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Part-Time Fiance
Leigh Michaels


For Delainey Hodges things can't get any worse at work…until she finds herself in a very tight corner–and has to pretend that she's engaged! The man she picks to be her "fiancé" is her sexy–but infuriating–neighbor Sam Wagner. Sam is happy to play the role of devoted fiancé–even moving into Delainey's home. In fact, he's so convincing that Delainey starts to wonder if Sam has a marriage agenda of his own….









Delainey’s fiancé? As in future husband?


Sam circled the table and bent over Delainey’s chair. “It always makes me feel warm all over when you look at me like that,” he said, his voice pitched so that the two men at the table would catch every word.

His lips brushed her cheekbone and moved slowly toward her mouth. Then, as if suddenly recalling the surroundings, he pulled back. “Come on, darling. Now that you’re finally done with business, let’s go home…and finish this in private.”







Every woman has dreams—deep desires, all-consuming passions, or maybe just little everyday wishes! In this brand-new miniseries from Harlequin Romance® we’re delighted to present a series of fresh, lively and compelling stories by some of our most popular authors—all exploring the truth about what women really want.

Step into each heroine’s shoes as we get up close and personal with her most cherished dreams…big and small!

• Is she a high-flying executive…but all she wants is a baby?

• Has she met her ideal man—if only he wasn’t her new boss…?

• Is she about to marry, but is secretly in love with someone else?

• Or does she simply long to be slimmer, more glamorous, with a whole new wardrobe?

Whatever she wants, each heroine finds happiness on her own terms—and unexpected romance along the way. And she’s about to discover whether Mr. Right is the answer to her dreams—or if he has a few questions of his own!

Enjoy Part-Time Fiancé by Leigh Michaels.

Rafael’s Convenient Proposal (#3795) by Rebecca Winters.




Part-Time Fiancé

Leigh Michaels












www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE (#uf06fd9f6-5155-58ff-ac5a-d27852c9b092)

CHAPTER TWO (#ufbd8c8f1-4519-58bb-a11c-143fcf77cf9d)

CHAPTER THREE (#ucfd46424-ed80-56e0-991a-14bb303088ff)

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 ONE


RUSH hour was over, but traffic was still heavy along the major streets, and it was moving slowly because of the dusting of snow which had fallen during the day. Delainey tapped her fingers on the steering wheel and held on to her patience. Normally she was unruffled by bad driving conditions, whether caused by weather or hesitant drivers or accidents stopping the normal flow of cars. In fact, she’d been stuck in so many traffic jams in her life that if she hadn’t learned to keep calm she figured she’d have been dead of a heart attack long since.

But tonight was different. Tonight she was on her way home.

Finally she was able to make her turn off the boulevard and between the massive brick gateposts of the White Oaks complex. The main drive stretched out before her, twisting through a strand of mature oak trees, their branches bare now in the chill of late autumn. From the far end of the drive peeked the facade of a rambling old redbrick mansion, once a private home but now the clubhouse for the whole of White Oaks. Here and there, smaller lanes branched off the main drive, each winding through the hilly estate and ending at a cluster of modern town houses.

The third drive to the left, Delainey reminded herself. The first time she’d come here, she’d gotten thoroughly lost because all the little lanes seemed to look alike. And though there were signposts at each intersection, they were small and discreetly lettered.

Unobtrusive—and very effective at putting across the message that if you didn’t know where you were going, you didn’t belong at White Oaks. Strangers and salesmen beware.

She was surprised to see the moving van still parked in front of her town house. The engine was running, the back doors were open, and a ramp was still in place—but as far as she could see the van was empty. The movers’ work must be done by now. Still, it would be nice to be able to take a look around the town house before the men left, in case she wanted something heavy shifted to a different location.

Not that she had anything terribly heavy, really. To tell the truth, Delainey was surprised the movers had used a full-size moving van when practically everything she owned would have fit on a pickup truck.

She parked behind the van and sat for a moment staring at the complex. Each of the separate buildings on the estate contained four individual town houses. The buildings were surrounded by woods, widely scattered, and set at angles so they were all but invisible to each other. Within each building, every unit faced a different direction. The effect was that each town house felt set apart, as if it were entirely alone on the grand estate.

From where Delainey sat, she could see just the front of her own town house and the side of the one next door. The two others in the building might as well not have existed at all.

The careful planning and construction was a great deal of the reason why White Oaks had been such a success ever since a development company had bought a huge, deserted and obsolete old mansion in the middle of nowhere and turned the estate into a community. It also didn’t hurt, Delainey admitted, that the city had grown unexpectedly fast in that direction, and now the square mile occupied by White Oaks was smack in the middle of the action, while remaining set apart and parklike because of its sheer size. It was exclusive, private, protected, and close to work—exactly the sort of place that up-and-coming people liked to live. People like Delainey.

The mere thought made her stomach give a strange little quiver. She wasn’t used to thinking of herself in those terms—as the sort of person who moved in exclusive circles and who lived in an exclusive community. It was going to take some getting used to.

But as her new boss had pointed out, in her recently acquired position she could hardly still live in a rundown old apartment building on the edge of the industrial district. It didn’t look good, he’d said. It didn’t look successful—and projecting the image of success was important.

It was more than just image that had prompted her to buy the town house, of course. She had worked long and hard to earn the chance to have a home of her own. Still, it was going to take some adjustment before it all seemed real. Before it seemed that she deserved it.

She noted that the lights were blazing in her own unit—the previous occupants had left only minimal window coverings—and, in a more subdued fashion, in the town house next door. The real estate agent had told her the neighbors were a nice couple. An attorney and a software engineer, if she remembered correctly what Patty had told her. Not that Delainey was likely to have time to form friendships, so she hadn’t paid a lot of attention.

Delainey opened the back door of her car to survey the few things she’d brought with her—a couple of boxes of items that were too precious to trust to the movers, a bundle of firewood that she’d bought on impulse on her lunch hour, and her briefcase. What to carry in first?

She saw movement from the corner of her eye and turned swiftly to confront the man who approached. You’ve got to stop jumping like that, she told herself. You’re not living in the inner city anymore. This is White Oaks.

“You must be the new owner,” the man said.

His voice was soft and deep and rich, with a texture which caressed Delainey’s ears in exactly the same way her cashmere scarf caressed her throat. She would have expected that the rest of him would match—an alpaca overcoat perhaps, pin-striped suit, silk tie, polished wing tips. Instead, he was wearing faded jeans that looked as if they’d shrunk to the precise shape of his body, running shoes, and a leather jacket that had definitely seen better days. His head was bare, and the crisp breeze ruffled his black hair, just a little too long over the ears. He did not look like White Oaks’ usual clientele.

But that was a foolish reaction. Delainey had learned the lesson long ago—in the first week she’d worked as a teenage teller-trainee at the bank—that the customers who always looked like a million bucks were seldom the same ones who actually kept that much in their accounts.

She nodded. “Yes, I’m Delainey Hodges. And you’re—?”

He didn’t seem to see the hand she’d stretched out. “Any idea when your movers will be finished?”

“I’m sure they’re anxious to get home,” Delainey said levelly. “Why are you concerned, Mr.—?”

“Wagner. Because they’ve managed to block my drive, that’s why.”

He was right, Delainey saw. Each unit had its own garage, nestled into the town house it served but set at an angle from the entrance so it would be a less prominent part of the facade. Though the moving van was parked in front of her unit, the front wheels indeed had encroached on the neighboring drive in order to line up the ramp with Delainey’s sidewalk.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “The movers probably didn’t realize which garage was which and thought they were blocking mine.”

“No doubt. But that doesn’t move the truck.”

Isn’t this going to be fun. This mannerless cretin lived right next door—and if he was as touchy about other things as he was about his driveway….

An attorney and a computer engineer. She wondered which one he was. Well, Delainey told herself, the real estate person might not have been entirely wrong about the neighbors being a nice couple. She’d wait to see what Mr. Grumpy’s wife was like—though she had to admit she was already questioning the woman’s judgment. If her taste in men was any indication…

What were you just thinking about the dangers of jumping to conclusions based on first impressions? she reminded herself.

“Of course,” she pointed out, “instead of merely stewing about it and lying in wait for me to arrive, you could have just asked them to move the truck.”

He looked startled. “That’s what I was coming over to do when I saw you drive in.”

“I’ll take care of it.” She turned back to the car. She’d leave the boxes for now, she decided, but she could carry both the firewood and the case that held her notebook computer. She picked them up, leaned a hip against the door to shut it, and realized that the cretin-next-door hadn’t moved. “Is there anything else you’d like me to do for you?” she asked pointedly. “Or are you planning to just stand out here and freeze until they move the truck?”

“On second thought,” he said, “I’ll go ask them myself. I must admit to being curious. I assumed from the little they took out of the van that they’d be gone within an hour. What have they been doing in there all afternoon—having a party?”

He’d actually watched while the movers unloaded her possessions? “It must be nice to have the kind of time on your hands to sit and watch the neighbors’ furniture,” Delainey muttered.

His eyebrows rose, as if he was wondering why she sounded irritated. “That’s my point. It didn’t take all that long.”

Maybe he hadn’t actually been prying, Delainey told herself. She supposed there could have been other reasons why he’d been sitting by the window watching every box come off the moving van. She just couldn’t happen to think of any at the moment.

“I do hope you kept a running inventory,” she said sweetly. “It’ll come in handy in case the movers have lost any of my possessions.” She started up the sidewalk.

Just as she stepped onto the tiny porch, the front door of the town house opened and two burly men came out, one carrying an armload of neatly folded furniture pads, the other pulling a two-wheeled cart. “Just finished, Ms. Hodges,” the one with the cart said. “It’s all yours.” He hesitated on the top step. “You’re absolutely sure you want that futon downstairs?”

“Those were the instructions I left, yes.”

He shrugged. “You’re the boss. It just seemed odd to me, to have two big bedrooms and not a stick of furniture in either of them, only clothes and boxes—so I thought I’d better check.”

“Your first house?” the cretin-next-door asked casually.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I’m sure you’re anxious to be going, Mr. Wagner, now that the truck will soon be out of your driveway.” She didn’t wait for an answer before going inside.

She closed the front door behind her and leaned against it, looking across the open plan of the first floor, through the entry and living area, past the stairway set off to one side and the kitchen half tucked underneath, to the glass atrium door at the back leading onto a patio.

She had seen the town house only once before, when she’d looked at it before making an offer to buy. She hadn’t expected it to appear quite so different now.

But of course on that first visit it had been daylight, and the previous occupant’s furniture had still been in place. There had been posters on the walls and knickknacks on the mantel.

Now, even though the movers had left all the lights on, the rooms seemed dim and almost dingy. On the beige walls were patches of darker color where frames had hung, protecting the paint from fading. With only her own few bits of furniture in the living room—the futon, a small rocking chair, the stereo system and a television on a cart—the whole town house seemed to echo. She could hear her heartbeat, though perhaps that wasn’t the silence so much as the sudden realization of the responsibility she had taken on in buying a house.

Her cell phone rang, startlingly loud in the quiet room. She glanced automatically at her watch before answering.

The voice on the other end was that of the real estate agent who had closed the deal. “How’s the move going?”

“Hi, Patty. It’s all finished, except for the unpacking.”

“Oh, the fun part.”

“Is that an offer to help?”

Patty chuckled. “Sure. I’ve got a free spot in my calendar a year from next April, if that’s good for you.”

“Thanks anyway.” Delainey moved across the living room to where the black-upholstered futon sat in front of the fireplace. The movers had even plumped the cushions, and it looked almost inviting. “Patty, remember when we looked at this place and we talked about how oddly the furniture was arranged?”

“Yeah, the couch was sitting at a really strange angle.”

“We should have moved it to look underneath.” Delainey shifted the phone from one hand to the other and tipped her head to get a better view of the carpet. Smack in the center of the room was a black patch the size of her outstretched hand. “It looks like someone spilled India ink on the carpet, and they just set the couch on top to hide it.”

“Ink? If that’s actually what it is, it won’t come out. I’ll talk to the people at the loan company.”

“You think they might actually replace the carpet?”

“I’ll suggest that it would be good for customer relations—but don’t get your hopes up too high.”

“I won’t,” Delainey said. “I worked in the mortgage department at the bank for a while—long enough to know there’s a whole different set of rules when it comes to houses that have been forced up for sale by the threat of repossession. Buyer beware is the operative phrase in situations like that.”

“And you did buy the place at a pretty deep discount because everybody admits there’s some work to be done.”

Some work to be done? At the moment, Delainey thought, it seemed a classic understatement. “Well, right now I’d say the loan company did very well for itself. I didn’t realize it would look so…abandoned.”

“Every house does on moving day. Hey, if you end up stuck with the stain, you could just pretend it’s a Rorschach test. It would make a great party game, having everyone interpret it.”

“Thanks,” Delainey said dryly. “You’re a real pal, Patty.”

She eyed the boxes the movers had stacked in the kitchen and decided that unpacking the toaster and her few mismatched dishes could wait awhile. The moving van was gone and there was no sign of the cretin-next-door, so she carried in her two boxes of special treasures from the car.

When she set the first one on the kitchen counter, she was startled to notice that right next to the stove, where a big ceramic fruit bowl had been strategically placed on the day she had looked at the town house, was a perfectly round scorch mark where someone had once set a sizzling skillet or a boiling kettle.

A carpet and a countertop needing replaced. “I wonder what other nice little surprises I’m apt to find,” she muttered as she began to unpack the box.

She didn’t know why the previous owners had been unable to make their house payments, but she was sympathetic to their plight—and she couldn’t exactly blame them for covering up the flaws. They were not only losing their home, but they’d already sacrificed the down payment they’d made when they first took out the loan. And since the loan company which carried the mortgage was looking for a quick sale which would turn just enough cash to pay the outstanding balance, the owners weren’t likely to get anything from the sale at all. Only if someone offered to pay more than it took to settle the mortgage would the owners end up with a cent—so of course they’d make it look as good as they could and hope that the buyer wouldn’t notice until it was too late.

Which was exactly what had happened. It hadn’t occurred to Delainey to move the couch, or pick up the fruit bowl to look underneath. For that matter, she couldn’t remember whether she’d actually turned on all the faucets and light switches. She’d been in a bit of a hurry that day, as she recalled.

But despite the damage, Patty was right that she had gotten a bargain. It wasn’t as if she’d have to put down new carpet or tear out the kitchen countertops right away. She could live with them as they were for a while—and that was lucky, she mused. Good deal though the town house had been, it was a big leap in monthly expense from the rent she’d been paying in her shared apartment, and what the down payment had done to her savings account hadn’t been pretty.

She unwrapped her grandmother’s small blue china bell and set it safely on a shelf. The next bundle of tissue paper contained the silver sugar tongs she’d bought at an antique store on her last trip home. Her mother had thought the gadget a waste of money—what on earth was wrong with using a spoon?—but though Delainey couldn’t have explained it, she had known she’d regret it if she walked out of the store without the tongs.

And now, finally, she might actually have a chance to use them. In the town house she could do an entirely different kind of entertaining than she’d ever tackled before. When she’d been sharing the apartment, having a few friends in for pizza and a rented movie had been a big party. Now, particularly with her new job, she would be hosting dinners and cocktail parties for clients as well. Of course, she’d need a table first, and some chairs….

Uncertain where she wanted to store the tongs, she left them lying beside the box while she unwrapped the crystal clock she’d been given for a high school graduation gift. It looked small but important in the center of the mantel, and putting it in place made her feel as if she was starting to claim the town house for her own.

She looked thoughtfully into the bare, black cavity of the fireplace. She’d never had one before. Not a real one. The fireplace in the house she’d lived in as a child had been only for show—its warm glow was provided by an orange lightbulb. And none of the apartments she’d lived in had ever been the sort to include such amenities.

The work of settling in could wait, she decided. It was her first night in her own home, and she was going to sit by her own fireside and relax. Maybe even go to sleep with the crackling of a fire to soothe her.

Upstairs, in the front bedroom where the movers had hung her clothes, she changed from her khaki-colored business suit into ivory satin pajamas and brushed out her hair until it gleamed golden brown in the bathroom mirror. She dug sheets, pillows, and blankets out of a box in the back bedroom and made up the futon, pulling it around till it sat directly in front of the fireplace. Then she found the bundle of firewood where she’d set it down right inside the front door and carried it into the living room.

The bundle was tightly wrapped in plastic, and the carrying strap had been stapled into the wood itself. She broke a fingernail, went to the kitchen to open a box to look for a knife, and cracked the tip off the knife blade before she finally managed to pry the staples loose.

“Tools,” she muttered. “I’m going to have to buy some tools.”

She knelt down to stack the wood in the fireplace, crisscrossing the splintery chunks as she’d seen others do. It was difficult to keep the wood from shifting and rolling, and even when she’d put it all in, it didn’t seem like much of a fire. It was only a small pile. She took a deep breath and struck a match.

The wood caught fire instantly, and moments later a cloud of smoke billowed out of the fireplace and engulfed her. Coughing and choking, Delainey staggered to the atrium door at the back of the living room, fumbled for what seemed endless minutes before she figured out the lock, and finally flung the door open.

Cold air and snowflakes flooded in and swirled around her. Smoke surged from the fireplace, and Delainey grabbed the plastic that had been wrapped around the firewood and tried desperately to fan the fumes toward the door.

A shadow loomed in the doorway. “What in the hell are you doing? Trying to burn the whole place down?”

It was the cretin-next-door, still in the faded jeans but without the leather jacket. Instead he was wearing a sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed to the elbows. And his voice no longer sounded like cashmere but more like canvas—rough and abrasive.

Just what I need.

At the moment, however, Delainey was desperate enough to accept help from any source. “The fire just flared up all of a sudden,” she said. “I got all the plastic off the wood, I’m sure of it, so I don’t know why it’s smoking like that.”

He glanced at the fireplace, shot a look at her, and set her briskly out of his way as he headed for the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he said, “Of course it didn’t occur to you before you lit the fire that a poker would be a useful thing to have on hand.”

Delainey bit her lip. There was no sense in answering something that so obviously hadn’t been intended as a question.

Drawers rattled, paper rustled, and she heard a muttered curse. Then he came back with her silver sugar tongs in his hand and dropped to his knees by the fireplace.

Delainey put out a hand to stop him. “You can’t use those! That’s silver—”

“Watch me.” The tongs gleamed red in the firelight as he reached over the flames, up into the chimney, and pulled. There was a metallic thud, and he sat back on his heels.

The air was still thick and gray, but instead of rolling into the room now, the smoke was going up the chimney.

“A fireplace works better when you open the damper before you strike the match,” he said.

“I guess I should have known that.” Delaney watched as he patted out a spark which had settled on the front of the sweatshirt. “I hope you didn’t get burned.”

“Singed the hair on my arms a little.” He stood up. “Those bundles of so-called firewood are pretty useless—and that’s a good thing. If the wood hadn’t been dry as cardboard, you’d have had smoke so thick you’d have had to knock a hole in the roof to vent it.”

He was right about the firewood, Delainey realized. The blaze was already dying down; the half-dozen sticks were little more than embers. It hadn’t even been a hot enough blaze to melt the few snowflakes that still clung to his hair.

“Thanks,” she said. “ I’m sorry for yelling at you about the tongs. And I’ll replace the sweatshirt.”

“No need. It’s been exposed to worse things than sparks.” He handed the tongs to her. “Don’t close the damper till the fire’s completely out.”

She nodded, but she was thinking, As if I’m actually going to touch that fireplace ever again!

“Is there anything else you’d like me to do for you?” he said pleasantly.

Delainey bit her lip as she recognized her own words quoted back at her. “No, I think that takes care of it.” What had he said his name was? Wagner, that was it. “Thanks again, Mr. Wagner.”

“Sam,” he said.

“What?”

“It’s just a quirk of mine, but I think a lady who entertains in her pajamas should be on a first name basis with her guests.”

Delainey gritted her teeth and brushed feebly at a sooty streak on her satin sleeve.

He smiled and turned toward the French door. “Want me to close this, or are you planning to just stand in here and freeze?”

Damn the man; he had the memory of a tape recorder. “I think I’ll let the place air out a little more first.” She looked down at the silver tongs in her hand, now smudged with smoke, and added tentatively, “Honestly, I’m not incompetent in general. Just inexperienced with fireplaces.”

“Well, that’s good,” Sam said. “Because I was really starting to worry about what might happen when you tried to take a shower.”

He was whistling as he crossed the patio toward his own back door.

I’m buying a poker tomorrow, Delainey thought. But not for the fireplace. Just so I’ll have it handy to use as a murder weapon.

The doorbell rang as Delainey was coming down the stairs the next morning, still tightening an earring. She peeked out to see a woman on the doorstep, every gray hair in place and a basket in her hand.

“Welcome to the neighborhood,” the woman said when Delainey opened the door. “My name’s Emma Ashford and I live right around the corner.” She held out the basket. “Muffins for your first breakfast in your new home. Actually, I tried to leave some for you last night, but your moving men seemed to think I was taking pity on them and by the time I’d explained, they’d cleaned up every crumb.”

Delainey inhaled the rich fragrance of vanilla and cinnamon which rose from the folds of the napkin which lined the basket. “So you baked these this morning? I’ll have to thank the moving men for being greedy, because I get muffins straight from the oven…. Won’t you come in?”

Emma hesitated. “I don’t mean to be a pest. I know you working girls keep a ferocious schedule.”

“Actually, I have all the time in the world this morning, because I’m stuck here while I wait for a delivery.” Delainey led the way to the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“Only if you’re making some for yourself.”

“It’s no trouble at all.” Delainey took two plates from the cabinet. One was white plastic with fake gold trim; the other was blue pottery. “Not very elegant, I’m afraid. China that actually matched was never a priority when I shared an apartment.”

“Of course not. Roommates can be so careless.” Emma settled herself at the breakfast bar and began to unpack the basket. “This most be your first real home.”

Delainey nodded and ran a finger across the rough surface of the counter where the previous owner’s hot skillet had damaged it. “It’ll be a while before I get it all into shape.”

“It always takes twice as long as you expect, and three times as much money.”

“Oh, that’s a comfort,” Delainey said dryly. She plugged the coffeepot in and reached into the cabinet for a pair of mismatched mugs. “Did you know the previous owners?”

“Not well. I’ve only been here a short while myself.” Emma split a muffin and set it on the blue pottery plate, pushing it across the breakfast bar to Delainey.

Delainey wanted to ask why she was living there at all. White Oaks was hardly a retirement community; from what Patty had told her, the average age of the residents was about thirty. But she couldn’t think of a way to phrase the question without sounding rude, so she turned her attention back to the coffeepot, which didn’t seem to be doing anything.

“That’s odd,” she muttered. “It was all right when I used it a couple of days ago.” She moved it to the other side of the sink and plugged it into a different outlet, and it immediately began to swish and sigh. “Oh, that’s great—a dead outlet, too, right in the middle of the kitchen. Maybe I can get an electrician to come while I’m waiting around anyway.”

“The same day you call? Unlikely.”

“I suppose you’re right. Will you excuse me for just a minute? I need to call the bank so my boss knows I won’t be in till late.”

“If it’s just a package you’re waiting for, the clubhouse manager will be happy to sign for it and keep it till you get home.”

“Actually, it’s a bed.” Delainey glanced across the living area at the futon where—she hoped—she had spent her last night ever. “A whole bedroom set, in fact. It was supposed to be delivered first thing this morning, but the department store called just before you got here to say the truck would be delayed.”

“What a nuisance. There’s no telling when they’ll actually show up.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Delainey said glumly. “I really can’t afford to take the time off, because I just started this job six weeks ago.”

“You said you work for a bank?”

“National City. I’m in the business-loan division.”

“Then we certainly can’t have you being late,” Emma said briskly. “You go on to work—after you’ve finished your muffin, of course—and I’ll keep an eye out for the deliverymen.”

“That would be lovely, but I can’t ask you to—”

“You didn’t ask. I offered. That’s what neighbors do.”

“Not the kind of neighbors I’ve ever had before,” Delainey said. She surveyed Emma Ashford more closely. Con artist? Nosy old woman? Neither, she concluded. Emma was just a nice lady who was probably a bit lonely in this community of younger people, and who had a little too much time on her hands.

Delainey had encountered dozens of women like Emma Ashford during her years at the teller’s window. In a backward sort of way, she’d be doing Emma a favor in letting her help—though nothing like the magnitude of the favor Emma was doing for her.

“Just show me which bedroom.” Emma stood up. “And I’ll take care of the rest.”

Almost everything about Delainey’s job was new. The promotion had taken her to a higher level of responsibility, with a new title and a new boss, and a new office that was an actual room, not just a cubicle. For the first time in her career she had both a door and a secretary. Delainey hadn’t yet decided which thrilled her more—running a fingertip across the silvery doorplate with her name engraved on it, or having Josie keeping track of the calls she needed to return and the appointments on her calendar.

When she came in, Josie was printing the day’s appointments list, and she passed it across the desk. “It’s already outdated, though. Mr. Bishop wants to see you in his office right away.”

Bless Emma Ashford, Delainey thought. Without the woman’s offer, she’d have been sitting at home waiting on a delivery truck instead of being here to answer the boss’s summons. And since it was the first time in a week that she’d done more than exchange greetings with him in the hallway, it would have been a particularly bad day to have been late.

Delainey gathered up the projects she’d been working on and crossed the hall to the corner office with its view of the downtown skyline. Someday, perhaps, this view would be hers…

She squashed the thought before it could get out of hand. Concentrate on the job you’ve already got, she reminded herself, and the next promotion will take care of itself. It was a philosophy that hadn’t led her astray in the ten years since she’d first sat behind a teller’s window as a trainee, too nervous about the sheer size of the piles of cash she was handling to worry about anything else. “RJ? You wanted to see me?”

RJ Bishop ran a hand through his heavy, prematurely gray hair and waved her to an overstuffed chair across from his desk. “Have a seat, Delainey. Time to catch up on what’s been going on. How are you enjoying the job?”

“I love it, RJ. In fact, I have an idea to run by you when you have a minute.”

“No time like the present.”

Delainey took a deep breath. “There are a lot of women in this town who have good ideas for small businesses, but they’re having a lot of trouble getting started. I’ve been thinking about how we could set up a business incubator to help them out. They could have a good address and a private office, but they could share some of the more expensive resources for a while until they get on their feet.”

There was a tap on the door and another of the department’s staff came in. “You wanted me, RJ?”

Delainey surveyed the newcomer with interest. She hadn’t worked with Jason Conners before—had barely met him, in fact. When she joined the team, he’d been wrapping up the financing on a venture-capital deal that had kept him out of the office much of the time.

“Sit down, Jason.” RJ looked at Delainey again. “A business incubator would be a pretty expensive proposition.”

“Not necessarily. We’d charge rent, of course, and a percentage of the profits.”

Jason hitched up his perfectly creased trousers and perched on the arm of the chair next to Delainey’s. “If there are any profits.”

Delainey turned to look him in the eye. “We’d have a high percentage of failures, yes, but one big success would more than make up for a dozen losses. Anyway, the gain for us would be much more than financial. The women who make their businesses work will be loyal to the bank because we gave them a hand when they needed it. We’ll have all their deposits and loans—and a great deal of goodwill, too.”

“Women only?” Jason sniffed. “It’s hardly worth the risk of being accused of discrimination, RJ.”

I haven’t missed much, not working with him, Delainey thought. “But I don’t want to take up any more of Jason’s valuable time with that discussion, RJ,” she said smoothly. “We can talk about it later.”

“Why?” Jason asked. “Afraid I’ll poke holes in your reasoning?”

“Let’s drop the incubator idea for now, Delainey, and move on to the Bannister deal.” RJ leaned forward. “I want to bring Jason up to speed on what you’ve been doing with Elmer Bannister’s numbers.”

Delainey pulled the folder from her pile and showed him the projections she’d done on how they could pull together the capital that Elmer Bannister needed in order to expand his factory.

RJ listened patiently, running a fingertip over the figures. Jason fidgeted.

Finally, RJ nodded. “It looks good,” he said. “Bringing together Elmer Bannister’s product and that particular group of investors. What do you think, Jason?”

Jason shrugged. “It’s not bad. I’ll call the investors and make the proposal.”

“Excuse me,” Delainey said. “You’ll make the proposal? RJ, I put this together. I should be the one to—”

RJ was shaking his head. “Not this time, Delainey. You could probably pull it off, but—”

Darn right I could pull it off, Delainey thought irritably.

“But we don’t want to risk your hard work by putting you on the front line like that just yet. You’ll help Jason when he makes the presentation, get some experience that way.”

While Jason takes the credit. But Delainey knew that further argument would get her nowhere. “Yes, sir.”

RJ grinned at her. “I think that’s all then. I’ll let you two work out the details.” He pulled his chair up to the desk and reached for a pen.

Dismissed, Delainey gathered up her folders. Jason ostentatiously held the door for her.

As if I’m such a little feminine flower that I couldn’t manage to pull it open for myself. She started down the hall.

“Delainey,” Jason said. “A word of warning. RJ likes his people to be a team. So the question is, are you a team player?”

She didn’t look at him. “I’ve never had a problem working in groups, Jason.”

“Good. Then you’ll be eager to be a part of the next deal I’m working on. Heard of Curtis Whittington?”

“Hasn’t everybody? What’s the merger king working on this time?”

Jason laughed. “Cute nickname—but I’d suggest you not call him that to his face when we have lunch with him tomorrow.”

“He’s in town?”

“Well, we’re not having lunch by conference call. Unless you’d rather not be on the team?”

Delainey kept her voice calm. “I don’t have any other plans.”

Jason laughed. “That’s what I thought. Century Club, one o’clock. In the meantime, do your homework.”

He strolled off down the hall, leaving Delainey chewing her bottom lip and wondering whether he was setting her up or offering her the chance of a lifetime.

Her secretary spent half the afternoon at the library, and Delainey went home a little early but with a briefcase stuffed to bursting with reading material about Curtis Whittington. Too bad she’d sworn off fires, she thought absently. It would be pleasant to sit beside a blaze tonight with a glass of wine, reading her way through the stack of magazines Josie had culled.

For an instant when she pulled up in front of the town house complex, she thought she had been caught in a time warp and flung back to the previous day. A big truck was parked in front, and two burly men were coming down the sidewalk. But it wasn’t a moving van this time, just a delivery truck from the department store. “Everything’s in but the bedside tables,” one of them called as she got out of her car. “We’ll be done in a minute.”

“I thought you were supposed to be here this morning.”

“Oh, it worked out better to reverse the deliveries,” the man said cheerfully.

“Better for whom?” Delainey said under her breath. Not for Emma Ashford, that was certain. Poor woman, casually offering to do a good deed that she expected would take an hour or two at most, and then having to wait around all day….

There was one good thing about it as far as Delainey was concerned, though. She wouldn’t have any trouble tracking Emma down to give her the flowers she’d brought as a thank-you gesture.

She gathered up the sheaf of pink roses and her bulging briefcase and followed a pair of bedside tables up the sidewalk. Coming in out of the sunlight, she blinked in the sudden dimness inside the town house. For a minute all she could distinguish was movement in the kitchen.

“Emma?” she called. “I can’t thank you enough for—”

But as her eyes adjusted, she saw that it wasn’t Emma in the kitchen. It was the cretin-next-door, and he seemed to be making himself right at home.

Sam Wagner looked up. “Flowers?” he said gently. “For me? Oh, honey—you shouldn’t have!”




CHAPTER TWO


DELAINEY stormed across the big room and set her briefcase on the breakfast bar. The magazines she’d stuffed inside slid out and cascaded across the counter and onto the floor. “What are you doing in my house?”

“At the moment,” Sam said, “I’m wiring in a new outlet. But if you object, I can stop.”

Her gaze dropped to his hands. His long fingers moved quickly and with a grace that surprised her, winding a pair of colored wires together and twisting a plastic cap over the joint.

She’d forgotten all about the outlet. Emma must have told him it needed repairing—but why? “Are you an electrician?”

“Not exactly, so don’t tell the union I’m fiddling with wires.” He fitted the outlet back into the box in the wall and reached for a screwdriver to fasten it in place.

“Then…are you the maintenance man for the complex?” That made sense, Delainey thought. With a hundred units on the estate, it would certainly be a full-time job to keep up with minor repairs for all the residents. And having a handyman living right on site would be a good idea, too, because he’d be able to respond faster in an emergency.

The use of a town house might be a part of his pay—and a job like that would certainly explain Sam Wagner’s faded jeans and sweatshirt and running shoes. A maintenance man never knew what messes his day might include. Though today, she noted, he was wearing khakis and a pullover sweater. He’s positively dressed up.

“Not officially.”

Delainey felt like stamping her foot. “Then what are you?”

“You sound so suspicious that I’d rather not admit to anything.” Sam gave a last twist to the mounting screw and put the plastic protective plate back in place over the outlet. “There. It should be as good as new.” He gathered up bits of wire and insulation and dumped them in the trash can. “Well, now that you’re here to supervise the delivery team, I’ll just take my flowers home and get them into water.”

Reminded of the roses, Delainey clutched the bouquet a little tighter. “Is Emma upstairs?”

“No. Why? You’re afraid the deliverymen couldn’t set up the bed without her advice? Though it is quite a bed, I must say. Even the deliverymen must not see one like that very often.”

“Of course you would have to go take a look,” she said irritably. “I hope you satisfied your curiosity.”

Sam shrugged. “I wasn’t being nosy.”

“Oh, no, of course not!”

“I was just doing my job as a supervisor, keeping a close eye on things. I’d hate to have you come home and find out they’d put it together upside down or something.”

“The real question is why you were supervising at all. What happened to Emma?”

“Bridge club, every Tuesday afternoon at the mansion. When the delivery people didn’t show up on time, she saddled me with the job and went off to play cards.” He began gathering up tools. “You must have been sleeping on a futon for a long time to make you go all out like that when you bought a real bed.”

Delainey willed herself not to blush. How she chose to furnish her bedroom was certainly none of his business. “She left you here alone?”

“You’re complaining? She could have just put a note on the door telling the delivery people to try again tomorrow.”

And since it wasn’t Emma’s bed, Delainey reminded herself, who would blame her for setting limits on her Good Samaritan offer? “I’m not complaining exactly. Just surprised, since she said she’d take care of it.”

“I know.” Sam nodded thoughtfully. “You’d think by the time a woman hits seventy-five, she’d learn to be responsible for doing what she says she’s going to. On the other hand, now you have your outlet fixed too.” He opened a yellow plastic case and began to fit tools into the slots and crevices inside. “Maybe you should go up and make sure they’re doing things right.”

Maybe she should, Delainey thought, because with any luck, he’d be gone by the time she came back down.

“Don’t forget to stomp your feet on the stairs to warn them—just in case they’ve been trying on your lingerie up there.”

She pretended not to hear him. “The outlet—what do I owe you for your work?”

His eyes brightened. “You mean you’ll pay me as well as bring me flowers?”

“I can’t imagine you wanting the flowers.” She opened the cabinet where her skimpy supply of dishes resided and got out a big, heavy glass mug. “I’ll stick them in water till Emma gets home. Which unit is hers?”

“She didn’t tell you?”

“She just said she lived around the corner.”

“Well, she does, sort of. That corner.” He pointed.

“What? That’s where you live. Wait a minute—you mean you and Emma—? No.”

“If you’d like to be precise, she’s my maternal grandmother.”

Delainey flipped a switch to turn on the light over the sink. Nothing happened. “Oh, great. You’ve messed up the rest of the wiring!”

“No, I just pulled the breaker so I wouldn’t electrocute myself while I worked.”

“More’s the pity,” she said under her breath. She filled the mug and with difficulty fitted in the bunch of stems.

Sam casually shook a finger at her. “Just for that remark, I should make you turn the power back on yourself. No, on second thought, I’ll do it. Before you ever touch the electrical system, I want to be at a safe distance. Easter Island might be far enough.”

Delainey wasn’t listening. “You live with your grandmother?”

“Last time I looked, it wasn’t a crime.”

“Aren’t you just a little old for that? And this is two days in a row you’ve been hanging around here in the afternoon…Are you on vacation or what?”

“Extended,” he said crisply.

There was something about his tone of voice that puzzled her for a moment. “Oh. You’ve been laid off? I’m sorry.”

Sam nodded. “Downsized. Given the pink slip. Axed. Made redundant. Shown the door. Have you ever noticed how many ways we have to describe losing a job?”

“Fired,” Delainey added helpfully.

“I was not fired.”

“Sorry. I was just playing the game. I’ve never actually been out of work, but—”

“Very lucky for you.”

“I know. I’ve been with the bank for ten years now. But I do understand how it affects a person to lose a job—it can be like losing his identity.”

“Oh, I’m not at that stage yet,” Sam said absently. “I still recognize myself in the mirror when I shave.”

Why bother to waste compassion on the man? “Well, good luck finding something to do.”

“Gran’s keeping me busy. Everybody she knows has something that needs fixed.”

That wasn’t what Delainey had meant, but she decided not to press the point. It would be no wonder if Emma Ashford was trying her best to keep her grandson occupied. Having a grown man lying about the house all day would get old in a hurry.

Sam crossed the kitchen to the pantry closet and moved aside half a dozen cans of condensed soup so he could reach the electrical panel at the back. “Good thing you haven’t stocked up the shelves,” he said. “Why they always put these things in the darkest and most inaccessible spot is beyond me.”

There was a click from the direction of the closet, and abruptly the light over the sink glared straight into Delainey’s eyes. Feeling a bit obstinate, she plugged the toaster into the outlet he’d repaired and pushed the lever down.

“What’s the matter? You didn’t think I could do it?” He leaned both elbows on the breakfast bar.

Inside the toaster, the coils glowed red. She unplugged it. “I was just making sure. So that’s what you meant earlier about not being the official handyman around here. Emma has you lined up as the unofficial one.”

“It keeps me out of trouble.”

Delainey had her doubts that any kind of job could accomplish that goal. “Well, thank you. Let me know what I owe you for the work.”

Sam picked up the last of the tools. “Oh, I couldn’t charge a fee.”

“Why on earth not?” She was so intrigued she forgot she was still holding the toaster. “Seriously, Sam, this could be a nice little business. There must be a huge demand for someone who’ll do the little jobs that regular contractors don’t want to bother with—things like broken outlets and drippy faucets and loose door handles.”

“If that’s a polite way to ask me to fix your drippy faucet and your loose door handle—”

“I haven’t got any—at least none I’ve found yet. I was speaking generally. You wouldn’t need much to get started. Just business cards, a nicely printed fee schedule, some advertising, a phone number and a reliable answering service.” She eyed the fitted case with its neat but limited assortment of screwdrivers and pliers. It was definitely an amateur’s kit, the kind of thing she’d have to buy for herself sometime soon. “You’ll need some better tools, of course, and maybe a truck or a van.”

“And the necessary licenses and permits. I wasn’t kidding about the electricians’ union.” He closed the toolbox with a click that sounded almost final.

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. But getting the money to start shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll help you put together a business plan and a loan application.” She delved into her briefcase, scooping out the few magazines which hadn’t already escaped when she set it down, and pulled out a gold case engraved with her initials. “Here’s my card. We do this kind of thing all the time.”

He took the bit of glossy paper and looked at it thoughtfully. “Delainey Hodges, Business Loan Officer, National City Bank.”

“Think it over and call me.”

He tapped a finger against the card. “Do you always make loans so impulsively?”

She was annoyed. “Look, Sam, I didn’t promise to back this enterprise.”

“It certainly sounded to me like that’s what you were doing. Do you get paid based on how many loans you can talk people into taking?”

“I just think it would be a great idea. And I didn’t guarantee you a loan, I said I’d help you apply for financing. If the package looked good, then the bank would probably be happy to give you a loan.”

“I don’t doubt it. The criteria seems to be if the client can prove he doesn’t need the money, the bank will lend it.” He put her business card in his pocket.

“That’s not the way it works. What happened to put you off banks, anyway?” she asked shrewdly. “Did somebody repossess your car after you lost your job, or what?”

He didn’t answer, but flicked a fingertip across Curtis Whittington’s face on the cover of a financial magazine. “Unless it’s somebody like this, of course. Then the bigger the loan amount and the riskier the ride, the happier the bank is to help out.” The magazine slid a little, showing that Whittington’s face was on the one underneath as well. Sam’s eyebrows rose. “Are you a fan?”

“Of the merger king? Not exactly. But I’m having lunch with him tomorrow.”

“Lucky you. Do you want me to take the flowers?”

“No, I’ll bring them over later. When did you say Emma will be home?”

“About six. My feelings are hurt, you know. What did Gran do to deserve flowers?”

“Hey, I offered to pay you. Twice.”

“I remember. I’ll let you know when I figure out what kind of reimbursement I can accept without losing my amateur standing. Of course, there’s always—”

Delainey tried to swallow a gasp. He’s only jerking your chain, she told herself.

“Though maybe it’s not worth the risk,” he said earnestly. “If you could cook, your pantry wouldn’t be so empty.”

She was too startled to stay silent. “You were going to ask me to cook something for you? Not—” She noticed that his deep blue eyes were starting to sparkle like moonlight on a lake, and swallowed hard.

“I’m always willing to listen to an offer,” Sam said gently. “What sort of currency did you have in mind?”

“Nothing.”

“Right. Well, I’ll keep thinking. I’m sure I’ll come up with something.”

“Don’t twist your brain into knots over it.”

Sam smiled. “I’ll tell Gran you’re going to stop by. She’ll be pleased—she was making noises earlier today about giving you a housewarming party.”

“That’s lovely of her, but—”

“Yes, isn’t it thoughtful? I already know what I’m going to get you.”

Delainey couldn’t stop herself. “What?” she asked warily.

“An accessory for the next time you use your fireplace.”

“If you’re thinking of buying me a poker, I should warn you—”

“Nothing so dull. I’m going to get you a smoking jacket, so you won’t have to keep ruining your pajamas. See you later, sweetheart.”

Sam had left the garage door open when he’d gone over to Delainey’s to rescue Emma, so it was easy to put the tool kit back on the shelf on his way through.

Delainey had been right on target about one thing, he thought as he lined the plastic box up precisely with the dust-free outline it had left on the metal shelf. But it was one he hadn’t expected she would pick up on at all.

You’ll need some better tools, of course, she’d said almost casually. And she was right—he’d practically twisted the head off one of the cheap screwdrivers just putting that outlet back together. But he hadn’t expected that she’d know the difference.

The woman might not be able to light a fire, but at least there were a few practical bits of knowledge floating around under all that shiny gold-flecked hair. And a good thing it was, too, because if she was going to hard-sell business loans, she’d better know what she was talking about.

And that had definitely been a hard sell she’d given him. For a minute there, Sam had half expected to find himself in the home-repair business without ever having had a chance to refuse. Scarier yet was the fact that the longer she’d talked, the more it had started to sound like a good idea.

Of course, loaning the money to set up a small home-repair business was a far different proposition from dealing with Curtis Whittington. The merger king, she’d called him. The merger maniac was more like it.

He wondered if Delainey was trying to hard-sell Curtis Whittington, or if things were the other way around.

The exterior trim on every single town house at White Oaks was basically the same, and the homeowner’s covenant that Delainey had signed along with her down-payment check made it clear that it was to remain that way. No extra awnings, purple shutters, or odd-shaped mailboxes were allowed, and Delainey suspected if a pink plastic flamingo appeared on a front lawn that a note from the manager would soon follow, giving the bird instructions to migrate.

“There’s a thought,” she mused. If Sam Wagner got to be too annoying, she could line his driveway with neon-colored pinwheels and park a painted plaster statue of a jockey next to the front door. But of course it wouldn’t be Sam who would have to take the nasty call from the complex manager, it would be Emma.

So much for a good idea.

Somehow, despite the rule about individualizing the town houses, Emma Ashford’s stood out as more personal than the units Delainey drove past on her way in and out of the complex. A potted pine tree covered with red bows stood off to the side of the front door, a holly wreath hung above the bell, and at her feet a welcome mat decorated with Santa’s face proclaimed “Welcome Ho-Ho-Home.”

Delainey rang the bell and sighed at the reminder that Christmas was only three weeks away. It wasn’t that she was a Scrooge, but exactly when was she going to find time to search out her few Christmas decorations, much less to put them up?

Emma ushered her inside, exclaimed over the roses, and went to put them in water. As Delainey waited for her to finish, she looked around. This town house was larger than her own, though the plan of the first floor was similar—basically one huge room divided into various living areas. The main difference was that the kitchen was separated by a wall rather than just a breakfast bar.

The overall impression was of vibrant color—an unusual combination of purple, lavender, and hunter green. Delainey was a little surprised, because the brilliant colors didn’t quite seem Emma’s style. She would have expected old-fashioned floral chintz that had faded gently over time until only the softest tones were left. But hadn’t Emma said something about not having lived at White Oaks long herself? Maybe she’d gone for all new furniture when she moved.

Considering the welcome mat and the wreath outside, she was also startled that there was no Christmas tree to be seen. But perhaps Emma was a purist about having a live tree and was just waiting till closer to the holiday to put it up.

On the back of a wing chair near the fireplace, a seal-point Siamese cat yawned and sat up, and deep blue eyes inspected Delainey from head to toe. “Well, hello there,” she said, holding out a hand for the cat to sniff.

Sam came down the stairs in the worn leather jacket with a helmet under his arm. “I see you’ve already met the Empress,” he said.

“Is that her name?”

“Not even close. Her official name is some long, involved, incredibly complicated mix of Oriental-sounding vowels. I gave up on it a long time ago, and she’s just been the Empress ever since. Was Gran suitably impressed with the flowers?”

“She seemed to like them.”

“I still think you should have given them to me instead. She gets flowers all the time, so it doesn’t have the same impact on her as it would on me.”

“That,” Emma said from the doorway, “is nothing more than slander. I adore roses and these are particularly lovely ones. And they’re always more fun when they’re a surprise.”

“As they are this time, because you didn’t do anything to earn them.” Sam grinned at her. “I was the one working my head off while you were over at the clubhouse going no trump and letting the manager wait on you hand and foot.”

“He’s very nice to us,” Emma admitted. “Have you met the manager, Delainey?”

“Not yet. In fact, I’ve never been in the mansion. I was so short of time the day I looked at the town house that I didn’t get any further.”

“Well, you definitely need to do something about that,” Emma said. “The mansion is one of the best features of the whole complex—it has a little of everything. Are you going out, Sam?”

“I’m not just polishing my helmet, Gran.”

“Well, have a good time,” Emma said.

Delainey watched as Sam set the helmet on his head. “You ride a motorcycle? Wait a minute—then why were you so fussed yesterday about the moving van blocking the drive? You could have gotten past it easily.”

“On the motorcycle, yes. But I was putting Gran’s car away.” He fastened the chin strap and tightened it.

“Where were we?” Emma asked. “Oh, yes—the clubhouse facilities. You should go over for dinner, at least, Delainey.”

“It wouldn’t be much fun to go alone,” Delainey said. “Perhaps you’ll be my guest.”

“She gets flowers and dinner?” Sam muttered.

Though he sounded hurt, Delainey was willing to bet he was trying to smother amusement instead of woe.

Emma shot a disapproving look at him. “The boy has no manners, of course—but he’s right. He did do all the work.”

Now there was no question; Sam’s eyes—even bluer than those of the Siamese—were full of humor. The cretin was laughing at her.

Still, even though Delainey felt she’d been set up by an expert, there was only one graceful thing to do. “I meant both of you, of course,” she said.

“And anyone who believes that,” Sam said under his breath, “is due for a serious reality check.”

Delainey raised her voice just a little. “How unfortunate that Sam has other plans so he can’t accompany us.”

“Then we’ll go tomorrow,” Emma said comfortably. “Going on Wednesday night will be better anyway. There’s always live entertainment on Wednesdays, and that usually means a crowd. You’ll be able to meet some of the neighbors.”

By the time that Delainey ushered her last client of the morning out of her office, her secretary was practically vibrating with anxiety. You’re late, she mouthed behind the client’s back. Delainey waved a hand to acknowledge her and went right on talking to the client.

The instant the woman was gone, Josie bounced out of her chair and seized Delainey’s coat from the tiny closet. “You can’t be late to the Century Club.”

“It isn’t that special, surely.” Delainey slid into her coat.

“Yes, it is. I went to a wedding there once—well, a sort of bridal show thing. It’s not only beautiful, but the waiters do everything just so. Twelve forks at every place—”

“Surely not.”

“Maybe not twelve,” Josie conceded. “But it’s very fancy. Hurry—Mr. Conners said he’d be in the lobby at half-past twelve, and it’s almost that now. You can’t keep him waiting.”

I’d like to, Delainey thought. She shoved her scarf in a pocket, because Josie was looking as if she’d like to grab hold and tie it herself. As if she wants me to make a good impression when I go out to play with the other kids.

Jason Conners wasn’t in the lobby. Delainey wasn’t surprised; she had half expected him to be late even though he was the one who’d set the time, because he seemed the sort who enjoyed making an entrance. So she leaned against the marble-topped reception desk to wait.

Five minutes went by, and she was just starting to think about walking back down the hall to check whether he was still in his office when she heard her name called.

But it wasn’t Jason Conners who was walking toward her across the lobby. It was Sam, and he was coming in the main entrance. “Is it part of your job to stand there and be decorative?” he asked as he approached. “I thought banks had budgets for stuff like art.”

Delainey let her eyebrows creep up. “Thank you for saying I’m ornamental. However, if you’re flattering me because you’ve come to talk about your loan—”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“Flatter me at all, or flatter me to get a loan? Never mind. You’ve got about two minutes, tops, to make your case.”

“Before you have to leave for lunch with the merger king? Sorry to disappoint you, but I came in to cash a check for Gran. However, I’ve been thinking about that loan.”

There was a note of idle humor in his voice that made Delainey brace herself.

“I’ve figured out why you’re so determined to give it to me—you need just one more loan in your portfolio in order to be named employee of the month and win a trip to Hawaii. So I’m willing to talk about terms.”

“I suppose your terms include that I take you along to Hawaii?”

“Of course. It would be only fair, if I help you win.”

“Well, that makes sense,” Delainey admitted. “And I’d think very hard about it—if we had an employee of the month contest and if the prize was a trip to Hawaii. It’s just too bad for you the bank doesn’t run promotions like that.”

“Want me to go talk to the president about it?” He checked his wristwatch. “I have a few minutes to kill, and I’m sure he’d like the idea. I might have it fixed by lunchtime.”

“Thanks, anyway, Sam, but I think you should stick to fixing things like outlets.”

A hand came to rest on her shoulder and Jason Conners said, “I’ve just talked to Curtis—he can’t make lunch. Something came unglued in some big deal he’s working on and he’s tied up for a while. But we scheduled dinner instead.”

Nice of you to ask me first whether it would be convenient, Delainey thought. But she said, “Still at the Century Club? What time?”

“No—he said he’s been there so often he’s tired of it. I was telling him about you, and when he heard you lived at White Oaks, he said he’d like to try it for a change. Apparently the place has a wider reputation than I thought.” He looked Delainey over speculatively, as if trying to figure out how she’d managed to beat him to a trend. “That’s all right with you, isn’t it? Arrange it for eight o’clock. And wear something…attractive.” His gaze slid over Sam and dismissed him as unimportant. Then he patted Delainey’s shoulder and strode off down the hall toward the loan department.

“Nice guy,” Sam said.

Of course he would have to be there to witness the whole thing, Delainey thought irritably. “Well, I don’t imagine you were best buddies with everyone you ever worked with. Or is that why you’re not working right now? Because you couldn’t get along with the people you didn’t like?”

Sam seemed not to hear her. “You’re a business loan officer and his secretary,” he said admiringly. “You’re one busy woman.”

“Put a sock in it, Sam. Tell Emma we’ll have dinner another time, all right?”

“You’re standing us up? I’ve heard some fancy excuses to get out of a dinner date in my day, but this one—”

“You’ve heard excuses?” Delainey deliberately let a note of wonder creep into her voice. “You mean personally? There have actually been women who didn’t fall all over themselves to get a date with you?”

Sam’s lower lip quivered in the best imitation of a scolded three-year-old that Delainey had ever seen. “You have a mean streak that runs all the way through, Delainey.”

“And you don’t? That crack about me being a secretary…Tell Emma I’m sorry to disappoint her. I’ll make it up to her.”

“And to me, too?” Sam murmured. “Because I’m warning you—this time I’m going to hold out for a lot more than just roses.”

Josie looked horrified when Delainey came back into the office, but when she heard what had happened she swung efficiently into action. “Don’t worry about a thing, I’ll make all the arrangements,” she said, and she’d picked up the phone before Delainey could answer.

Delainey, still not used to having someone else taking care of details, had to bite her tongue to keep from saying that she’d rather do it herself. But that, she knew, would hurt Josie’s feelings, so she went back into her office and buried herself in the paperwork for a new loan application.

Still, she couldn’t quite put the whole thing out of her mind. It wasn’t Josie, after all, who would immediately face the music from Jason Conners if they ended up with a table next to the kitchen door. It was Delainey who would face Jason’s scorn, and she’d already had enough of that to last her a while.

She was sure that Josie would do her level best, but some things were out of Josie’s control. Emma had said that Wednesday nights were always busy at the mansion—and even if the manager recognized Delainey’s name as a new tenant, he didn’t know anything about her yet, so he probably wouldn’t go out of his way. Of course the established customers would get preference.

She arrived at the Mansion early so she could check on the arrangements, and the manager greeted her with a smile. “Ms. Hodges,” he said. “Everything is ready.”

Delainey was startled. “How do you even know my name?”

“Well, partly because I make it a point to know all the tenants, so a new face stands out. But Mr. Wagner stopped earlier to make sure you got extra-special treatment.”

That’s downright terrifying, Delainey thought. She was morally certain that Sam’s notion of extra-special wasn’t the same as her own.

“Would you like to see which table he suggested for you?” Without waiting for an answer, the manager led the way to the dining room.

She was so early that the only people in the room were the busboys who were putting the finishing touches on the tables and in one corner an older couple who were already eating their soup. The manager showed Delainey to a table set for three. It was probably the best location in the room, near a huge marble fireplace where a gas fire flickered, but not so close that the heat would be excessive.

That probably hadn’t been Sam’s reason for choosing it, however, Delainey thought. He’d no doubt figured that if she was any closer to the flames, she’d manage to set herself ablaze.

She could see nothing wrong with any of the arrangements, but that didn’t entirely relieve her apprehension as she sat at the library bar, toying with a glass of wine while she waited for Curtis Whittington and Jason to arrive.

She tried to distract herself by studying the room. So this was where Emma had been playing bridge yesterday. It was a warm, pleasant room, with a high coffered ceiling and long walls lined with books—the kind which looked as if someone had actually read them. The soft strains of Mozart wafted in from the grand piano in the drawing room next door—the live entertainment that Emma had mentioned.

When Jason and Curtis arrived, Delainey slid off the bar stool to greet them. She was mildly surprised to see that Curtis Whittington looked older in person than he had on the magazine covers. But then, she reminded herself, the profiles she’d read last night had been uniformly complimentary about the merger king’s magic touch in making the businesses he acquired more successful—so why would a magazine use a photograph that wasn’t flattering?

In fact, however, Curtis not only looked older in person than in his portraits, but he looked older than he actually was. Though he was just past forty, his stooped shoulders and the deep-slashed lines in his face made him appear a decade more. He looked like a man with an enormous burden to bear.

If his business weighed so heavily on him, Delainey wondered, why didn’t he chuck it and retire to enjoy the fortune he’d already made? Perhaps it simply hadn’t occurred to him that he could stop the amusement-park ride and get off anytime he wanted. Or perhaps it was ego that kept driving him to the next even bigger deal.

She saw Jason point her out, but he hung back a bit as Curtis approached. Behind the merger king’s back, Jason gestured toward Delainey’s dress and made a thumbs-up gesture to her. It was enough to make her wish she’d ignored his heavy-handed suggestion and worn a business suit instead of the sleek black velour with its heart-shaped neckline and lace-trimmed sleeves.

Curtis Whittington seemed to appreciate the dress, however. His dark brown eyes devoured her. “You’re Delainey,” he said. His voice was lower and more gravelly than she’d expected. “It’s a pleasure.” His hand was cold, and it was all Delainey could do not to shiver and pull away from his touch.

It’s cold outside, dummy, she told herself. It’s not like he’s a corpse.

Curtis took the bar stool next to hers. “Nice place,” he said. “Do you like living here?”

Apart from a few neighbors… “I think I’m going to like it very much. I’m still getting settled and learning my way around.”

Jason snapped his fingers at the bartender and gave an order. “Curtis is thinking of buying something locally.”

Delainey was startled. “You mean you’d move here? You’re based in Seattle now, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t move exactly,” Curtis said. “But hotels are such a nuisance. If I’m going to spend any time in a place, I like having my own territory. And I foresee the possibility of spending a lot of time here.”

“Then there must be several companies you’re interested in acquiring,” Delainey said.

“Companies…and other things.”

“Curtis just bought Foursquare Electronics,” Jason said.

“Yes, I read that.” Delainey just hoped nobody quizzed her about it, since that was one of the magazine articles she hadn’t had time to finish. “Are you looking to expand more in that direction, or new ones?”

“I’m always interested in something new,” Curtis said, and winked.

The bartender brought the drinks, and Curtis knocked his Scotch back and ordered another before the man had even moved away.

Delainey regarded him thoughtfully. If the man continued to drink at that rate… “Perhaps we should go on in to dinner.”

Jason shook his head. “There’s no hurry. Let’s get to know each other.”

“We can get acquainted over dinner,” Curtis said. “Let’s get started.”

While Delainey had been waiting in the library bar, the dining room had almost filled, and now only a few tables, including their own, stood empty. Here were all the new neighbors that—if this evening had gone as originally planned—she would be meeting right now, Delainey thought wistfully.

She glanced around the room and felt herself freeze. Now she knew what Sam’s definition of extra-special treatment was. And she’d been right to be wary.

Because Sam and Emma had come to dinner after all—and they were sitting at the table next to hers.




CHAPTER THREE


DESPITE Delainey’s effort at self-control, she must have gasped, because Jason’s gaze focused sharply on her.

She knew she shouldn’t have been surprised, because by now she’d had ample evidence of what Sam Wagner was capable of doing. Still, the idea that he would make a special effort to hang around and annoy her—as opposed to simply seizing an opportunity whenever it happened to conveniently present itself—was a little more than she could swallow.

Or perhaps she was being unfair, she told herself. He might have simply concluded that Emma shouldn’t be cheated of her evening out…

More likely it was Emma’s idea to come to dinner anyway, and Sam just decided to make the most of it.

At the next table, Emma looked up from her menu with a beatific smile and a casual little wave. She really was the perfect lady, Delainey thought—acknowledging an acquaintance but making it clear she didn’t expect a conversation at the moment.

Sam, on the other hand, laid the wine list aside, turned halfway around in his chair, and said, “Well, hello there, Delainey.”

“Always a pleasure to see you, Sam,” Delainey murmured and deliberately chose the seat at their table which was farthest from him. Curtis practically fell over himself to hold the chair for her, and he seated himself next to her. Jason took the chair opposite Delainey’s, on Curtis’s other side.

“That’s the guy who was with you in the bank today,” Jason said.

Delainey was surprised; he hadn’t seemed to pay enough attention to Sam that he’d have remembered him.

She let her gaze drift to the next table. It wasn’t difficult to do without being obvious, because though she’d achieved the maximum possible distance from Sam, the chair she’d chosen meant that he was almost directly in her field of view.

He’d stopped twisting himself into a pretzel and turned back to face Emma, so Delainey could take her time looking him over. He was dressed more formally than she’d seen him before, in a plain dark blue shirt and an even-darker jacket, but no tie. She wondered if he owned one. Surely if he did, he’d have put it on—every other man in the room was wearing a tie, and a couple were even in tuxedos.

“I wouldn’t have thought he was the sort to live here,” Jason went on.

“You’d be surprised,” Delainey murmured. “It seems to be a much more diverse complex than I originally thought.”

“Then it’s probably not what you’re looking for, Curtis,” Jason said.

“Oh, as long as most of the neighbors were as pleasant as Delainey here, I could overlook a few others.” Curtis was looking around for the waiter.

Delainey noted his glass was empty once more. “The manager told me they had several particularly good appetizers on the menu tonight,” she said. “Perhaps we should start with a selection.” And get some food into our distinguished guest before he makes a fool of himself.




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