her over the woodpile. He scanned her as she walked to a chair and sat down. To his surprise, she removed her leather shoes, setting them aside. Then she slid her hands up one leg and began to slip off a stocking.
The unobstructed glimpse of pale thigh startled him. Apparently she was so preoccupied with her thoughts she didn’t even consider someone might be nearby. After slipping the stocking off, she carefully folded it. After placing it in a shoe she went about removing the other stocking. As she did, her navy skirt remained high on her legs. Nice legs. He’d observed that on the beach when she’d been much more self-conscious about taking the garments off. He felt like he should make himself known, or turn away, but he did neither.
She deposited the second stocking neatly in the other shoe. Standing, she straightened her skirt and gazed out to sea. In the shapeless navy skirt and mannish, short-sleeve Oxford-cloth shirt, she looked like a repressed schoolmarm, even barefoot.
After another moment of silently staring, she turned in his direction and padded to the steps that led to the lawn. Her features were pensive, her forehead creased in what looked like unhappy thoughts. Unfortunately for Cole, her solemn expression didn’t diminish the effect her pouty lips had on him—siren-like in their sensuality—consuming his attention. Even with her hair swept back in that unbecoming style she was beautiful. A truth he didn’t enjoy admitting.
As she walked down the steps, he stepped into view. Lifting a log, he purposely dropped it on the stack to make noise. She started, green eyes shooting in his direction.
“Evening.” He nodded without smiling.
“Have you been there all along!” she asked.
He stripped off his work gloves and tossed them onto the rick of wood. “I wasn’t born here, but I’ve been here most of the day.”
Her features grew pinched. “You could have made yourself known!”
He allowed himself a scornful smile. “If you’re talking about the stocking strip show, honey, I’ve seen lewder sights at G-rated movies.”
“Maybe you should keep your eyes on the screen!”
He laughed. She had a quick wit; he had to give her that. “Bad day?” he asked.
She blinked, shifting her attention to the Gulf. “Perfect day.” Stepping onto the grass, she pivoting toward the water. “Goodbye.”
He almost smiled at her brush-off. Did she really think it would be that easy? He cleared his throat and followed after her. “Perfect? I gather you’ve found a number of hot prospects in your husband hunt?” He caught up with her as she reached the gate. Releasing the latch, he motioned for her to precede him.
With her nose in the air and a muttered “Thank you” on her lips, she did. She’d scurried five feet away by the time he secured the gate. Broadening his pace, he reached her side in a half dozen strides. “You don’t say? That many?” He slid his hands into his back pockets, keeping his demeanor more carelessly curious than rankled.
She gave him a dark look but didn’t take the bait.
He pressed on. “Tell me again why you’re interviewing for husbands?” he prodded. “It slipped my mind.”
Though he could tell she detested the need to, she returned her gaze to his, making it clear from her expression she was not amused by his pestering. “Look, I just want to walk on my beach. It is mine. I’m paying for the right to use it.”
Her cutting glare could have drawn blood from a lesser man. Even Cole felt its jab. She turned away and hurried off. “Oh, right,” he drawled, deciding to theorize why she was there. Clearly she had no intention of telling him without some manipulation. “It’s that career move, right?”
She faltered but recovered quickly, whirling to confront him. “I didn’t tell you about the promotion. Did Ruthie?”
Damnation. Why did he have to be right? He would have given a lot not to be. Hiding his anger behind a mask of indifference, he walked up to join her. “Ruthie didn’t say a word.” When they were toe to toe, he dropped the bomb. “You did. Just now.”
She inhaled sharply; her cheeks going pink. “That was a dirty trick.”
He shook his head. “No dirtier than the one you’re going to play on some unsuspecting man.”
Her eyes went wide. “What are you talking about?”
He could no longer hide his anger. Towering over her, he leaned forward, fixing his eyes on her like gun barrels. “I’m talking about the poor guy you marry. What happens when you’re through using him? Does hubby get severance pay?” Without giving her a chance to reply, he went on. “What job could be so all-fired important that you’d make this mad dash to snag a husband? What kind of work even has husband in its job requirements?”
She took a step backward, clearly intimidated by his animosity and his height. Even so she matched his stance, defiantly jutting her chin. “The job is none of your business, but just to be clear, the man I choose to marry I’ll marry for keeps!”
He couldn’t believe such ludicrous tripe and responded with a hollow laugh. “Yeah, sure—and the check is in the mail.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
His laugh died and so did his smile. “If you’re not lying, you’re deluded.”
“You have some nerve!” She kneaded her temples as though trying to ward off a headache. “You don’t know me! You don’t have any right to presume anything about me!”
“I know plenty of women like you.”
Her lips sagged and she made a low, guttural sound. He tensed for the attack he knew was coming. She lashed out with a hand, but he caught her before she made contact with his face. Her arm trapped in his fist, she bared her teeth. “I don’t know what kind of women you know, and I swear I don’t want to know.” She jerked on his grasp. “Let go!”
“So you can take another shot at me? Do you think I’m stupid?”
She yanked on his hold, glared at him, but didn’t reply. She didn’t have to. Of course, I think you’re stupid, glittered in her eyes.
With a muttered oath, he released her.
Surprised, she stumbled several steps.
“Maybe you shouldn’t bad-mouth stupidity, honey,” he muttered. “Only a guy with nothing going on between the ears would agree to some half-baked marriage scheme.”
“Then you’d be perfect for the job!” she cried, her eyes a blink away from tears.
“So where do I get in line?” That crazy question came out of nowhere. The shock on her face was no more staggering than the shock he felt from hearing the inquiry in his own voice.
She closed her mouth, swallowed, then whispered hoarsely, “What?”
He shoved a hand through his hair and counted to ten to restore his composure. He told himself he was being sarcastic—to shake her up. He’d succeeded, he could tell. With a crooked smile that felt tight, he said, “In your opinion, I’m stupid enough to be perfect. So—where’s the line?”
Her expression mutated from a stunned stare to a murderous glare. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “My husband would need credentials. At least a college degree—advanced would be better.” She licked her lips, obviously grasping at any straw that would convince this lowly handyman he didn’t have a chance at marrying her, no matter how desperate she might become. “And—and…” she went on, “he must be able to converse with intelligent, educated businessmen who have money, position and power.”
He eyed heaven theatrically, deciding words weren’t necessary to convey his contempt.
“I don’t care what you think. There are logical, level-headed men out there who can understand that two intelligent people with the right attitude and similar goals can make a good marriage!”
“Bull.”
Their eyes traded stinging hostilities before she responded. “I couldn’t expect you to comprehend. I imagine you’d be hard pressed to understand anything more complicated than peeling bananas with your toes and—and swinging around in trees!”
“Are you calling me an ape?”
She winced and he sensed she wasn’t in the habit of insulting people. “Forget it.” She turned away to stare out to sea. “I just want to be left alone. Even a not-so-bright ape could see that.”
He felt an unexpected twinge of compassion but shook it off. She was planning to use some poor jerk to advance her career. She didn’t deserve compassion. “For the record,” he asked, “how many logical, advanced-degreed Nobel prize winners have loved your proposition so far?”
She bit her lip, her only reaction.
“That many?”
She cast him a furtive glance. “I have very high standards.”
From her pensive preoccupation earlier, he bet much of the turning down hadn’t been on her part. Deciding she needed taking down a peg he meandered casually around her, making it clear he was checking her out from all angles. “Mm-hmm,” he said when he’d finished his leisurely circuit.
She glared at him. “What is that supposed to mean!”
“It means, men have standards, too, Miss Sancroft.”
A glint of uneasiness in her eyes told him he’d hit a nerve. “What—what are you saying?”
With the flick of his hand he indicated her attire. “Look at you.” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “I may not have the most aristocratic résumé as potential husbands go, but I know what men want.” He allowed a stony silence to lengthen between them before he let her have it right between the eyes. “And it’s not a priggish, cold-fish virgin.”
“Priggish?” Shock edged her tone. “Cold fish? How dare you!” He noticed she stopped short of repeating “virgin” and thought that significant. It was like admitting that part, at least, she couldn’t dispute. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” She spun away and stalked off.
“Like hell I don’t!” He followed, grasping her arm. “When you need expert advice, Miss Sancroft, you’d be wise to listen to an expert.”
She jerked to face him. “And you’re an expert on women?”
His knowing smile was his answer.
She yanked on his hold. “Well, I’m not trying to attract your type!”
“Honey, when it comes to what men want in a woman, I’m the only type.” He let her go and reached around behind her head, slipping several pins from her hair. The stuff began to unwrap from its tight coil.
“What do you think—”
“Shut up and pay attention.” He tugged the hair gently until it came loose and cascaded down her back. “Shake it out.”
She stared at him as though he was speaking some bizarre foreign tongue.
When it became obvious she wasn’t computing his command, he gripped her shoulders and turned her around. He released her to brush his fingers through the hair. The texture was lush and silky against his fingertips. The brown locks were longer than he’d thought, reaching several inches past her shoulders.
Her hair swirled and swayed in the breeze as he turned her to face him and reached for the top button of her shirt. He had it halfway undone before she slapped his hand away. “That is enough of your expert handling! I can unbutton my own clothes.”
He stepped back to allow her more space and gave her a dubious look. “Do it then. Your dress code is right out of the Temperance League handbook.” That might be true, but at the moment his attention was drawn to her hair, buffeted by the breeze. The stuff he’d dismissed as “dull brown” sparkled with auburn highlights in the setting sun, disquieting him. Taking her down a peg had him a little unsteady.
The blasted button he’d halfway dislodged opened in the stiff, sea breeze, and the Oxford cloth wagged in the wind, tormenting him with flashes of soft, pale flesh. His intention to make fun of her shifted abruptly to an uncomfortable masculine arousal. He took another step back, not to give her personal space, but to place her out of reach.
These small changes in her appearance suddenly felt like a cunning come-on. Irritated, he reminded himself that he had made those changes to annoy and ruffle her, not to turn himself on. Mentally shaking himself to get his head on straight, he indicated her with a dismissive wave. “You’re never going to get an applicant to accept your husband position unless you sell yourself.” His voice sounded gruff in his ears. He was sorry he’d started his I’m-such-an-expert prank. He didn’t know who was suffering more, her or him. “A smart woman shows a sexy hint of what the man’s getting.”
Jen tossed her head, all the better to show off that shiny, velvety hair. Did she know what that little act of defiance did to him? “You think I should do a striptease,” she demanded, eyes flashing. “Are you suggesting all men carry their brains in their trousers?”
“Don’t kid yourself, darling.” Darling? He’d never called a female darling in his life. He cleared his throat, forging on with the lesson, though it had lost any semblance of entertainment. “Men are visual creatures.” Too damn true! He flinched as her flapping blouse caught the wind and billowed to expose the lacy edge of her bra. He forced his gaze to her sparking eyes. “You can offer all the dental, medical and retirement benefits in the world, but if you don’t give out a little T and A you’ll bomb.”
“That shows how much you know!” she shouted. “Marriages based on mutual betterment are formed every day. My parents, as an example, are a fine-tuned machine. They have the same goals and values, are a stable couple and they’ve never been mushy or gooey over each other.”
“Seeing you, I don’t doubt it.”
Her face tightened, her eyes glimmering with hurt. Though she was to blame for his discomfort and frustration, Cole experienced a stab of guilt for that last dig. It had been unfair. But it drove him crazy how she could stand there and be so sterile about something so fraught with intimacy and emotion as marriage.
She blinked back threatening tears, her expression turning obstinate. “I don’t know why I’m bothering to tell you this, but if you insist on emotionalism, my grandmother and grandfather’s history proves my point. Grandma was a widow with two small boys and no income. Grandpa was a widower with a farm to run. They got married out of mutual need. To make a long story short, they had four more children. One was my dad. And somewhere along the way, they fell madly in love. Grandma and Grandpa became the gooiest couple I’ve ever seen.”
She shoved wind-tossed hair out of her face, her features rebellious. “So, for your information, Mr. Noone, love can grow between two people with mutual beliefs and goals, if they work at it. I think that kind of love is much more—more trustworthy, more genuine than blind, irrational hysteria! Besides, I…” She hesitated, then shook her head. “That’s all I intend to say on the subject.”
He wondered what she’d left unsaid, but shrugged it off. “You seem to have it all figured out.”
She eyed him with obvious skepticism, as though she didn’t believe he was convinced. “I’m not a person who does things without great thought.”
“And you’re planning to have children with this man?” That was a question he hadn’t expected to ask. But now that he had, he was curious about the answer.
Her lips parted with shock at his bluntness, but she regained herself and nodded. “If it’s any of your business, yes. I want children.”
He couldn’t believe it. Here she was advertising for a husband to gain a promotion, and she had the temerity to suggest she planned to bring children into the scheme, too? “How deluded can you be?” he demanded. “An educated, intelligent, successful man is not likely to defer his career to become your wife and nanny. Maybe you’d better stick to men of retirement age who’ll be willing to stay home with junior. Or find some terminally employment-challenged guy who can’t hold on to a good job.”

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