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Bedroom Eyes
Sandra Chastain


HE WAS THE PERFECT LOVER ON PAPER…Anne Harris needs a man–fast. As the only executive at Bundles of Joy baby products, she'll never get ahead. So, through the Bachelor-in-a-Box agency, she buys an imaginary fiance. Only, when her boss insists on meeting her "better half," Anne has to find the oh-so-sexy man in the photo. It's an impossible task–until Mitchell Dane shows up on her doorstep…BUT HE WAS EVEN BETTER IN THE FLESHMitchell is surprised–and pretty upset–that his sister, the owner of Bachelor-in-a-Box, is still using his picture. Talk about a setup! But once he sees gorgeous Anne, he's more than willing to play the role of her lover. As her fiance, he'll have to hold her, kiss her, touch her… And the more time he spends with her, the more he wants to give their wedding night a trial run…









It was turning into erotic foreplay


Mitch knew that Anne was just responding to the exotic ointment he was covering her with. But he was responding to her. He rubbed her back with broad, sweeping strokes, trying to finish up quickly. He had to get this done and back off, or the result wouldn’t be two ships passing in the night. It would be the Titanic in the making. He wanted to make love to Anne, but he wanted her to know it—and want it as much as he did.

“Your back is done. I need you to turn over now, Annie,” Mitch said in a low, tight voice.

Anne moaned as she flipped over, dislodging her towel. “Is it supposed to make you feel hot and cold at the same time, Mitchell?” Her eyes were closed as she ran her fingertips up and down the smooth column of her neck, then traveled down to her breasts. An overwhelming tide of desire obliterated any guilt Mitch was feeling.

He swallowed hard. “Annie, I think you just ought to lie there and be quiet. The ointment might feel strange, but it will take away the pain.”

“But Mitchell, it hurts good.” Anne wiggled her lower body, rubbing her leg against his.

Mitch groaned. His fiancée, the very proper Ms. Anne Harris, was about to go over the edge….


Dear Reader,

Every woman deserves a lover who makes her feel beautiful and desired, a lover who sweeps her up into a fantasy she never forgets. Lucky for Anne Harris, that’s exactly what she gets when she arranges for Mitchell Dane, her bachelor-in-a-box, to be her fiancé. Only, she doesn’t know that her “perfect lover” is real—yet….

I hope that reading about Anne and Mitchell’s amorous escapades make your pulse race and your temperature rise. But there is more than one “perfect lover” in the Dane family. And if all goes as planned, Mitch’s hunky brothers are about to make someone else’s fantasies come true. In Look, But Don’t Touch, the second Dane brother loses his battle with matrimony. But which one? Send me your ideas at Sansmy@bellsouth.net.

In the meantime, sit back and enjoy. And every now and then, close your eyes and think of Hawaii. I know I did.

Aloha,

Sandra Chastain




Books by Sandra Chastain


HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

768—BARING IT ALL


Bedroom Eyes

Sandra Chastain






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


For help with my Hawaiian words, special thanks go to Heidi Umbhau, who is from Hawaii, and to Betty Cothran, who isn’t.

For the information on Key West, thanks to Vanessa McCaffrey, and the ladies of the Key West chat room, who were great!

And, as always, thanks to my Wednesday Lunch Bunch—Nicole Jordan, Ann Howard White, Deborah Smith, Donna W. and Donna Sterling—who suffered through every word with me.




Contents


Prologue (#u20e139ec-6536-5536-a1a4-66c97d0de454)

Chapter 1 (#u059e85b7-11c2-5f29-aa99-59d4336fceb5)

Chapter 2 (#u82640065-af9e-524b-be5d-4795bf53d05e)

Chapter 3 (#uf00caae4-16fd-5fec-b107-7537bb9072cf)

Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue


“I NEVER THOUGHT I’d admit it, but I desperately need a man,” Anne Harris said, tugging at her short skirt as she sat down and crossed her long legs. “My mother seems to think you have some sort of catalog of available prospects.”

“Bachelor-in-a-Box doesn’t work quite that way,” Bettina explained with a smile. “The actual photograph is only a small part of my service. We have to create a romantic past and design a plan of action. Will this be a new man in your life or will he be a longtime lover?”

“I don’t want a new man or an old lover,” Anne corrected. “Been there, done that and I’m still paying for my lesson. I simply need to rent a temporary fiancé.”

“Fine,” Bettina said, matching Anne’s straight-to-the-point approach. “Our service can be a month-to-month arrangement or for as long as you like.”

Across the desk, she studied her client and thought of her free-spirited brother Mitchell, better known to the world as the photographer Dane. Strangely enough, she thought this woman was perfect for him. Unlike Mitchell, Anne Harris was the picture of competency, exuding drive, determination and dedication. She wore her dark hair pulled back in a severe twist and a kick-ass black tailored suit that screamed power. But Bettina sensed something wilder beneath the facade. Even her voice, low and throaty, seemed better suited to one of Mitch’s island beauties than a boardroom. Too bad Bachelor-in-a-Box couldn’t match its clients with real men instead of simply providing a fantasy.

Bettina hadn’t known what to expect when Faylene Harris had said her daughter Anne was coming in, but the young woman’s direct approach was no surprise. Bettina had been told that Anne was a career woman on the fast track to management. Ever since her father’s death, Anne Harris had totally committed herself to her career. She was a doer, determined to be the businessman her father hadn’t been and to honor his last request that she look after her mother. Bettina understood that. Her oldest brother, Mitchell, had been the same way. When their father died, the responsibility of supporting his two brothers and sister had fallen on his shoulders. Once she’d entered college, Mitchell-the-doer disappeared and Mitchell-the-dreamer hit the road, determined to make the world his home.

“A month ago, I wouldn’t have believed such a service existed,” Anne said with a dry laugh. “Leave it to my mother to know, though I don’t know why she would if the men aren’t real. She couldn’t have been your client.” She stopped herself. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

Bettina couldn’t help but laugh. “You don’t have to apologize. I know Faylene very well. We met at the gym two years ago. After the first night I learned to look for the cluster of men to see where Faylene was working out. I’m surprised she didn’t come with you—to help you choose your fiancé.”

“Her help is what got me into trouble in the first place. She’s the one who told my boss I’m engaged. I should have corrected her the moment it happened. But I could see that he’d already fallen under her spell and I didn’t want to make her look bad. Now I have to go along with her tall tale. It’s just that…” Her control seemed to falter a bit. “I don’t like deceit. Deceit can hurt people.”

There was something about the unexpected quiet tone of Anne’s voice that made Bettina think that she knew firsthand about deceit and hurt. Bettina found herself drawn to this woman. She liked that Anne cared about her mother. She liked even more that Anne felt uncomfortable with the lie. “Would you care for a cup of tea, Anne?”

“No, thanks.” Anne took a quick look at her watch and visibly made the effort to recapture her professional demeanor. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

“Just Bettina. I try to live the fantasy I sell.”

“Bettina, I really need to get this done. Please show me what you have so that I can get back to my office.”

Bettina leaned back in her chair. “It doesn’t work quite that way. Your application tells me about your tastes, the kind of flowers you like, music, candy, gifts. Next we build a history for your fiancé, I provide you with a photograph and we start the fantasy courtship. Your fiancé may not be a real man but we have to make the people around you believe he is. Do you have any questions?”

“Yes. Where do you get your photographs?”

“I use models. But you don’t have to worry. Nobody will recognize your fiancé.” Bettina picked up Anne’s application. “If you’re ready, I’d like you to tell me about yourself in your own words.”

Anne sighed impatiently. “I work for Bundles of Joy, a baby products manufacturing company. The man who owns the company—the man my mother seems to have elevated to the top of her eligible bachelors list—believes that people who have children have some mysterious, inborn instinct for selling to others like themselves. I thought I’d have time to prove to him that he’s wrong. Now, one of the vice presidents is retiring and I’m in line for the job.”

“Wonderful,” Bettina said.

“It would be except my chief rival has a perfect husband and two perfect children. I don’t.”

“Do you like children?” Bettina asked curiously.

“I love children,” she said, tugging at her skirt again. Then she added in a voice so low that Bettina could barely hear, “I just don’t plan to have any. And the only husband I will ever have is the one you’re providing.”

The quick flash of angst in Anne’s eyes said more than her words. Bettina had seen that look before, in her brother’s eyes. He didn’t talk about it, but when he was in Hawaii there was an island girl he cared about. Then she died and he became a wanderer determined never to put down roots again.

Using only the name Dane, her brother photographed every rain forest, every archeological dig, and every big news event in the world. He’d built a reputation that guaranteed his choice of assignments and the income to support his vow never to stay in one place. There were no more island girls but at least one or two children with faces of despair found their way into every shoot. Except for two portraits an art gallery had sold, Mitchell filed the rest away in portfolios in a trunk in her basement.

Children and families didn’t fit into the very different lifestyles of either Mitchell or Anne. That’s when the answer came to her. She opened her desk drawer, fishing out the original file of the models she’d used to open her agency. She’d give Anne Harris the perfect fiancé. She’d give her Mitchell. And maybe, if she and Faylene put their heads together, they could figure out how to make Anne’s imaginary fiancé real.

“I think I have just the man you need. Let me tell you about Mitchell Dane.”




1


“THIS IS ANNE HARRIS, again,” the low, breathy voice whispered into the answering machine. “I must get in touch with the model who posed for the photograph of Mitchell Dane. I need him desperately.”

Mitchell listened to the latest message in dismay. He didn’t have to answer his sister’s phone, just check the messages and report any emergencies. In the time it had taken him to put away pancakes and scrambled eggs this morning, Anne Harris had left three messages, each more urgent than the one before. But that wasn’t what had him strung tighter than a bow. It was that the woman’s voice asked for Mitchell.

“I know it’s against your policy, Bettina, but,” she went on, trying unsuccessfully to hide the tremor in her voice with sharpness, “I simply have to reach him.”

He’d strangle Bettina when she returned. This little interlude had been only intended for picking up his mail and dropping off his latest photographs on his way to a photo shoot in North Carolina. The minute Bettina learned he was en route, she suddenly decided to visit their brother in Wyoming.

Granted, a one-woman business tied her down and he did owe her for being his clearinghouse since he didn’t keep a permanent address. But a storage locker in her basement and the occasional use of her spare bedroom didn’t quite equal the problem that seemed to be building. When he’d agreed to handle any emergency that came up, he’d assumed she meant leaking faucets or loss of electric power. What kind of emergency could you have with an imaginary lover?

The whole idea of pretend boyfriends had been crazy from the start. Five years ago, when Bettina had explained she planned a service that provided photos of imaginary lovers who sent gifts and made telephone calls to women, he and his brothers had howled.

She’d come to him because she needed photographs of attractive, sexy men. They had to be the kind of man every woman would fantasize about. Since she was just starting out and had no money to pay for professional models, her plan was to use her own brothers. They’d laughed louder and turned her down. But she was serious and, eventually, because they all lived away from the area, they’d agreed, providing Mitchell did the photography.

Photographing Jess and Ran to look sexy had been a hoot. Forcing his brothers to pose for cheesy beefcake pictures had gotten back at them for all the trouble they’d caused him as teenagers. If there had been such a thing as a catalog for Victor’s Secret, he could have made a fortune contracting out the Dane brothers as cover models. Finally, at Bettina’s insistence, he’d thrown in a couple of shots of himself made in Hawaii. Their photos were to have been temporary until she could afford to pay real models. He’d been assured they’d been retired as Bettina’s bachelors long ago.

But Anne Harris was using his name.

“Where are you, Bettina? Call me the minute you come in, or everything I’ve worked for will be lost,” she said and hung up.

Vacation or not, he didn’t care. Mitchell dialed his brother’s ranch in Wyoming and got his answering machine. “Listen, Bettina,” he snapped, “I know I swore an oath that I wouldn’t bother you unless it was a matter of life and death, but you’d better know there’s a woman named Anne Harris who sounds pretty desperate. I think you’d better call her.”

An hour passed. No Bettina. Mitchell paced the condo that served as his sister’s living quarters and her place of business, and a permanent address for Mitchell Dane as well. He considered his options. He could have called the woman himself if she’d left her number. She hadn’t. He searched for Bettina’s address book but didn’t find one.

Anne Harris was either a client of Bachelor-in-a-Box or a potential one. If she was already signed up, she knew the rules. The contracts lying on Bettina’s desk plainly said, No contact between bachelors and clients.

Mitchell propped his feet on his sister’s desk and tried not to feel responsible. Bettina was a big girl now, and this was her business. But the tight, low voice on the answering machine had imprinted itself on his mind and wouldn’t go away. Too agitated to sit still, Mitchell replayed the tape. Annoyed that he felt a responsibility toward Anne Harris, he finally decided that it wasn’t her problem that stirred him, it was her voice—intriguing, polished, with a hint of a honeyed Southern accent. The throaty whisper brought to mind visions of hot tropic nights, of moonlight and wild orchids. He tried to imagine the face that went with that voice.

Then he considered the kind of woman who went out and bought a man. She was probably shy, a woman who lived her life through the movies and resorted to an imaginary lover to convince her girlfriends that she had someone who cared. He found himself trying to fit that kind of woman to the sexy voice. They didn’t match.

Creative curiosity was part of every photographer’s psyche, though of late he’d felt less and less curious. After too many long nights, extended flights and lonely assignments, everything looked the same. He rarely remembered the country…except for the children. Their faces haunted him. He felt responsible for every one of them.

But this woman caught his interest. Mitchell leaned back in his chair, thinking about her. His analysis started with what kind of woman would pay for a pretend lover, but it ended with why his sister had given Anne Harris his name.

Moments later, the phone rang once more. “Bettina, this is Anne again. Believe me when I tell you that I have a life-threatening situation here.” The voice was even tighter, lower. “It’s complicated, but I desperately need my pretend fiancé to become real, just for two days. It’s not just my job, but my mother’s future depends on it. You have to help me get in touch with the model who posed for my picture. I’ll pay him a thousand dollars for two days of his time.” She sighed. “Please, Bettina, you and my mother got me into this; now you have to help me.”

Bettina got Ms. Harris into a life-threatening situation that now threatened her mother? Mitchell groaned. For all he knew, this kind of thing happened all the time. But now he was worried. If Bettina was liable, some of the responsibility fell on him. He’d helped make his sister’s idiotic idea a reality. Now she’d left him in charge.

And this woman was looking for Mitchell. Why?

Why was she willing to pay a thousand dollars for two days of bachelor work? It might as well be called gigolo work—an intriguing idea. He smiled. He didn’t know what Mitchell was worth, but two days of Dane the professional photographer was a lot more expensive.

“I’ll take full responsibility for the weekend,” she promised.

She’d have to take the responsibility. Taking responsibility for someone else was a thing he knew well. When his father died, he’d turned a part-time job in a photographer’s studio into a seven-day work week while completing high school. He’d been a swimmer, with hopes of a scholarship. But as the breadwinner, swimming, dances, girls—all had to be left behind. Later, when Ran, Jess and Bettina were old enough to go out on their own, he took a gofer job with a photographer on assignment in Hawaii. For the next three years he’d lived the life of a beach bum, working only to buy film and supplies. Little by little, he learned and finally started to sell.

For Mitchell, Hawaii was freedom. Hawaii was life and beauty rejuvenating itself. Hawaii was Melia, a beautiful dark-haired native girl who became his model and his mate. They were young and reckless, drunk on moonlight and making love. Then he landed an assignment to photograph a waterfall in a wilderness area generally bypassed because native superstition warned that it was a sacred place.

A dozen times they’d gone into the rain forest, climbed rocky paths that led almost straight up, put themselves into danger to capture the beauty of the islands. But this time he’d had second thoughts about taking her. She’d begged him. “Please,” she’d said over and over, kissing him wantonly until at last he agreed. But this assignment had been different from the start. It rained nonstop. When the rain didn’t keep them away, the island gods reached down and reminded the intruders that they were unwelcome.

Melia fell to her death from the top of the falls. He didn’t know until later that she was carrying his child. Suddenly the beauty of the island was gone. He threw himself into his work, swore he’d never be responsible for another person again and began the nomad life he’d lived ever since. But he saw the face of the child he’d lost everywhere he went.

And now, he was responsible for this Anne Harris with the come-hither voice, whether he wanted to be or not. But it wasn’t personal, he told himself. He was simply helping his sister.

Then he realized that she hadn’t hung up the phone. He could hear a faint, jerky rumble, as if she’d laid the phone against her chest and he was hearing her heart beat. He thought at first that she was crying, then he realized that she was muttering to herself under her breath, cursing in a way he hadn’t heard a woman do since the breakdown of a bus hauling a group of models to a desert shoot in Arizona. The words seemed to be directed at men in general. His slumbering curiosity went up another notch.

Then her muttering softened. “Please?” she whispered, speaking into the receiver again.

An unwelcome jolt of heat hit his loins and he clenched his teeth. Not only did the woman have the sexiest voice he’d ever heard, she’d said please. She needed him. Before he realized what he was doing, he’d picked up the phone. “I’ll take the job. But you’d better know, I travel first class and I don’t do things halfway.”

There was a long silence. “What number do I have?” she asked, suddenly suspicious.

He repeated the number, adding, “You called Bettina, didn’t you? Well, she’s out of town.”

“Of course. First my mother disappears, now Bettina,” the voice said, then asked, “Who are you?”

“I’m Mitchell. Isn’t that who you wanted?”

“Yes, but you don’t understand. You have to be the right Mitchell. My associates have seen his picture. They know what he looks like. If I bring the wrong man, my career will be over.”

“I am the right Mitchell. Trust me.”

“Who am I kidding?” she said helplessly. “Without a future husband, I’m right back where I started and I have nobody but myself to blame. How could I have let this happen? I knew better.”

“Future husband?” That was not part of the plan, imaginary or not. “Tell me about Mitchell,” he said, stalling, “What does he look like?”

“In my photograph, he’s standing on a beach by a big black rock, looking back at the camera. He’s tall with tawny hair and…” she paused “…he looks a little sad.”

The beach by the black rock—he remembered it well. He and Melia had shared some special moments there. After she died, he’d gone back to that beach a lot. The photograph was one of those he’d given to Bettina, taken by an acquaintance. The memory of that beach sucker-punched him in the gut. He’d thought he’d put it behind him but he obviously hadn’t. He’d seen that expression in his mirror every time he shaved.

“Mitchell, do you know the photograph I mean?”

“I do,” he said, a sudden attack of regret causing him to backpedal on his rash offer. “I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re in, but I think you’d better wait for Bettina to handle it.”

“Normally, I’d agree with you. Waiting would be wise. But this time I can’t wait. If I can produce the real Mitchell, I stand a chance at getting a promotion. With a promotion I can afford to look after my mother.”

Her mother. She must be ill. That would explain Ms. Harris’s desperation. “I really am Mitchell. I promise you, I’m the guy you’re looking for.”

“I hope you are.” Her resignation clearly voiced her doubt. “I’ve arranged for us to use a friend’s cabin up by the lake, near Mr. Jacobs’s house for the afternoon. I thought it would be better if we had a private place where you and I could rehearse the story of our relationship before I introduce you to my employer.”

“Rehearse?” He couldn’t see her, but his mind didn’t care. It went into erotic overtime. “That sounds—interesting.”

“It’s business,” she said. “This is serious. Don’t worry. Just keep an open mind. I have everything all worked out.”

Mitchell tried to open his mind but it refused, choosing instead to imagine what his “fiancée” meant by rehearsing. “I’m pretty much a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of guy. You might want to reconsider your plan.”

“It’s too late for that, Mitchell.”

It was too late. Bettina always said he lived his life as if it was a James Bond adventure, but this time he felt as if he’d just stepped into Alice’s rabbit hole—except this rabbit hole had nothing to do with tea parties and chess games. And the “off with their heads” line ran eerily through his mind. Once he’d admitted to being Mitchell, he’d sealed his fate. Short of hanging up, he had to follow through. It was a matter of honor. If he said he’d do something, he did it. Besides, he told himself, it was only for a weekend. And she’d probably be as plain as dry toast.

“Bring casual clothes for the lake and a dress suit for the wedding,” she went on, more confidently now. “I don’t know why people have to get married in June. It’s too hot. By the way, I don’t want to know who you really are. Bettina called you Mitchell Dane, and that’s who my co-workers are expecting. At least she gives her men last names, even if she keeps her own a secret.”

“Mitchell Dane?” Bettina gave Anne Harris his last name but kept hers a secret? What was she thinking of? Then it hit him—using his photograph…her sudden need for a vacation… This entire weekend was a setup. “Just look after the office for three days, Mitchell, in case of an emergency. Please?” She was getting even for all the high-handed rules he’d imposed on her when she was growing up.

She hadn’t appreciated the early curfews he’d set, when her friends had more freedom. He hadn’t handled his responsibility well. He was still a teenager with raging hormones and thwarted dreams. And he might have gone too far while he forced her to study business instead of art, but he’d tried to make sure she could take care of herself. Now she was either getting even or returning the favor. She thought it was time for him to settle down. The last time he was in town and she’d invited one of her clients to dinner, he’d hightailed it out of town a day early. This latest incident proved she hadn’t given up. She’d turned him into Anne Harris’s future husband. He wondered if Anne was even a real client or not, and if Jess and Ran were in on her plan. If not, they’d better get ready. They’d be next.

Anne interrupted his thoughts. “I’m already packed.” She gave him her address, then added, “Please hurry, Mitchell. We need to get going,” and hung up before he could back out. And he still didn’t have her telephone number.

Mitchell sat for a minute, considering his next move.

He had let a hoarse, sexy voice and a woman in trouble get to him. Bettina had counted on that; his past had made him a caretaker. He couldn’t fight the guilt for Melia’s death or the need to help any woman or child in distress. He’d never admit it but he was a romantic. He’d watched Casablanca on every black-and-white television set in every language in the world. He would never have let Ingrid Bergman’s plane leave without him.

But that was a movie, and he had to assume Anne Harris was truly one of his sister’s clients. If this was a setup, well, maybe he’d turn it around and the joke would be on Bettina. He had a couple of weeks between assignments… Anne Harris wanted to rehearse… He was beginning to warm to the idea. She needed a lover who would play his role to the hilt. He’d give her what Bettina had promised. He just had to dust off his hilt a bit.




2


ANNE HARRIS HUNG UP the phone and, as she had a hundred times, picked up the black-and-white photograph of the man who was supposed to be her fiancé. He was very tall and lean, with windblown, fair hair that was too long. He looked as if his thoughts were a thousand miles away as he balanced himself against a gray rock on the beach and looked directly into the camera. The expression on Mitchell Dane’s face was one of restlessness, of private longing. She didn’t have to be told that he didn’t share himself freely. She knew.

She knew because she’d had to learn to be that way. She traveled alone now, not willing to share her creative ideas with her co-workers. The last time she’d done that, the man she’d shared them, and her life, with stole her idea, sold it to another company and left Baltimore. She was still paying off the debts he’d run up and replacing the money she’d been forced to borrow from her mother’s account. Bundles of Joy was her second chance and she couldn’t blow it.

As one of Bettina’s models, this was just another job to Mitchell Dane. Anne couldn’t expect him to understand how serious this was. Neither had her mother, Faylene, the day she’d met Anne’s new boss, Alvin Jacobs. She’d seen Faylene’s eyes light up when she saw Mr. Jacobs and, worse, she’d seen Mr. Jacobs’s response. When Mr. Jacobs announced that his granddaughter had just become engaged, Faylene, overdosed on romantic bliss, waxed poetically about planning her daughter Anne’s wedding as though it was an upcoming event.

Anne should never have let her mother’s remark go unchallenged. Any other time, she would have corrected Faylene’s imaginative claim. But Mr. Jacobs had been instantly reassured that hiring Anne had been inspired. Anne had let it go, intending to arrange a quiet breakup with her imaginary fiancé once she’d proved to Mr. Jacobs that she didn’t need a husband and children to sell baby goods. But the charade had gotten out of hand.

To buy time to untangle the problem, Anne made her second mistake by following her mother’s advice and visiting Bettina to contract for a Bachelor-in-a-Box. Then came the photograph, and from the first moment she saw Mitchell Dane she’d felt a connection, as if he were some kindred spirit as familiar with loneliness as she was.

The week after, Faylene had seen Mitchell’s picture and gone into total ecstasy. “He’s perfect, Anne,” she’d insisted. “He looks regal, heroic and,” Faylene had added with a softness Anne hadn’t expected, “as much in need of someone to care about him as you are. All we have to do is find the man in this picture.”

“Mother, he’s just a model,” she’d protested. “Bettina probably doesn’t even know him. He’s like all her bachelors—exciting, dangerous and delicious—because he isn’t accessible. Besides, I am absolutely not interested in a man. I don’t know how I ever let you get me into this.”

“But he’s not one of those corporate executives you go out with.”

“Went out with,” Anne corrected with a pang. She considered herself a smart woman but her whirlwind courtship with Phillip and the embarrassment of being used and dumped had taught her a lesson: don’t trust a man who’ll do anything to be successful and don’t marry one who isn’t.

“Bettina says Mitchell is single, a wanderer who never stays in one place.”

“That’s the fictitious background Bettina supplied, Mother. Mitchell isn’t real. He’s probably a fertilizer salesman from Yazoo City, Mississippi.”

But she didn’t believe that. Logically, she knew she was creating a man to match her fantasy, a man she’d never have. His expression said sad, but the voice on the phone was full of life. A man who flew by the seat of his pants. A man who was free, the one thing she longed to be. Her sisters were happily married; they’d inherited all the nesting ability they needed from Faylene. Anne, well, what she might have wanted didn’t matter. She had to be responsible. But, unlike her father, she also had to be a success.

The Georgia sunlight streaming through her bedroom window caught the stone in her phony engagement ring—mistake number three—and winked mockingly. She’d bought the ring the week after the photograph from Bettina arrived. It was a constant reminder of the lie she was living.

She still wore the ring, but she’d turned Mitchell’s photograph facedown on her desktop, unable to stop the flights of fancy the man evoked. Who was he? Where was he and what was he thinking to give him such an expression? Even the odd smile on his lips added to the mystery. A longing in his eyes, yes, but something about him said that he was neither a ne’er-do-well, as her mother’s first husband had been, nor driven and determined like the second, Anne’s father. And if she dreamed about Mitchell Dane every night, she was the only one who knew.

When her night dreams gave way to daydreams, Anne decided she was in trouble. And this time it wasn’t totally Faylene’s fault. Mitchell had become far too real in her mind, if not in her life. And the steady parade of female employees who made up excuses to come through her office just to see his picture boxed her in even tighter. Now in order to stay in Mr. Jacobs’s good graces, she’d just made arrangements to put her fiancé on exhibit. She’d be spending the weekend with Mitchell Dane.

She told herself she had no choice. She had her mother to consider. Not only had her father left a letter asking her to take care of Faylene, he’d also named Anne administrator of her trust. Unfortunately, after paying off his business debts, there hadn’t been enough money in the trust left to manage. Even worse, she’d been forced to make a small withdrawal to pay for her move from Baltimore to Atlanta. Faylene wasn’t worried about the loan but Anne was.

“I’ve held back all my life for my children,” Faylene had said. “Now I’m going to enjoy myself. When I run out of money, I’ll find another husband. Too bad you don’t do the same thing—look for a husband, that is. You need to loosen up, Anne. Stop worrying about me. Have some fun. Fall in love.”

But Anne worried. As the only unmarried junior executive in line for a promotion at Bundles of Joy, this was the wrong time to confess her deception. If she didn’t produce her fiancé, this weekend would be the end of Anne Harris’s career and the payments on her mother’s RV would come to an end. She had no choice. This weekend had to succeed.

The doorbell rang. “This is it, Anne,” she muttered to herself. “If this is the wrong man, you’ll just have to face Mr. Jacobs and confess your deception sooner than you planned.” When she opened the door, she heard a gasp. She wasn’t certain if it came from her mouth or his. This was the man in the picture, the man Bettina had called Mitchell Dane, the wanderer who never stayed in one place. And he was…perfect.

The black-and-white photograph hadn’t begun to do him justice. Bathed in the June sunlight, he looked down at her with blue eyes that sent a shock wave of awareness through her. She opened her mouth, but her voice died in her throat. How could she have been so wrong about the expression in his eyes? Longing was wrong. Restless was even more wrong.

Mitchell Dane had bedroom eyes.

He was taller than she’d expected, perhaps six feet four inches or so, and, though he was slim, his shoulders were broad. He needed a haircut but she suspected that the ragged, casual cut was intended to show a wild streak. With skin the color of warm copper and tawny hair bleached to a white gold by the sunlight, he was a wild savage who only had to look at a woman to promise forbidden pleasure.

The connection she’d felt with the photograph was even stronger in person. The heat filled her throat, swooped down through her lungs, sucked out all the air, and puddled in the pit of her stomach as hot as lava straight from a volcano.

She couldn’t breathe. She just waited. When she didn’t show up at the wedding, Faylene would discover her standing in the doorway, turned into a petrified shell of ash.

To Mitchell Dane, meeting Anne was like being hit by a tidal wave. Or a tornado. Now he knew the reason for Anne Harris’s hoarse, whiskey voice. This was a woman so hot, she was on fire.

He stared at his new fiancée in stunned silence. Her hair was a rich mahogany color, like fine wood rubbed to a flawless sheen. It hung straight, touching her shoulders in a saucy swing as she stepped back. In the right setting, with a spray of orchids behind her ear, she could be a barefoot pagan girl on some South Sea island. In fact, for a minute, he thought he was looking at Melia.

“Mr. Dane,” she finally managed to say. “Thank you for coming.”

Mitchell nodded, finding it difficult to speak.

“It’s really you,” she said. “You’re my Mitchell.”

“It’s really me.”

If this was a joke, Bettina had really pulled it off. Mitchell had assumed Anne Harris would be as plain as dry toast. Boy, was he wrong. This woman could walk down the street, hold out her hand, and find a ring on every finger before she’d gone two blocks.

Casual clothing, she’d said. And that’s the way she was dressed, sort of elegant casual. Her khaki cotton shorts were matched with a tan tank top and covered with some kind of neutral-colored gauzy shirt with flowers the same bright hue of her turquoise canvas shoes. His fingers itched for the camera he had packed in his duffel bag at the last minute. If he were smart, he’d turn around and leave now. But that option disappeared the moment she’d opened the door. When he’d first heard her voice, he’d been stunned by the unexpected rush of desire that hit him, and even more by its intensification as he stood in her doorway.

The urge to photograph her didn’t surprise him as much as the electricity that hung between them, barely held in check. She felt it, too. He could see it in the way her gaze darted everywhere but to his face. Her mouth opened slightly, and her hand moved to catch a strand of hair that caressed her cheek. For a long moment he simply looked at her, at slim fingers that curled behind her ear and slid down her neck to catch the point of the collar on her blouse. “Thank you for coming,” she finally said in that throaty whisper he’d heard on Bettina’s phone.

His fiancée glanced down at his jeans. Bettina accused him of being casual to the point of being threadbare. He hadn’t thought about it until he viewed himself through the eyes of this elegant woman. Maybe he could stand some upgrading. That had never mattered before. And it was too late to worry about that now.

“Well,” he finally said, “are you going to let me in or do we just stand here and stare at each other?”

She blinked and stepped back. “I’m sorry. Come in.”

He followed her, dropped his bag, and closed the door behind him, gathering control as he looked around. His photographer’s eye noted that her little house was much like a beach cottage. That surprised him. He’d expected her to live in a condo, not a wood-frame bungalow on a small side street. From where he stood in the living room, he guessed he could see most of it. There was an archway behind Anne that apparently led into a dining area with a kitchen to the right. To his left was a bedroom and a tiny sitting porch. It was warm, cozy. The walls were creamy white. Two fat couches seemed to shake hands in front of a fieldstone fireplace at the end of the room. She’d covered them in a bright turquoise and coral print. The colors of the islands.

“I didn’t really expect you to be the man in the photograph,” she said. “I hoped, but I didn’t believe you’d really come.”

“And I didn’t expect you to be a beautiful woman. I guess we’re both surprised.”

“You thought I’d be ugly?”

“You don’t want to know what I thought. Let’s just say I’m surprised you had to use an agency to find a fiancé.”

“Believe me, I didn’t want to. It was my mother’s idea.”

“Your mother?”

“My mother took it upon herself…never mind. I should never have let it happen. If we can just get through this weekend, I’ll put an end to it.” She reached into her pocket. “I have your cash.”

Mitchell took a step closer. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to pay for services in advance? After all, I might not live up to your expectations.”

“Mr. Dane, let’s get this straight right now. I just want a man who can convince my employer that he is my fiancé for two days. Are you up to the job or not?”

Oh, he was up all right, or well on the way, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. New, stiff jeans would have been welcome.

Anne didn’t move. The woman had a way of standing absolutely still, waiting, as if she were making up her mind about him. The technique probably worked well in business; it must unsettle her opponents. It sure as hell unsettled him.

“I said I’d take the job. If you still think I’m the man you want…” So much for walking away, Dane.

She ignored the want and got down to business, speaking slowly so that he’d understand. “Don’t worry. I have it all worked out. We’ll take my car and drive up to Lake Lanier—my suitcase is already in the trunk. We spend the afternoon at a friend’s cabin rehearsing. Then we drive over to Mr. Jacobs’s for the party tonight and the wedding tomorrow.” She took a long look at his duffel bag and knapsack. “You did bring a dress suit.”

“Oh, yes. I don’t think I will embarrass you.”

“Well, I don’t suppose it really matters. My associates think you’re a photographer, so they expect you to be a little…eccentric.”

He went right past eccentric. “Photographer?” Mitchell echoed, more sharply than he intended. What in hell was Bettina doing using his name and now his real-life profession? “Whose idea was that?”

“Bettina’s. It was convenient. It gave a reason for you to always be away. And I liked the idea of a man who is free to go where he wants to and gets paid for it.”

There was a tinge of yearning in her voice and he wondered if she ever let herself go. Now he leaned against the doorway, keeping far enough away to defuse the effect of whatever seemed to connect them. “What kind of assignment was I on?”

“You were in South Africa. I don’t know what you were doing there. Bettina never told me and nobody ever asked. They only wanted to know when we were getting married.”

“And you told them?” She seemed calm. She didn’t try to make him feel welcome, nor was she overtly unfriendly.

“I said we hadn’t decided. I was waiting for you to get into town.”

“Well,” he finally said, “I’m here. Do I pass?”

She blinked. “Pass?”

“Inspection. Are you satisfied with me as your lover?”

She blinked and looked quickly away. “Not my lover, my fiancé.”

“If I were really your fiancé, I’d be your lover, too. We’d be good together, Anne Harris.”

Anne trembled slightly, then jerked her cool control back into place. “Let’s get this straight—being my lover isn’t included in the job, Mr. Dane.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. It’s just that this is more difficult than I’d expected. You’re not just a picture now; you’re a real man. I guess I wasn’t prepared for that. Perhaps it’s not too late for me to call it off and confess the truth to Mr. Jacobs.”

Before he could speak, the phone rang. Anne answered, listened for a moment, then said, “Mother, I’ve been trying to reach you. Do you realize that your little fib to Mr. Jacobs about my nonexistent fiancé could cost me a promotion and maybe even my job?”

Anne Harris was very convincing. If this was a matchmaking attempt, Bettina had chosen the right woman. The question was, was she in on the hoax? For now, maybe the best way to handle the situation was to go along. Bettina would be surprised at how convincing he could be.

Who was he kidding? If Anne Harris wanted a fiancé, she had one. He’d play the role because he couldn’t turn away. She might not be the woman he’d loved and lost, and everything about her said hands off, but he had to know.

Mitchell wished he could hear the other side of the telephone conversation. Anne appeared to be blaming her problem on her interfering mother. He could appreciate that. Sometimes Bettina’s meddling in his personal life was just as bad. He couldn’t imagine that Anne’s employer would refuse to promote her because she was single. There had to be more to the story.

“Where are you, Mother?” she asked. “I’ve asked you to let me know when you leave town.” Then, “So you’ve been in Key West with a lovely man who paints sunsets. How nice to be able to take off on a whim. No, I did not know that the Hemingway cats have six toes. Mother, stop prattling and listen to me. I have to take my fiancé to Mr. Jacobs’s granddaughter’s wedding this weekend. I don’t suppose you know anything about that, do you?”

There was a pause. “I’m sorry, Mother. I know you didn’t arrange the date for Mr. Jacobs’s granddaughter’s wedding.”

Another pause. “No, Mother, I have not suddenly acquired a real fiancé.” She hesitated. “I managed to find the imaginary one your friend Bettina provided for me.”

Mitchell listened openly. So Bettina and Anne Harris’s mother were friends. Hello…the plot was thickening.

“Yes, Mother, the real man. And yes, he is…what you said. I mean he looks like his photograph. But that’s not the point.”

What you said? Their conversation was certainly intriguing. Anne had caught his attention. Her mother and his sister were friends. By now Anne had moved into the kitchen. He was beginning to get the picture. Mama had somehow suggested to Anne’s employer that she was engaged. When Anne had to supply the imaginary fiancé, Mama had referred her to Bettina, who sent Anne Mitchell Dane’s picture. The question was, to what end? There was no way she could have known he’d come to town the very weekend of the wedding. But he had and Bettina had taken advantage of the coincidence. Now Anne had to produce him to protect her job. Logically, there were too many unforeseen variables for it to be a hoax.

Okay, maybe his future “wife” was playing it straight. So would he—for now. He took a good look at her slim back and long legs and decided to wait and see. In any case, this could turn out to be fun. And it had been a very long time since he’d had fun.

“No, Mother,” she said more patiently than he would have. “You do not need to come to the wedding and straighten out anything. I’ll handle it. You’re already on your way? Mother? Mother!”

Anne let out a sigh. “Damn. She hung up on me.”

Mitchell surprised himself and grinned.




3


ANNE PUNCHED IN a number on her cell phone and listened, then shook her head. “We might as well leave. Mother knows it’s me and she’s not going to answer,” Anne explained. “Sorry, Mitchell, unless I can head her off, she’ll be at the wedding, invited or not. You’ll find out soon enough that she’s a bit…undisciplined. She does her own thing.”

Undisciplined? Mitchell assumed that the mother was meddlesome, but undisciplined was kinder. He swallowed a smile. Bettina called him undisciplined—often. Not in relation to his work. It was his private life that was totally unstructured—by design. His father had married a woman who demanded more than he could provide. It wasn’t her fault. She’d simply wanted her children to have better lives. But Mitchell had watched his father give up his dream of seeing the world and mire himself in a dull little accounting job until the weight of his responsibilities made a bad heart give up.

And suddenly, Mitchell found himself the man of the house who inherited the responsibility of a mother who expected to be cared for and a family almost as old as he was. He accepted the obligation but promised himself that someday he’d be free, never again to be tied down to anything that remotely sounded like nine-to-five. He hadn’t counted on Melia. Everything had changed when he met her and then she was gone and he’d begun to wander.

Does her own thing. “Your mother sounds like my kind of woman,” he finally said, their gazes locking.

“Oh, yes, Mother would say you’re perfect.”

“What do you say?”

Her lips parted slightly as her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. The ever-present tension hung between them, hot and heavy. He wondered if she felt it, then watched her push that strand of hair behind her ear once more and decided she did as she let out a breathless sigh. “I want you to know that I would never deliberately deceive anyone. I know what can happen. But this time I have no choice.”

“Because of your mother? Why?”

Anne grimaced. “If this is going to work, I guess I’d better tell you. My mother—her name is Faylene—had two husbands. My father was her second. The first one was less than successful. My father…well, she thought my father hung the moon. So did I.”

“And he didn’t?” Mitchell asked.

“Let’s say he tried too hard. He was a college professor who opened a bookstore. It was doing very well, so he bought another. They were wonderful stores, with wonderful books that not everyone loved as much as he. Then a superstore opened between the two stores and the rest is history. Most of my mother’s inheritance went to pay off the debts.”

“I take it Faylene doesn’t know.”

“She knew about the debts, just not the extent.”

“Maybe Faylene knows more than you think. Maybe she’s looking for another husband,” he said.

“I hope she finds one. She likes being married. I’m just worried that she might have her eye on Mr. Jacobs. Now I have to worry about you and her this weekend. It could be a disaster. Pulling this engagement off is not going to be easy. Alvin Jacobs may look like a harmless old grandfather, but he’s a smart man. I just can’t figure out how all this happened.”

“So you don’t think this was Bettina’s idea?” he asked casually.

She gave him a puzzled look. “Bettina’s idea? I don’t know how it could be. She doesn’t even know. I wouldn’t have said anything except I want to make sure you’re taking this seriously.”

Obviously Anne was a private person, willing to expose her past to a stranger—not for herself but for her mother. Her father’s action sent her in one direction; his father’s sent him in another. “I assure you, I’m taking this very seriously,” he said.

She didn’t seem convinced. “I’ve gathered the information you’ll need and put it together in the form of a job description. We’ll have this afternoon to go over it. You can flip through it as we drive, if you like.” She held out a thin leather portfolio.

“Never did like research,” he said. “I’d rather you tell me.”

She nodded. “All right. The carport is under the house. We have to get to it from the outside.” She stuck the folder under her arm, grabbed her purse, reached for her keys and sunglasses, then dropped them and the cell phone inside and swung the bag over her shoulder. “Let’s get going.”

Mitchell followed her, locked the front door behind them and backed out into the sweltering heat. Anne wasn’t wearing a hat or a scarf. Mitchell guessed that she drove the kind of car where the windows stayed up and the air-conditioning went on. Probably a smart move. Air-conditioning seemed like a good idea right now.

He was wrong. Her automobile was a white Chrysler convertible. The top was down.

Mitch pitched his duffel bag into the back seat. Anne Harris was an enigma. If she was to be believed, she was an ambitious businesswoman intent enough on her objective to provide a written job description. She claimed she was uncomfortable with the deception, but she would produce a fiancé to protect someone she cared about. And she wasn’t all business; she drove a convertible.

“Is there something wrong, Mitchell?” In the small shaded carport, the essence of her sensuality came at him in waves.

“Good question.” He moved around the car, closing the space between them. He was probably making a mistake, but if he were going to help her accomplish her goal, he had to know. “Suppose we don’t match—as a couple. I’m pretty much an undisciplined guy and you’re more controlled. We could have a hard time if your yin is incompatible with my yang.”

Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

He took a step closer. “Ms. Harris, even I know that success is based on good research, not just a game plan. And if we’re to pull this off, we need the kind of information I’ll bet you haven’t even considered.”

She took a step back. “I don’t understand.”

“You haven’t even asked if I’m married. I’m not.”

“Married? No, I haven’t. You’re just being hired for a job—like an actor. Your personal life doesn’t matter,” she insisted. But it did. The thought of her imaginary fiancé belonging to another woman was disturbing and that bothered her.

“Maybe not,” he agreed, “but we’re supposed to be engaged. Engaged people are usually in love. If we’re going to make this work, I’m going to have to kiss you, Anne. Nothing earth-shattering, just as a test. You don’t even have to participate. In fact, it will probably work better if you don’t.”

When she opened her mouth to say no—and he was certain that was the word that would have come out—he brushed her lips lightly, as if he were testing the flavor of her lipstick. Satisfied that he had her attention, he moved over her mouth more slowly.

That was his mistake. The kiss took on a life of its own and so did his arms as he folded her into them, driving her back against the car. She resisted for a moment, then he felt her tremble and melt against him. She had amazing lips, soft and full, lips that tasted of fruit, sweet but with a hint of some tart flavor he didn’t recognize. As the kiss went on, he closed out every rational thought until he realized that he’d lost control of his own body. Desperately, he tried to stop the erection that sprang to life. Too late.

Finally, he pulled back, drew a ragged breath, and looked down at her. She looked as stunned as he felt. Somewhere beneath his absurd need to shake her up and his logical reason for the kiss, he’d lied, not only to her, but to himself. The kiss was not business and it was no act; it was pure pleasure. He wanted to kiss her again. If this was a matter of compatible yin and yang, he’d better have a little talk with his yang.

She continued to look startled for a moment, then shook her head and said hoarsely, “All right. You’ve gotten that out of your system. But understand, any future contact will only take place as part of our charade—in public.”

Mitchell grinned. He couldn’t stop himself. If the weekend wasn’t already a joke, that statement was. She’d been as caught up in the moment as he. Now she was hiding it behind a reprimand. Whatever her plan was, underneath that all-business exterior was a red-hot woman waiting to be set free. She might not know it yet, but he did. If this was on the level—and he was beginning to think it was—he’d have to be careful. He might just have bitten off more than he could chew. He had two choices; get out of Dodge or enjoy the fantasy.

For now, he’d just let fate determine how things developed.

“I’m a quick learner, Anne. Once we make love a couple of times, everyone at this wedding will look at us and wish they were us. You want a fantasy weekend, I’m going to earn my fee.”

“We are not going to make love, Mitchell Dane. This is not real.”

He grinned. “Not yet, but we’ll work on it. In the meantime, as we drive you can tell me how we fell in love.”

STILL REELING from Mitchell’s kiss, Anne donned her sunglasses and started the car’s engine. She pulled a baseball cap from beneath the seat and pulled it on, pushing her hair through the hole in the back. Then she pulled out of the driveway and headed north. She badly needed the open spaces to clear her head and regain control.

Threading her way through the traffic, she reached I-85 North and gave the car its head. There was no music, no conversation for a very long time. She didn’t look at her imaginary fiancé. She didn’t have to. Just having him sitting beside her was unsettling enough. Whatever his reasons for helping her, Mitchell Dane was every woman’s fantasy. But fantasies were unsettling. And she’d spent the past five years of her life learning to face reality.

She didn’t understand his attitude. In the beginning, he seemed to think this was some kind of joke. Now he seemed to be a man with a plan. She just wasn’t certain that it was her plan he was following. Still, he seemed determined to fulfill her requirements—maybe a little too determined. He would be easier to deal with if he weren’t so…so male, and if she hadn’t dreamed about him for weeks. Everything about him spelled danger. The way he moved—casually, yet totally in control. The way he tilted his head slightly, waiting for her reaction. What kind of man hired himself out as one of Bettina’s bachelors?

The kiss had been unexpected, though if he was truly going to take his role seriously, it made sense. Mr. Jacobs was smart. If they weren’t convincing, her employer would see right through her charade, and he wouldn’t appreciate what she’d done. She didn’t even like what she’d done. But it had been necessary.

She should explain to Mitchell that she’d actually planned for physical contact by making up a chart that called for a scheduled number of touchy-feely moves and pretend affection. If he understood that, he’d cooperate. The good news was, if they were convincing, she’d get her promotion. The bad news was, if they were convincing, she’d be a basket case. Controlling him was the key—as long as she could control herself.

For now, he was getting ahead of her plans. She had to keep reminding herself that she’d been distracted by a man once before and that had ended in disaster. She couldn’t let herself dwell on kisses or being lovers. For now she had to focus, not on bedroom eyes but on the future. Focus on what she did best—business. Focus was what had gotten her here. And that focus could get her through the next two days. They’d better get started.

But she didn’t know how to begin. Her body seemed intent on interfering with her thoughts. Even her thighs tingled. It was the sun, she decided. She glanced down and realized she’d planned a cover for everything but her legs, and they were receiving the full force of the late-morning sun. Twisting her bottom, she tugged her shorts as far down as she could.

The heat only intensified.

“You okay?” Mitchell asked, as if he could read her mind and knew that he was as much the cause of her fidgeting as the elements.

“I’m fine. I’m just a bit sensitive to the sun.” She glanced at him with a frown.

Mitchell only grinned. “I could take off my shirt and cover your legs,” he said, reaching to pull it over his head.

“No! I’ll be fine.”

Mitchell silently agreed. She was right about that. She was fine—an intriguing tangle of a woman who played the role of executive instead of being the woman she hid beneath. And she was a woman. Everything about her said that. From the slight blush that colored her cheeks to the way she licked her lips. She wanted to say something but his nearness seemed to paralyze her. Okay, he’d wait.

Finally, they left the city traffic behind. A strand of dark hair defied her cap and got caught up in the hammering wind. She pushed it back and straightened her shoulders as if she were about to give directions to her assistant.

“My office believes that we met in Hawaii when I was on vacation,” she said crisply.

“Hawaii?” He hadn’t expected that. His instincts about Anne Harris had been right. Bettina knew how he felt about islands. Whether the arrangement was really for Anne’s benefit or some kind of setup to connect the two of them was still to be decided, but his sister had chosen well.

“I told them we sailed to a hidden cove where you proposed on the same beach where I took your picture at twilight,” Anne went on.

“That would be the one Bettina sent you?”

“Yes. When it came, I pretended I was the photographer.”

The scenario was heartbreaking. “And they believed you?” Mitchell didn’t know why he’d asked. Of course her associates believed her. She was the kind of woman people didn’t question.

“Certainly. I took several photography classes so I could talk about it. I always try to be prepared. You should know, I’m very thorough,” Anne said, turning her eyes back to the road. “That’s why I’m good at my job—why I’m going to be the first woman vice president of Bundles of Joy Baby Products. I expect the same attention to detail from you.”

He’d guessed right about her attention to detail. He might have rattled her, but she was back in control. Mitchell gave her a mock salute. “Aye, aye, captain. I always do good work, Annie.”

“Don’t call me Annie,” she snapped. “This is serious.”

“Love is always serious, my ’ano’i pua.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s Hawaiian for sweetheart.”

“How’d you learn to speak Hawaiian?”

“Someone taught me. But I only know the more intimate words.” He touched her arm, drawing her attention, then added, “It’s okay. I promise you’ll get your money’s worth.”

Mitchell unfastened his seat belt, reached over, caught that errant strand of hair and tucked it behind her ear. “Don’t worry, Anne. I really am a photographer. And if we work at it, it ought not to be that hard to convince your employer you’re engaged. We can do it. Trust me. If you really need this job to look after your mother, I’ll help you. I know about the burden of responsibility.”

Anne felt his fingertips move up her arm to her cheek. She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t even speak. He had no idea that his touch was searing her vocal cords and turning her mind into pudding. As for trusting him, if her luck ran the way it usually did with men, the car would blow a tire and they’d end up in the ditch.

“Please don’t distract me while I’m driving, Mitchell.”

“Sorry. I don’t normally like riding with women who speed, but you’re a good driver.”

“I took a class at Road Atlanta. I actually drove a race car. Speed, that’s one of my little secret passions. I like the wind against my face. It blows the cobwebs from my mind.”

“Race car driver, huh? Here I am trying to envision us as a married couple and find out my future wife is Mario Andretti.”

“Wife?”

“And another thing. I wouldn’t sit so far from my wife. She wouldn’t want me to.”

“But I’m not your wife.”

“No,” he said loudly, “but I’ve read that actors trying out for a role research their characters by living their real lives for months before they go before the camera.”

“I don’t think I’m interested in being that good an actor,” Anne said.

“Sure you are.” From the expression on her face, Mitchell decided that, though she was hiding it well, she was unnerved. She didn’t understand yet that whatever was happening between them had affected both of them. “Hey,” he said, “I have an idea. Let’s pretend we’re making a movie. We’ll cast our roles. Who would you want to play Mitchell Dane?”

“That’s easy. Richard Gere.”

“Richard Gere? I don’t think so. I wouldn’t settle for anyone but Arnold Schwarzenegger. Want to see my muscles?”

This was another side to Mitchell Dane, a playful side that was disturbingly compelling, but less so than his fingertips grazing the sensitive skin of her thigh. “So, Arnold, who would you cast in the role of Anne Harris?”

“Well, there’s Melanie Griffith, but she’s too girly. Arnold would want a stronger woman like… I know, Sharon Stone. Nah, too old. What about Sandra Bullock?”

Stop touching me, she wanted to say. Instead, she lifted his hand and returned it to his own knee. Even his palm was hot to the touch.

“Which?” he prompted, turning in his seat so that he faced her fully.

“At least Arnold has your coloring. I could never be a blonde so I suppose I’ll have to be Sandra Bullock, won’t I?”

That would have been his choice. Dark dreamy eyes framed by even darker hair and lashes and a spray of orchids behind her ear. “Yes. And you’d be barefoot and wearing a red sarong.”

Her foot faltered on the gas pedal and the car coasted for a moment. “Sarong? How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“The rehearsal party is a luau.”

Not only was Bettina plotting against him, the island gods were on his trail. “I didn’t know,” he admitted. “I could just see you that way.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve never worn one. I’m not the sarong type and my skin is very sensitive to the sun.”

“Now that doesn’t surprise me. Your skin never sees the sun. Sandra Bullock would never cover herself up like you do.”

A car horn blew and Anne jerked her wheel, correcting the momentary drift of her car that had occurred as she visualized herself in a red sarong. She’d best keep them surrounded by trucks so the road noise would be too loud for them to talk. Any more of this kind of conversation and they’d never get to the islands.

“Mr. Dane,” she shouted, “I want to remind you. I make the rules! This is a business deal. We’re not going for an Academy Award. All you have to do is help me convince my employer that you’re my fiancé. Once he believes that—” they moved alongside a small truck “—we’ll quietly break our engagement and you can hit the road.”

“I’d think about that, buddy,” the man in the truck yelled out his window. “She’s a babe!”

Mitchell laughed, gave the driver a thumbs-up, and watched him move past. “I’m thinking he’s right, Annie,” he said, getting into the role. “Even a stranger knows we’re a match.” It surprised him to know how much fun he was having. And the thought of her in a sarong was an idea so appealing that he could almost feel his toes in the hot sand. She looked too calm. He’d just shake her up a bit. “Why wait six months? Let’s elope right now.”

“Ohhhh!” The man was impossible. Deliberately, she tapped the brakes and threw Mitchell forward. “Now fasten your safety belt and pay attention.”

“Okay. Okay.” He moved over and clamped the belt into place. “We wait until I’ve completed my assignment and then run off to the South Seas. I’ll take you to a real luau and take your photograph on the beach at sundown.”

“You really are a photographer?”

“I am.”

“Then why are you modeling for Bettina?”

He could tell her the truth, but he was enjoying the fantasy. “As a favor. She’s a very convincing woman. I could never refuse her anything.”

“I know,” Anne agreed. “When I went to her office I was all set to turn around and leave, but she wouldn’t let me. Tell me about your work. What kind of pictures do you take?”

“Anything from calendar art to the rain forest,” he said. “Whatever strikes my fancy. Did you like Hawaii, Anne?”

“No. It was beautiful…but it was too expensive. I’m afraid I spent most of my time in the hotel.”

He laughed. “Figures. Any other woman going to Hawaii would wear her skimpiest bikini and hit the beaches or the pool where she could soak up the sun and attract men.”

“I told you, I have sensitive skin, and I wasn’t interested in attracting men.” What she couldn’t tell him was that she had expected Phillip to accompany her. It was to have been their honeymoon. She lost Phillip and her job, then found out their trip was nonrefundable. Hawaii was the loneliest place she’d ever been.

“Annie, you don’t really expect me to believe that a gorgeous woman like you was in her room counting her money. I can see right now I’m going to have to teach you how lovers act. I’ll bet you didn’t even buy a sarong.”




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