Bridegroom On Her Doorstep

Frowning at her, he took in the tailored suit. The muddy cotton broadcloth, cut to make her look like she wore two cardboard boxes, thoroughly hid any evidence of her femininity. And that hair. Parted in the center, she’d slicked it back into a tight twist at her nape. She might as well wear a sign that read I Am A Dowdy, Finicky Virgin. Approach At Your Own Risk.

Unfortunately for his plans, her glistening eyes told a different story. They were large, shiny. The lids rode low over the most vibrant green he’d ever seen. Her slumberous lids and a sweep of sooty-brown lashes whispered sly seductiveness. The come-hither sensation, however unwittingly given, was impossible to ignore. Then there was her mouth. Those lips had a pouty way about them that, even amid all that muddy-brown fabric and skinned-back hair, gave off a stirring eroticism.

He had the strong sense the sexiness of those cupid’s bow lips was unintentional, unlike most of the women he’d brushed up against in his life—designing femme fatales angling for personal gain. But not this one. She hadn’t come on to him. Far from it. That fact alone—the “I’m sexy but I’ll never tell” vibe—so intrigued Cole it addled his brain to the point of this crazy compromise.

Suddenly the quiet month of June he always looked forward to, vacationing in his family summer home on the Gulf, was to be shared by a quarrelsome little Puritan with sultry lips and wide-set, bedroom eyes that spoke bewitching volumes, but not a syllable they spoke was a conscious come-on.

Muttering a curse, he turned away and grabbed up his paintbrush, furious with himself for caving in. This was his month, blast it! He’d looked forward to this vacation as a balm to help ease his grief over the recent death of his father. Not to mention his need for an escape from business stress, which up to yesterday had been brutal, battling a hostile takeover bid for the largest of his holdings, Quad-State Oil and Gas. The pressure had been incessant and deadly. The poison pill he devised to hold on to the company had been a successful tactic, making the purchase unpalatably expensive for the challenger. He was weary from eighteen-hour days, mentally and emotionally drained. He needed the escape he found here to do nothing but relax, listen to the surf or take on some welcome, physical exertion.

He loved this house and the childhood memories it brought with it, of happy times with his doting father. The man who, at fifty-five years of age, took in a newborn child, gave him a name, raised him, nurtured him and passed on his wisdom. Seeing to the property’s upkeep restored Cole, made him happy. Because of his care, year by year, he kept the beloved place whole and beautiful.

Working with his hands in solitude by the sea, Cole could quietly reflect, spend time getting reacquainted with his imagination. Through unaccompanied toil and thought, he connected with men of bygone ages who helped steer his hands. These reclusive vacations exercised his mind and his soul as well as his body. Each year he looked forward to June, to this place, coming away from it energized, revived, ready for the rat race again.

He began to brush white paint on the fence, his failure to handle the intrusion as he’d planned affecting him in deep, disturbing ways. What was his problem? What was it about this female that had the power to short circuit his intentions?

“Maybe we should—exchange names?”

He shot her a perturbed look and she stared at him. Her annoyance was so evident from her pinkened cheeks and sparking eyes, he experienced a surprise prickle of appreciation. Damn, she was stubborn. He wondered what her meetings were all about. What her applicants might apply for. Nothing kinky, he suspected. She was too prim and punctilious to be up to any pornographic shenanigans.

“Call me Cole,” he muttered. “Cole—Noone.” Though he was “Cole” to his friends, he smirked inwardly at the hurriedly conjured last name. Noone—shoving together the words “no” and “one.” She thought he was a handyman. He’d let her. It might be interesting to observe how a woman reacted to him when she didn’t know he was J. C. Barringer, wealthy capitalist. Ordinarily women fawned over him, cooing, petting and fluttering lashes. So far, from this female, he hadn’t detected a single coo or flutter.

She surprised him by sticking out a hand, apparently expecting him to take it. “I’m Jennifer Sancroft.”

Something about that name nudged his memory. Jennifer Sancroft. Why did that name seem familiar? He closed his eyes for a moment, too tired and annoyed to worry about it. It would come to him. Since she was renting the corporate property, she had to work for one of his companies, or one of his father’s that he’d just taken over. He’d no doubt heard it in a business reference.

For some unfathomable reason—possibly the insidious influence of those sensual lips—he took her hand in his. Her skin was cool, as he’d expected, her handshake firm. “How do you do, Miss Sancroft,” he said, his tone wholly unwelcoming.

“How do you know it’s Miss?” she asked, her features quizzical.

He couldn’t contain the amused twitch of his lips. Was she kidding? “Just a guess.”

Her cheeks flushed. She’d caught his sarcasm. Tugging her fingers from his, she lifted her shoulders. Any more attempts to be intimidatingly tall and her sensible brown pumps would lift off the ground. “Well…” She backed up another step. “I’ll go get unpacked.” She pivoted away, retreating across the lawn.

He watched her go, aggravation twisting his gut. Now that he could no longer be affected by those cupid’s-bow lips and unconsciously sexy eyes, he willed her to walk to the car, slide in and disappear.

When she reached her vehicle, she popped the trunk and pulled out a suitcase. Cole gritted out an oath. So much for his telepathic powers.

Ruthie flung open the front door as her boss approached. “So, is he leaving on Sunday?” Her expression more worried than hopeful, she hurried off the covered porch and grabbed one of the bags. Married or not, the look on Ruthie’s face made it clear she’d be happy to have Mr. Eye-Candy hang around for the whole three weeks.

Jen heaved a sigh, mounting the two steps to the columned colonial porch. “He’s not leaving.” Once inside, she set down her suitcase and looked around absently. “He seemed—reluctant—to change his plans. I said he could stay.” The ugly truth, that “reluctant” was a mild description of his attitude, remained Jen’s secret. Her assistant didn’t need to know she hadn’t graciously allowed the handyman to stay on out of the goodness of her heart.

“Excellent!” Ruthie’s expression brightened. “We need a good view around here.”

“The Gulf of Mexico is practically in the backyard.”

Ruthie waved that off as insignificant. “No offense, boss, but you’d think considering why you’re here, you’d be more interested in looking at men.”

Jen ignored her assistant’s gibe. “Yes, well—this is more of a partnership than a—a—physical attraction match.” She didn’t like Ruthie’s doubtful expression. “There’s no logical reason why I can’t find a perfectly respectable husband this way. Compatibility and common interests are very important. Why, my own parents—”

“I know, boss,” Ruthie cut in, her tone pensive, almost pitying. “Your parents are a great team—with mutual goals. A great example of a sensible union.”

“Don’t forget, I know all about the treacherousness of blind devotion,” she said, a knee-jerk defense.

Ruthie nodded, looking sad. “Tony.” Her rueful gaze met her boss’s. “I know. Remember, I was your assistant when he broke your heart. But I think it’s wrong to give up on love because of one jerk.”

“I’m not giving up on love.” Jen was weary of trying to get Ruthie to understand.

“Sure, boss,” Ruthie mumbled. “You think love can grow if two compatible people work at it.” She couldn’t make it plainer she wasn’t one hundred percent on board with Jen’s theory.

Refusing to defend her rationale again, Jen clamped her jaws. She’d made it abundantly clear why she’d decided to find a husband in such an unorthodox way.

Jen felt fortunate her assistant was accustomed to keeping her own counsel and wouldn’t gossip about Jen’s so-called “vacation.” Everybody else at the accounting firm thought Jen was getting quietly married and on her honeymoon. All but Ruthie. Looking at her dubious expression, if there had been any way Jen could have handled this husband hunt alone, she would have.

“Well, at least the place is nice.” Ruthie’s remark drew Jen from her mental wanderings. Indicating a staircase at the end of the wide entry, her assistant went on. “That leads up to the bedrooms. Naturally, you’ll want the master. There’s a guest room right across the head of the stairs for me.”

Jen cast a glance at the staircase. A landing, halfway up, caught her eye. A tall window in the back wall revealed a cloudless sky. “Mm-hmm. Bedroom,” she mumbled.

“I figured we could set up interviews at the dining table here.” Ruthie indicated the formal dining room to the left of the entry. A carved oak china cabinet dominated the wall behind a glass-topped table. Jen noted the table’s base looked like four columns set into a central pedestal. The massive base had been created from some kind of light-colored stone. The table wasn’t huge, but it looked to be about six feet square. Two elegant chairs made of light wood stood on each of the four sides.

“Unless you’d rather interview over there.” Ruthie indicated a location behind Jen and she turned to view the sprawling living room. A fireplace with a white, marble surround dominated the far end. Though situated on the north of the house, three tall windows let in plenty of light.

Decor in pale pastels helped keep the room airy and light. Sheer window treatments swagged and swooped and puddled attractively. While not so sheer as to prevent a degree of privacy, they allowed in diffused sunlight. Strategically located in massive ceramic pots, scatterings of green foliage enlivened the space. The pale hues and muted radiance of the room reminded Jen of a certain pair of eyes.

“Pretty,” Ruthie murmured, coming up beside her boss.

“Yes, he is.”

“Huh?” Ruthie’s skeptical query yanked Jen from her musings. “I was talking about the house, not the hunk.”

Jen had a bad feeling she’d said something she hadn’t meant to say—and would deny to her dying day. “So was I—talking about the house!” She made sure neither her tone nor her expression allowed room for argument. She had enough to deal with without entering into a debate over whether she suffered from some daft fixation for a certain arrogant handyman.

CHAPTER TWO

COLE couldn’t help noticing the prissy little gate-crasher kept her distance for the remainder of the weekend. The other one, the freckled one with the barking laugh, was more sociable. She waved greetings whenever their paths happened to cross. The frosty one, the one he’d dubbed Miss Priss, stayed inside. That was too bad. Not that he had any desire to see her. It wasn’t that. It was just that she was pale. Walking on the beach, catching a few rays, would do her some good.

Monday morning, as he headed out of the surf after an energizing swim, he noticed a strange car in the drive. Toweling his hair, he wondered what kind of interviews these two women were holding. He shrugged it off. What in blazes did he care? He had things to do.

Even though Cole worked hard on his disinterest, he couldn’t help noticing that every half hour a car pulled into the drive as the previous one drove away. Around two in the afternoon, he decided to trim dead limbs high in a live oak near the front of the house.

From up there he had an excellent view of the driveway. The sound of tires crunching over gravel caught his attention as one car drove off and another arrived. A thin, balding man in a chocolate-brown suit stepped out of the ebony compact. It occurred to Cole that not once today had he seen a woman arrive. All visitors had been men in three-piece suits. Most carried briefcases.

Cole had a healthy curiosity, but he wasn’t nosy. Nevertheless, every time a car pulled up and another man got out, he couldn’t help but wonder what was going on inside the residence.

At four, he finished the tree trimming and climbed down. Aggravated with himself for this weird preoccupation with the goings-on in the main house, he grabbed up his toolbox. He had to know what those females were up to. Miss Priss had made it plain she didn’t want him banging around inside the house. But the leaky kitchen faucet required nothing noisy, only a washer. He could do that very quietly.

He headed around the rear of the house and bounded up the eight wooden steps to the expansive, covered deck. With as little noise as possible, he slipped inside the back door that led into a rustic den and open kitchen. This was his favorite place in the big house. Less formal than the front rooms, its leather furniture and American-Indian decor was more to his taste. Instead of carpeting, the floor consisted of wide oak planking. The fireplace was constructed of stone instead of marble. Though he enjoyed staying in the cottage on these solitary visits, preferring its rustic intimacy, the big house brought back fond memories.

He ambled around the green- and gold-flecked granite eating bar separating the kitchen from the den, and set his toolbox on the stone countertop. Metal against granite clanked and he grimaced. So much for being quiet. He heard shuffling and turned. Little Ms. Freckle-face peered around the door frame from the entry hallway. Her concerned expression opened in a grin, and she whispered, “Oh, I thought you were a burglar.”

He gave her a skeptical once-over. “What would you have done if I were?”

“Kicked you to heck-and-gone, handsome.” She entered the kitchen and leaned against the counter nearest the doorway. “I was a sergeant in the Marines. Covert Ops. If I wanted to I could drop you where you stand.”

He grinned. “Are you flirting with me?”

Laughing, she held up her left hand to show him her wedding set. “No—but it crossed my mind.”

“Ruthie?” Miss Priss called from the living room. “The next candidate just drove up.”

“So your name’s Ruthie?” Cole kept his voice low enough so he couldn’t be heard outside the kitchen.

“Ruthie Tuttle.” She headed toward him, hand outstretched. “And the boss tells me you’re Cole Noone,” she whispered. “Nice to officially meet you, Noone.”

He took her hand and leaned closer to murmur, “I think it’s best if you don’t mention I’m here.”

She winked conspiratorially. “Gotcha. The boss’d have my head if she knew. She’s got enough to do without beheading me. Besides, I really, really want that dripping to stop. The last two nights it drove me bonkers.”

“You could hear it all the way upstairs?”

Her grin wrinkled her nose. “I have the ears of a bat.”

The doorbell chimed. “Ruthie! What are you doing in there? Please, get the door.”

The redheaded assistant made a face, mouthing, “Duty calls.” She hurried around the corner. “On my way, boss.”

Cole turned to his work. During the next fifteen minutes, he slowly, soundlessly replaced the washer, his attention focused more on the interview in the living room than on the repair job. He couldn’t make out every word, but what he did hear he found difficult to believe.

It sounded as though Miss Sancroft was interviewing for a husband. Finished with the repair, he laid the flats of his hands on the cool granite and shook his head, strangely disappointed. He wasn’t surprised by much, but that surprised him. He had a hard time restraining his irritation. Why in the name of all that was nuts in the world, would she resort to such a stupid, sterile plan? With eyes like hers? And those lips! Surely some of the men she’d dated would have looked past her drab, frumpish clothes and seen—

“Well—thank you for your time, Mr. Robertson.”

Cole glanced over his shoulder. Miss Sultry-lips sounded closer.

“It was—interesting,” the man said with a tense laugh. “Goodbye, Ms. Sancroft. Good luck.”

“Thank you for coming.”

Cole heard the door close, then silence.

“When’s the next appointment, Ruthie?”

“Not for fifteen or twenty minutes. He called to say his flight had been delayed.”

“Thank heaven.” Cole heard her sigh. “I need a break. I think I’ll have a health nut bar and a cup of instant—” She rounded the corner into the kitchen. Her sentence and her forward movement ended when she saw him. Outrage transformed her features. “You!”

He shifted to fully face her and lounged against the counter. Crossing his arms over his bare chest, he eyed her critically. She wore a white blouse with long sleeves and a high, Puritan neckline. Her shapeless, gray skirt hit her midknee. Between the skirt hem and her sensible pumps, he saw slender, attractive legs that could be shown off to better advantage.

She wore her hair slicked back the same, sexless way she’d worn it on Saturday. Even so, the extremely unattractive style couldn’t quite make her plain. Her vivid, jade eyes, full lips and great bone structure were difficult to spoil, no matter how hard she might try. He wondered why she was trying so hard.

The stillness crackled with tension. Cole was unaccustomed to being glared at by women. He ignored the prickle of irritation and eyed her without smiling. “Afternoon.”

His chilly greeting seemed to revive her from her paralysis and she threw him a stiff-armed point. “You are not supposed to be in here.”

Another thing Cole was unaccustomed to was being told he wasn’t supposed to be somewhere. His irritation billowed, but he didn’t let it show. “I didn’t make noise.”

She gasped. “You—that’s not the point! You were not supposed to come inside during my interviews! I specifically ordered you not to!”

He stared for a count of ten. During the stretched-out silence she exhaled with agitation, plainly upset by his dawdling to get on with his groveling and apologizing. Well, she’d have a long wait.

“I don’t take orders well,” he said, then turned away, dismissing her with body language. Hefting his toolbox he strode around the eating bar toward the rear door. With his hand on the knob, he halted and glanced back. “Why in Hades are you interviewing for a husband?”

Her mouth dropped open at his bluntness. “Get out!” she demanded, her voice as rusty as an old tin can.

Jen felt shell-shocked. After nearly three days holed up inside that house, she needed to get out, walk off her frustrations. Even if it meant chancing a run-in with the insolent handyman. Why should she hide? She was the sanctioned occupant here, legally leasing this place. She had a right to enjoy the beach. After the horrendous day she’d had, if she didn’t do something besides stare at the walls, she would scream. She was customarily optimistic and confident, but today both her optimism and her confidence had been sorely tested.

She vaulted off the sofa where she’d held so many unproductive interviews. “I’m going for a walk, Ruthie.”

Her secretary sat on a wing chair placed at an angle to the couch. She looked up, flipped her notepad closed and nodded. “It’s about time you got out and enjoyed the nice weather.” She stood. “I’m going upstairs to call Raymond, see how he and the kids are dealing with his parents’ visit.” She rolled her eyes. “I can hardly stand the suspense.”

“Fine,” Jen murmured, too preoccupied with today’s futile interviews to say more. She was out of the living room and almost to the kitchen before Ruthie called after her.

“Boss?”

Jen glanced back. “Yes?”

“Should I order take-out for dinner?”

Jen shrugged, not feeling much like eating. “Sure.”

“For about an hour from now?”

“Sure.” She glanced at her watch. Five-thirty. She had plenty of time to walk off her anxieties. Well, at least she had some time. She didn’t think all the time in the world, or all the strength she could muster, would allow her to walk off all her troubles.

She went out the back door and stood for a moment on the wood deck. Wicker furniture with red-and-blue-striped cushions brightened the shady area. Potted gardenia plants, with glossy green leaves and a multitude of white blossoms, lent delicate beauty to the space, their breeze-tossed, flowery fragrance mingling agreeably with the briny tang of the Gulf.

The rustling of a wind through the sea grasses on the dunes beyond the freshly painted pickets, the rush of the surf, eased her stress slightly. How miraculous that only a moment in the relaxing magic of nature’s grandeur could have an effect.

She inhaled, deciding this walk on the beach was days overdue. Provoking handyman or not, she needed this, needed the gentle relief of sun and surf to ease the coil of anxiety that had taken up residence inside her.

She walked down the steps to the lawn, focusing determinedly on the beach. She strode to the fence, unlatched the gate and headed over the dunes to tawny sand. She came to a stop just out of reach of the skittering surf. The high-pitched cry of a seagull swooping nearby attracted her attention. She watched the bird dip and soar over the boundless Gulf. The view was gorgeous, with the brilliance of a late-afternoon sun glinting off the azure blue. It was so quiet, so restful, she could feel the pressures of the distressing day melt away.

Edgy, worrisome thoughts tried to intrude—of the reason she had to be there, of all that depended on these next weeks. She tried not to let her anger and frustration over the unfairness of the world come to the surface. She’d spent too much time lately letting it get to her.

Here she was, on a pristine beach, breathing in fresh, sea air, her face caressed by sunshine. She shouldn’t contaminate the moment by dwelling on her troubles. Through exhaustively long work days and total devotion to her career, she’d becoming the youngest, and only female, of three vice presidents. Then last week, when the current president abruptly announced he was leaving for a job out of state, Jen knew, by any fair measurement, she deserved the presidency.

It was her tough luck that the owner and absentee CEO of the firm had ruled with raging conservatism over the years, never promoting a bachelor to the presidency—let alone a female—always opting for a settled, family man. Though the elderly owner recently passed away, and control passed to his son, Jen feared the governing beliefs of the heir would be equally unprogressive. What did it matter to this newest owner that the firm had become a substitute for a family? The fact that she was a thirty-one-year-old woman and single should not matter! Unfortunately, at the heart of the accounting business was a hard knot of conservatism that couldn’t be unraveled. Inflexible, old-guard thinking made her crazy.

The new CEO, equally reclusive and all-powerful, had sent a gold-embossed missive to each of the three vice presidents that he would interview the candidates within the next three weeks. Jen’s discovery that her interview would be last was like a slap in the face. She took it as a bleak sign, since as Tax Vice President, she had what was considered the most prestigious post. Suddenly, and with stark clarity, she had seen the handwriting on the wall.

Maybe she had gone a little crazy. Maybe it was partly because over the past year or so her biological clock’s ticking had grown loud in her head. What had begun as a faint whisper, had grown steadily, bringing with it flutterings of a desire for more in life than business success, a craving for her own two-point-four children.

She wanted a career and she wanted a family. As president she could have both. Her plans included working-mother-friendly programs, like on-site day care and job sharing for support staff who would like to work half days so they could spend more time at home with children. Jen also planned to initiate eight weeks of paid maternity leave. In addition, mothers would be allowed to keep newborns in the office, and a lactation and child care consultant would be hired.