A Perfect Proposal

The husband she always dreamed of!

Secretary Jane Carmichael has been in love with her boss, single dad Mark Hilliard, for ever. She might have daydreamed about marrying him, but she never thought it could be a reality. Until his little daughter demands a new mummy… and Jane is her number one choice! Nervously, Jane says ‘I do…’

Except life as Mrs Hilliard is not the wedded bliss Jane had hoped for—she loves her husband, but they barely know each other! Now Jane has a new mission: to get Mark to see her as more than his convenient bride!

Dear Reader,

We’d like to take this opportunity to pay tribute to Betty Neels, who, sadly, passed away last year. Betty was one of our best-loved authors. As well as being a wonderfully warm and thoroughly charming individual, Betty led a fascinating life even before becoming a writer, and her publishing record was impressive.

Betty spent her childhood and youth in Devonshire, England, before training as a nurse and midwife. She was an army nursing sister during the war, married a Dutchman and subsequently lived in Holland for fourteen years. On retirement from nursing, Betty started to write, incited by a lady in a library bemoaning the lack of romantic novels.

Over her thirty-year writing career, Betty wrote more than 134 novels, and published in more than one hundred international markets. She continued to write into her ninetieth year, remaining as passionate about her characters and stories then as she was in her very first book.

Betty will be greatly missed, both by her friends within Mills & Boon and by her legions of loyal readers around the world. Betty was a prolific writer, and we have a number of new titles to feature in our forthcoming publishing programs. Betty has left a lasting legacy through her heartwarming novels, and she will always be remembered as a truly delightful person who brought great happiness to many.

The Editors

Mills & Boon Romance®

LIZ FIELDING was born and raised in Berkshire, U.K. She started writing at the age of twelve when she won a hymn-writing competition at her convent school. After a gap of more years than she is prepared to admit to, during which she worked as a secretary in Africa and the Middle East, got married and had two children, she was finally able to realize her ambition and turn to full-time writing in 1992.

She now lives with her husband, John, in west Wales, surrounded by mystical countryside and romantic crumbling castles, content to leave the traveling to her grown-up children and keeping in touch with the rest of the world via the Internet.

Liz Fielding won the 2001 RITA Award for Best Traditional Romance, for The Best Man and the Bridesmaid.

And you can find out more about the author by visiting her Web site at www.lizfielding.com.

Praise for Liz Fielding:

“Liz Fielding creates amazing characters, outstanding scenes and an exciting premise….”

—Romantic Times

About AND MOTHER MAKES THREE:

“Ms. Fielding continues to delight me with her storytelling and rich prose. She is now on my automatic buy-list.”

—Bookbug on the Web

“Liz Fielding…spins a wonderful story.”

—Romantic Times

A Perfect Proposal

Liz Fielding

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

Cover

LETTER TO READER

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PRAISE FOR LIZ FIELDING

TITLE PAGE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

‘MARK, what’s happened? You were supposed to be at a meeting with the surveyors first thing. They just called from the site—’

‘Jane…’ Mark Hilliard sounded as if he’d come out of some dark place and needed a moment to gather himself. ‘I’m sorry, I should have called…Ring them back and apologise for me, will you? I’ve got a bit of a crisis at home.’

‘Crisis?’ Jane Carmichael’s heart turned over. ‘Is Shuli sick?’

‘No, she’s fine. But she’s just sacked another nanny.’

‘Shuli sacked the nanny? I know she’s bright, but isn’t that rather advanced behaviour for a three-year-old? What did she do? Call her into the nursery, sit her down on Mr Fluffy and say, “I’m afraid you haven’t lived up to the promise of your excellent references, Mrs Collins. I’m going to have to let you go?”’

‘Mrs Collins was the nanny before last.’

‘Oh, Mark!’ Jane’s amusement evaporated rapidly. She’d interviewed Sarah Collins herself and had been convinced she would be perfect for the job.

‘She left last month. Some excuse about family problems. You tried so hard that I couldn’t bring myself to tell you. The agency has been sending me temps in the meantime. It’s given Shuli plenty of opportunity to practise the art of getting rid of them. This morning she just screamed the place down until the poor woman left the house. I don’t know why; her references were excellent. She seemed perfect in every way to me.’

‘Things look different from knee height. It wasn’t you she was giving a bath and tucking up in bed.’ Then, grateful that he couldn’t see her quick flush, ‘Maybe you should try asking Shuli what she wants before you take on someone else. She might settle better with a live-in nanny.’

‘She might. I wouldn’t.’

They’d discussed it at length before, but he was clearly uncomfortable about sharing his house with a strange woman. She wasn’t wild about the idea, either, but Shuli was more important than her own pathetic little jealousies. Getting him to acknowledge that his little girl was an individual who might have feelings of her own was an uphill battle, but someone had to try.

‘Has she calmed down now?’

‘Like any woman, Jane, she’s perfectly happy now that she’s got her own way.’ Then, somewhat belatedly. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean you…’

‘No.’ He didn’t think of her as a woman at all.

‘The agency is trying to find a replacement and in the meantime I’m calling everyone I can think of to have her.’

‘No luck?’

‘My mother is away at some conference and my sister moved to Strasbourg last month. They’re not your average grandmother/aunt combination,’ he said wearily. ‘It looks as if I’m going to have to work from home until I can sort something out. At least for the rest of the week. Will you bring over the files on my desk, please? And the mail.’

‘Are you sure? It’ll be nearly lunchtime by the time I arrive. Maybe you should just take the day off and spend it with Shuli.’ That was what the child wanted. A father who was there to give her a cuddle when she needed it. Who had time for her when she woke up eager to play; who made an effort to get home in time to read her a bedtime story. She didn’t blame Shuli for sacking a series of strangers, no matter how well qualified, who were being paid to stand in for a mother she’d never known, for a father who found her presence a painful daily reminder of everything he’d lost. ‘It’s a lovely day,’ she pointed out, trying again. ‘You could take her to the country park.’

‘Not today, Jane,’ he said, briskly. ‘If I don’t get the Arts Centre designs finalised this week we’ll fall behind programme.’

Heaven forbid that should happen. ‘Of course. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

She called the surveyors to reschedule the meeting, then sat for a moment while she gathered her own protective shell about her. Shuli wasn’t the only one who longed for Mark Hilliard to notice her. Love her.

But she was a grown-up, twenty-four years old, and, since she was also in her right mind, flinging herself onto the floor and screaming for attention wasn’t an option.

She was good old Jane, who could always be relied on no matter what the crisis. The perfect secretary, hiding her love for her heartbreakingly handsome boss behind her owl-like spectacles. A total cliché.

Okay, forget the spectacles. But she might as well wear them for all the notice he took of her.

But Mark Hilliard was irresistible. Ever since she’d sat across his desk for the first time and seen him, newly bereaved, grief in every dark shadow of his ravaged face, with his baby daughter in a carry seat beside him, she’d known it would be a mistake to stay.

There had been an urgent phone call moments after she’d arrived for the interview. She’d picked up the noisy infant, taken her into Reception and played finger games with her while her father had dealt at length with some crisis.

When he’d finished, he’d come looking for her. ‘You’ve got the job.’

The heart-leap of joy had been a warning and she’d heeded it. Much as she’d wanted the job, she knew that falling in love with the boss at first sight, any sight, was always going to end in tears. Hers.

‘But you know nothing about me,’ she’d said.

‘I know that you see what needs to be done and do it. That’s good enough for me. Can you start now?’

Shuli had been sitting on her lap, playing with the buttons on a smart new suit bought specially for the occasion. Well, it had looked smart in the shop. On her it didn’t have quite the same stylish appearance. Nothing ever did; she just wasn’t a standard size. Not tall enough. Not anything enough. And now it had dribble marks on the lapel.

‘Not promising material. Lacks that touch of class.’ That was what the woman at the secretarial agency had written on her application form. Jane was very good at reading upside down. Her skills were excellent but they hadn’t even taken her on as one of their temps.

While she had been putting on her coat a call had come into Reception. Mark Hilliard, of Hilliard, Young and Lynch Architects, needed a first-class secretary urgently.

As soon as she’d reached the pavement she’d called him on her mobile phone. She sounded better than she looked and he’d asked her to come over right away.

He hadn’t been put off by her appearance. She might have loved him just for that. Which was why, even though every sensible bone in her body had urged her to take a job that she wanted, needed, some internal alarm system had rung loud bells, warning her to turn him down, walk away.

There would be other jobs. Safer jobs. Jobs where her heart wouldn’t be on the line every minute of every working day. But Mark had looked so desperate. And Shuli had smiled so winningly at her.

Which was why, for more than two and a half years, she’d seen what was needed and she’d done it, without waiting to be asked.

All except for Shuli, she thought.

She’d tried to engage his attention in his adorable daughter, but it was clear that he found it difficult to be near her, and for all those two and half years she’d watched helplessly as he’d done everything for the child but give himself. It just wasn’t good enough. If he couldn’t be a father to the child, he’d have to give her a mother. And, as always, having recognised the need, she would have to organise the solution.

She gathered the files Mark had asked for and picked up her laptop, stopping in Reception to have calls redirected.

Her reflection in a framed picture of Hilliard’s most recent project warned her that her hair was escaping from the neat chignon the hairdresser had assured her would stay in place in a force ten gale.

She still needed to work on her presentation. Fortunately Mark wouldn’t notice even if she shortened her skirts to her knickers and piled on the make-up. He just didn’t see her that way. It was the one thing she had going for her.

‘Read me a story, Daddy.’

Mark glanced irritably at his daughter, who was perfectly happy now that the nanny had gone and she’d disrupted his day.

‘I’m busy, Shuli.’

She pushed the book she was holding onto the desk. It was old. Much read. ‘This story,’ she persisted.

Recognising the futility of resistance, he picked up the book. ‘Where did this come from?’

‘Jane gave it to me,’ she said. ‘I love Jane. I really, really love Jane.’

‘Yes, yes, of course you do…’ He opened the first page and saw, written in a round, childish hand, the words ‘This book belongs to Jane Carmichael’. It was one of her own precious childhood books, brought into the office to amuse Shuli on those days when he had no choice but to take her in with him. It occurred to him that maybe that was what the child had wanted all along: to see Jane. He glanced at the clock, wondering what on earth was taking her so long.

Shuli crawled up onto his lap. ‘Read it now, Daddy.’

‘Please,’ he said, automatically correcting her.

‘Please, Daddy,’ she said. And smiled. She was the very image of her mother. He could almost hear her voice pleading with him. “Please, Mark…let me go…”

The sound of a car pulling up in front of the house released him from the painful memory as, story forgotten, the child slid down and hurtled towards the door. He followed, opening it, and Shuli flung herself at Jane’s knees, hugging them.

‘You wouldn’t consider swapping jobs would you? You’d be the best-paid nanny in the county.’

‘No, thanks. Besides, she doesn’t need a nanny.’ Jane put down the files and her laptop and picked up the child to give her a proper hug. She got a big sticky kiss back. ‘She needs a mother.’ She put the child into his arms and took off her jacket. ‘I’m sorry I was so long. The traffic was a nightmare. I need coffee. Urgently.’

‘Help yourself. You know where everything is.’

She hooked the jacket over the newel post at the foot of the stairs and headed for the kitchen. Putting Shuli down, he followed her. ‘What about you?’ she asked, turning to him as she filled the kettle. ‘Coffee? Or would you prefer tea?’

‘Coffee, thanks.’

Shuli was at her knees again, and she looked down. ‘What about you, sweetheart? Do you want something to drink?’

She giggled. ‘Coffee, thanks,’ she said, imitating her father.

‘And would that be orange juice coffee, or apple juice coffee?’ Shuli giggled as Jane opened her bag and produced a wrapped chocolate biscuit finger. ‘And how about this?’

‘Is she supposed to have stuff like that?’ Mark asked.

Jane glanced up, surprised. ‘You don’t ever buy her chocolate?’

Her rebuke, mild though it was, took him by surprise. ‘Of course not. It’s bad for her teeth.’ He and Caroline had read all the books. Theirs was going to be the perfectly raised child. No junk food. No eating between meals. No sweets…‘Isn’t it?’ he asked, suddenly less certain.

‘I imagine she has a toothbrush?’

‘Yes, yes, of course. I’ll, um, be in the study.’

‘We’ll be right with you.’

Jane placed the tray on the desk out of Shuli’s reach and then settled her at a table with a pile of paper and crayons. ‘Daddy and I are going to be busy for a while. What I’d like you to do for me is draw a picture that I can pin up in my office. Will you do that?’

‘Okay.’

‘Good girl.’ She turned and saw that Mark was watching her with a faintly baffled expression. She poured the coffee and they went quickly through the morning post. ‘I’ve dealt with most of it.’

‘As always. That’s it?’

She took a moment to compose herself. She knew what she had to say. She’d nearly missed her exit on the motor-way rehearsing her lines.

‘Not quite.’ He waited. ‘There’s this.’ Heart hammering, she handed him a broadsheet newspaper folded back at an inside page.

‘Connections?’ he queried, looking up. ‘What is this?’

He couldn’t be that dense. Or then again…‘It’s a dating column. I’ve prepared a draft advertisement for you.’

He took the sheet of paper she offered.

“‘Widower, 34, with small daughter, WLTM warm, caring woman, N/S, GSOH, for LTR.’” He looked up. ‘WLTM?’

‘Would like to meet.’ Seeing his blank expression, she added, ‘Non-smoker with good sense of humour for long-term relationship.’

‘Oh.’

‘On the day you hired me, Mark, you said I was someone who saw what needed to be done and got on with it. That’s what I’m doing now. For Shuli’s sake. I’ve written the ad for you. I’ll even filter the replies if you want me to. All you have to do is tell me to go ahead and place it.’

He glanced at the newspaper again, read some of the ads. ‘This one wants a “lady of class and intelligence for romance and precious moments”.’ He cocked a wry eyebrow in her direction. ‘Does that mean what I think it means?’

‘Undoubtedly,’ she said, absolutely refusing to blush, or to laugh, which was what he hoped she’d do. Laugh and forget it, so that they could move on to the important business of life. Work. She cocked an eyebrow back at him. ‘You can draft your own specifications if you’d prefer. Just don’t forget the LTR.’

‘Jane, please…You can’t be serious.’

‘No? Your daughter has rejected four perfectly competent, kind and caring nannies in as many months. She’s trying to tell you, in the only way she can, that she needs more.’

‘More?’

‘More than you’re giving her. Someone who puts her first. Someone who she knows is going to be there for her every morning when she wakes up, every night to read her a story.’

‘I do what I can, but I have to work…’ He wasn’t laughing now. He couldn’t even quite meet her gaze. ‘People depend on me. My partners, everyone in the office—you, even. If I don’t work, Jane, no one gets paid.’

It was more than that; they both knew it. But if he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, do the job himself, he must offer a surrogate. ‘Then, I repeat, she needs a mother. You are the only person who can provide her with one. I appreciate that finding time to look for yourself is difficult, hence the ad. Or you could use an agency. Lots of people in your situation take this route.’

‘Maybe they do. Maybe you’re right.’ He tossed the advertisement she’d drafted on the desk and then raised one hand in a gesture of helplessness at the silver frame containing a photograph of Shuli’s mother. ‘I appreciate your concern and I’ll give it some thought, but can we move on, please?’ He picked up a file.

‘It’s three years, Mark,’ she said, refusing to let the subject drop. ‘Caroline would expect you to move on. She’d want Shuli to have what all children need.’

He was beginning to look haunted. ‘Where in the world would I find the kind of woman who’d take on someone else’s child?’

‘It’s not that uncommon these days. With the high divorce rate.’

But that wasn’t the problem and they both knew it. The problem was that no one could ever be as wonderful as Caroline…as perfect as Caroline…as beautiful as Caroline.

‘Very well,’ he conceded, finally accepting that she wasn’t going to let the subject drop. ‘The kind of woman who’d be prepared to accept the one-way relationship which is all I could offer?’ That he’d said it out loud, admitted it, was the first step, Jane knew. He glanced at the child, quietly working at her drawing. ‘I know you mean well, but I couldn’t ask it of any woman. Certainly not one with all the great qualities I’d want for Shuli.’

Jane felt his pain, physically hurting for the man. She wanted to reach across the desk, take his dear face in her hands and tell him that everything would be fine if only he’d trust her…

Keeping her voice brisk and businesslike, she said, ‘Don’t underrate yourself, Mark. You can offer a lovely home, a comfortable life, friendship. A lot of women would be happy to settle for that.’

‘Would they? And how would I know they weren’t just doing it for the money? That a year on this “warm, caring non-smoker with a good sense of humour” wouldn’t be suing for a divorce and a big fat chunk of my assets?’

He’d spotted the flaw in her suggestion. She’d been sure he would. Well, he’d look for any excuse to evade the issue.

‘I think Shuli could be relied upon to see off any pretenders.’

That, at least, raised a smile. ‘Yes, I suppose she would.’ He sat back, regarded her across the broad desk. ‘You’ve thought this through, haven’t you?’

‘Of course. I wouldn’t come to you with some half-baked plan.’

‘No.’ He continued to regard her thoughtfully. ‘Tell me, Jane, would you settle for a platonic marriage?’

This was it. The opening she’d been waiting for. She swallowed. ‘Are you asking me?’ she replied, her voice perfectly calm even while her heart was pounding loud enough to be heard in the next county.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I want to know if you’d marry a man who wasn’t in love with you?’

She shook her head. More hair slithered from the grip of pins unequal to the task. ‘No, Mark. That wasn’t my question.’ He frowned, and she very nearly lost her nerve. It wasn’t too late to bottle out…‘My question was…are you asking me if I’d marry you?’

CHAPTER TWO

THERE was a moment of perfect stillness while Mark Hilliard tried to decide if Jane was serious.

She was sitting opposite him, the way she did every working day of his life. She looked the same. Alert, a smile hovering behind her eyes and waiting to break out at the slightest provocation, totally in control of everything but her hair. And waiting for an answer to her question.

Was he asking her if she’d marry him?

The answer, of course, was yes. In a purely rhetorical sense. But Jane hadn’t been speaking rhetorically. She was never anything but totally straightforward. She didn’t play games, or tease, or do any of those tiresome female things to get what she wanted. He scarcely thought of her as a woman at all. Which was why she was so easy to work with. To be with.

She’d asked him a serious question and expected him to give her a serious answer. If he said no, she wouldn’t be offended. This wasn’t about feelings or emotions; it was about a practical solution to a problem that was beginning to affect not just his life but the success of his architectural practice.

And the longer he delayed before dismissing the idea out of hand the less inclined he felt to do so. It did, after all, make the most perfect sense.

He knew her so well. There’d be none of that awkwardness inevitable in any new relationship. None of the risk. She was hard-working, kind, loyal and beneath that serious exterior he knew she possessed in full measure that essential GSOH. She knew him, understood him perfectly, wouldn’t expect a thing from him except loyalty and friendship.

She’d be the perfect wife for him in every way. Whether he’d be the husband she was looking for was something else entirely.

‘Would you consider moving in here?’ he countered.

‘Give up my job and look after Shuli for you full-time? As what? I’m sorry, Mark. I can see what you’d get out of such an arrangement, but, much as I love Shuli, I don’t see it as a great career move for me.’ She didn’t wait for him to spell out the financial package he would be offering her as his ‘home’ rather than his ‘office’ secretary. ‘Maybe we’d better stick with the advertisement.’

Shuli, hearing her name, looked up. ‘I’ve nearly finished, Jane.’ And she held up her picture for them to see. Three stick figures beside a house. ‘Daddy, Jane and me,’ she said.

‘It’s lovely, poppet,’ Jane said, amazed that the tremor shaking her from the inside out wasn’t evident in her voice. ‘Are you going to draw some flowers in the garden?’ she asked.