Blind Date

“Ah, Meg, do you know how hard this is?”Joe groaned

“Yeah, I think I do.” Meg pushed seductively against him. “That is, unless you have a gun stuffed down your pants—a rather large-caliber gun, too, I might add,” she added, grinning wickedly.

He stared at her, speechless. Then he found his voice. “What I meant was, feeling the way I do about you and not being able to act on it…do you know how hard that is?”

“So show me,” she dared.

Joe’s breath caught. “Are you sure, Meg, really? I mean, with everything going on and how crazy it’s all been—”

“Joe, I sent out an invitation. Are you telling me no?” She pulled back to look into his eyes.

Joe gave up trying to reason and pressed into her. “What can I say, Meg? Its too hard to resist you.”

Note from the editor…

An Evening To Remember… Those words evoke all kinds of emotions and memories. How do you plan a romantic evening with your guy that will help you get in touch with each other on every level?

Start with a great dinner that you cook together. Be sure to light several candles and put fresh flowers on the table. Enjoy a few glasses of wine and pick out your favorite music to set the mood. After dinner take the time to really talk to each other. Hold hands and snuggle on the sofa in front of the fireplace. And maybe take a few minutes to read aloud selected sexy scenes from your favorite Harlequin Temptation novel. After that, anything can happen.…

That’s just one way to have an evening to remember. There are so many more. Write and tell us how you keep the spark in your relationship. And don’t forget to check out our Web site at www.eHarlequin.com.

Sincerely,

Birgit Davis-Todd

Executive Editor

Blind Date

Cheryl Anne Porter

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To all those women who had to kiss toads until princes finally showed up. Especially the wonderful doctors, nurses and dear friends on my health care team in Tampa, Florida.

Dear Reader,

On August 25, 2004, wonderfully talented Harlequin Temptation author Cheryl Anne Porter passed away after a valiant struggle with cancer. As her friends, we—the other “Temptresses”—wished to share a few of our fond memories of this vibrant, witty woman.

Without fail, all of us remember laughing with her. Whether because of her outrageous stories, the devilish gleam in her eye, or, as Wendy Etherington remembers, a name tag saying “Queen of the Universe,” Cheryl Anne inspired a feeling of genuine happiness from the moment you met her. Carly Phillips recalls meeting Cheryl Anne in a hotel lobby, and says everyone was roaring with laughter within moments of her arrival. Jacquie D’Alessandro distinctly remembers the first time she heard Cheryl’s voice—sort of husky, and filled with humor. That warm, softly accented voice was something Leslie Kelly will never forget, as her first interaction with Cheryl Anne was in a phone call.

If you’ve read Cheryl Anne’s books, you probably know her a little yourself. Her voice shone brilliantly through her written words. Julie Kistler was struck by how much Cheryl reminded her of her books, being smart, fresh, genuine and totally original. And Kimberly Raye calls Cheryl one of those people who lives life “out loud,” pointing out that, like her books, she made people feel good. Julie Kenner finds comfort that Cheryl’s voice, humor and wit will continue to live on through the readers, old and new, who discover her books.

Several of us first met her at writers’ conferences, where she was a sought-after speaker. Joanne Rock credits Cheryl Anne with helping her learn to tap deeply into her emotions while writing. Vicki Lewis Thompson fondly recalls the way Cheryl Anne would whip out those pictures of her grandchildren whenever they ran into one another. And every one of us still laughs when we think of Cheryl Anne’s “Larry the hotel employee” story.

Jill Shalvis and Julie Elizabeth Leto were fortunate enough to work closely with Cheryl on the MEN OF CHANCE miniseries in Harlequin Temptation, and Jill loved getting to know her. Julie, who lived close to Cheryl Anne, says that on the day Cheryl died, their hometown experienced an awe-inspiring rainstorm that lasted all night—and no one who knew Cheryl was the least surprised that she could influence Mother Nature.

But even those of us who didn’t know her personally felt touched by her. Emily McKay is thankful for Cheryl Anne’s gifts to the writing community, through her brilliant workshops, her wonderful books and her insightful articles. Rhonda Nelson says that whether you were a good friend, met her but once, or had simply read her wonderful books, the mere thought of Cheryl Anne always evoked a smile.

Finally, Cheryl Anne’s editor, Brenda Chin, admits that she’s firmly in denial. She’s not yet willing to imagine not having the pleasure of collaborating on another book with Cheryl. Cheryl’s wit, her irreverence and her outrageousness will be greatly missed by her Harlequin family.

We hope you enjoy this last book by our very dear friend Cheryl Anne Porter. She crafted her stories with love, laughter and genuine emotion…the same way she lived her life. The humor, charm and warmth you’re about to experience is her last, personal gift to all of us. One we’re all very grateful to have received.

With love,

The Temptresses

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Prologue

“OKAY, ON THE COUNT of three, we start taking our clothes off. One—”

“Stop counting! We can’t just strip in a department store aisle, Meg!”

“Why not? It’ll teach them to put their fitting rooms in obvious locations, won’t it?”

Wendy gave her an exasperated look. “Either you quit it right now, or I’m going to call your mother on my cell phone and tell her what you’re doing. I don’t think the current president of the Women’s Garden Club will be amused.”

Meg Kendall assessed her best friend for seriousness of intent and decided Wendy Jones would do exactly as she’d threatened. Besides, Meg didn’t really intend to follow through with her daring plan. Her conservative upbringing hadn’t exactly encouraged wild spontaneity—but it was fun to kid about it. “Oh, all right, you win.” Shifting her armload of new spring outfits, Meg again scanned the vicinity for anything resembling a fitting room. “What now, fearless leader? Got any ideas?”

“Yes. We keep looking.” Doing just that, Wendy slowly turned around, searching. Suddenly, she pointed off to their left. “Ha. Right over there. See?”

Meg looked where Wendy indicated and saw a subtle but promising doorway cut into a wall of the very upscale department store anchoring one end of Tampa’s fabulous International Plaza. She brightened. “Good eye, Wendy.”

She set off, weaving her way around several carousels hung with pants and shirts. Mere feet from her destination, Meg was stopped by a restraining hand on her arm. She spun around to face her friend. “Whoa, head rush. What are you doing, Wendy?”

“We can’t go in there. These are—” she lowered her voice to a whisper “—the men’s fitting rooms.” Though equally laden with her own choices in outfits, Wendy managed to point above their heads.

Meg looked up, only now seeing the big blocky letters affixed above the entry. “Oh. So they are. Well, who cares?”

“I do. It’s against the law.”

“Oh, please. It used to be against the law for women to vote or go braless, but did that stop us? No.” Meg again surged forward.

Wendy held her firm. “Men could be in there undressing.”

Instant full-color, centerfold-quality snapshots popped into Meg’s mind. Hard-bodied athletes and cops and firefighters, all half-naked or better. Whew. She shook her head to clear the pictures. “Gorgeous men with their clothes off. How, exactly, is that supposed to dissuade me?”

Wendy released Meg’s arm. “What if they look like Maury instead?”

A replacement mental vision of the short, barrel-chested and blustery four-thousand-year-old sweetheart of a little old man who lived in the same complex as she and Wendy did in trendy South Tampa had Meg grimacing her distaste. “Thanks. Now I have to gouge out my mind’s eye.” She shook her head to clear the image. “Nice try. But I’m still game. I’m tired, my arms are about to fall off from carting these clothes all over the place, and I’m not getting any younger.”

“Same here, but first let’s think this through…”

“Oh, please, Wendy, not that.”

“Just listen. If we go in there, we run the risk of getting caught by the security guards and being charged with a crime, disowned by our families and convicted. If that happens, we’ll be sentenced to jail, where, just to survive, we will have to become some big, sweaty chicks’ bitches—”

“Big, sweaty— Where do you get this stuff?” Meg could hardly believe some of the things that came out of her cute blond, blue-eyed friend’s mouth.

“I’m not done. You have to promise me that if we get thrown into jail, we’ll pretend to be each other’s bitch so no one else will mess with us.”

Disbelief rounded Meg’s eyes. “You’re serious, aren’t you.”

Wendy nodded. “Go on…promise. I’m waiting.”

Knowing from long experience that Wendy would not budge until Meg promised her, she exhaled dramatically. “All right, fine. If we get caught and thrown in jail, I promise we will—and I can’t believe I am even going to say this—pretend to be each other’s…bitch. There.”

“And no farming me out in exchange for cigarettes or chocolate.”

“Seriously?” Meg pretended to weigh the pros and cons of such a course of action—Wendy promptly smacked her arm a glancing blow. “Ouch! Okay, fine on the cigarettes. I don’t smoke, anyway. But if it comes down to you or chocolate, I’m giving you up, honey.”

“That’s not funny—”

“Look, if you don’t have the guts for this, keep looking for the women’s fitting rooms. But don’t expect me to wait for you once I’ve found the dress of my dreams.”

Wendy rolled her eyes. “Oh, whatever. But one of these days, I’ll figure out why I let you talk me into doing dumb things.”

Meg instantly brightened. “It’s not dumb, and you do it because you secretly admire my courage.”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“I know it is.” With Wendy once again on her heels, Meg breezed under the forbidden arch. Quickly, she moved down the row of louvered doors, checking to see that each one was indeed empty. For all her bravado, she didn’t want to embarrass or alarm some guy. Or go to jail. Or be anybody’s bitch.

From behind her, Wendy said, “Back to Maury Seeger, he’s quite the character.”

Meg couldn’t help but warm to the subject of their elderly neighbor. “Maury and his Mafia-mobile,” she said, and smiled. Meg could visualize the little old man’s hulking, chrome-armored black tank of a car. “I just love Maury and his stories. The way he’s always going on about how he was a Mafia don in his younger days and how they called him The Stogie because of his cigars.”

“But don’t you think Maury—and I mean this in a loving way—has got to have a screw loose? Maybe a whole handful loose?”

Meg shrugged. “Probably. Who doesn’t?” Having finished casing the room, she said, “Oh, good, come on—they’re all empty.” She chose a stall and indicated to Wendy that she should take the one next to hers. Stepping in and closing the door after her, Meg called out, “By the way, did I tell you that I’m going out Saturday night with Maury’s great-nephew from out of town?”

“Yeah, you did. That’s my point.” Wendy’s raised voice and the sound of a closing door told Meg her friend had gone into her own fitting room. “This guy is from the same murky gene pool as Maury. Have you thought about that, Meg? And what about Carl? You just broke up with him last weekend. Are you sure that’s really over?”

“Beyond sure. Carl’s a two-timing jerk. He is so out of the picture.” Tamping down her simmering anger born of catching Carl out on a date with a woman who definitely had not been her, Meg sorted out the outfits she’d brought with her and hung her choices on the hooks provided. “My evenings are free now, so why shouldn’t I go out? Besides, this isn’t an actual date. It’s a blind date that isn’t even really that.”

Wendy’s voice became teasing instead of scolding. “If it isn’t a date, why did it require an evening trek to the mall in the middle of the week to buy a new outfit?”

“It didn’t. We came for you. You’re the one looking for something to wear on the airplane Friday afternoon.” Meg tossed her purse down and unsnapped her lightweight denim dress. “I just got lucky and found some cool things I like. Anyway, what’s the harm in wanting to make a good first impression?”

“I knew it! Tell me again how this isn’t a date, blind or otherwise?”

“It’s not. It’s a favor.” Meg considered her first selection. A scarlet linen shift, the hem of which was encircled with tiny rows of multicolored chain-stitch embroidery. A definite possibility. “I’m doing a nice thing for a little old man who owns a spot in my heart. His nephew is coming and he asked me if I’d just show the guy around Tampa for one evening. Big deal. So I’ll give him the three-hour tour.” Standing in her bra and panties, Meg unzipped the linen dress and stepped into it.

“Meg, you do realize, don’t you, that this guy could be a serial killer?”

Meg settled the dress on herself and performed all the standard contortions a woman does to get a zipper up. “It’s not like I picked up some ax-wielding, smelly psycho from the side of the road. The guy’s a foreman for a construction company in Colorado.” She admired herself in the mirror. The dress fit perfectly. “Are you having any luck over there? I am totally loving this red linen dress.”

“Really? I’m not too sure about this blue suit. I like it, but if I’m going to wear it on my trip, I want it to be comfortable. Maybe I need the next larger size,” she said with a sigh.

The sound of an opening door told Meg that Wendy had just exited her fitting room. “Wait here for me, okay? I’m dressed and I have my purse. I’m going to go look for that next size.”

“All right,” Meg said. She reached around behind her to undo the zipper and about four or five inches from the bottom, the zipper balked…and then stuck.

Meg felt for the snag, found it and grimaced. Great. It was stuck on the lace at the top of her bikini underwear. And no matter how she fiddled with it, it would not come loose. Damn it. Short of pulling the dress down and off—along with her underwear, which would leave her naked from the waist down—Meg was doomed to stand there, frustrated. Where was Wendy when she needed her?

At that exact moment, the door to the next stall closed. Wendy was back! Meg opened her stall’s door, went to the next one and knocked on it. “Hey, before you take your clothes off, would you get this stupid zipper unstuck for me? It’s caught in my underwear.”

STANDING IN THE MEN’S fitting room stall, already shirtless but still in his jeans, Joe Rossi didn’t budge as his mind processed what he’d just heard. A knock on his door. A female voice. A zipper stuck in her underwear. And she wanted his help.

That didn’t happen every day.

But what the hell was she doing in here? Was she mistaking him for a boyfriend or husband? Probably. So this would be funny when she saw him and realized her mistake. Unable to resist his impulse to play this scene out, Joe opened the door, ready to see the surprise on her face and laugh with her.

Only, she wasn’t facing him. She had her back to him and her hands pinched in at her waist to keep the dress’s two back panels loose. Her head was bent forward, which sent cascades of shiny brunette hair falling forward over her shoulders. Joe swallowed. If her front was even half as nice as her back, then this was one really hot woman. She stood about average height, had a great figure—the parts he could see—and lightly tanned skin. Her bra was white and lacy. Her dress was open to below her waist. And, sure enough, the zipper was caught on her underwear.

Joe was torn. He wished he could help her out, but not for all the money in country music was he going to touch her. Not that he didn’t want to. He’d be pleased to. But he didn’t dare, not without informed consent, which this scenario did not imply—

“Sweetie, what are you doing back there? See if you can get the zipper unstuck. I don’t want to have to take off the dress, and my underwear along with it, so I can work on it myself. How embarrassing would that be?”

“More so for you than me,” Joe said.

The woman tensed, her head came up, and she apparently stared straight ahead. Suddenly, she swung around, her eyes wide, her hands covering her mouth as she stared at him in shock.

“Don’t scream.” Joe already had his hands out in front of him in a stop-right-there gesture. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you—”

She moved her hands about an inch away from her mouth. “You don’t have on a shirt.”

“You’re absolutely right. I do not have on a shirt.” A lucid corner of his brain—one not involved in this debacle—noted that her front was every bit as hot as her back. This woman smoldered. Wide brown eyes. Bedroom eyes. He flicked his gaze over her fine nose, down to her sensual, rosy lips, then her slender neck, to her full set of breasts—and right back up to her eyes. “I had just pulled off my shirt and was getting ready to try one on when you knocked on the door. I can show it to you if you like. The shirt, I mean.”

“No. Not necessary. I believe you.” She sounded breathless, apologetic. “I am so embarrassed. I thought you were someone else.” She tucked a stray lock of her thick, shiny, reddish brown hair behind her ear. “She was here a minute ago, I swear.”

“She?” Joe’s interest level ratcheted up significantly—a purely male response to a hot, possibly unattached and half-dressed woman.

“Yes. My friend Wendy,” the woman said distractedly as she blatantly checked him out. “Okay, I just have to say something, and it’s very politically incorrect. But all of this—” she waved her hand up and down him, indicating his bare chest “—wow. On the other hand, I am so sorry. How uncool am I? I’ve never even seen you before, and I just stick my booty right in your face.”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly…in my face.” Still, Joe’s testosterone-soaked brain created some really nice images of that. Really nice. But he probably shouldn’t linger there. Say something. “What, exactly, are you doing in the men’s fitting rooms, anyway?”

Wrinkling her nose, which only made her cuter, she sighed. “It’s a long story that involves women in line scratching and shoving, and I don’t come off very well in it. So, really, it’s not worth retelling.” She backed up a step and, hands behind her, clutched at her dress. “Anyway, I should just…go. Again, sorry. I really did think you were my friend.”

Though acutely aware that he shouldn’t say what he was thinking, given his situation with Linda, his would-be fiancée, Joe nevertheless shrugged. “I could be your friend, if you wanted me to be.”

Awareness flared in her eyes, but then she chuckled and shook her head. “I’m sorry, but a guy like you? If all you wanted to be was my friend, I’d have to kill myself.”

Amused and self-conscious, Joe swept his gaze down and away before recovering enough to face her again. When he did, he was trapped. He couldn’t look away from those mesmerizing brown eyes. “So…what do we do now?”

“Do?” She raised her eyebrows. “We don’t do anything. In fact, we pretty much never see each other again because this is the most embarrassing moment of my life.”

A stab of disappointment surprised Joe. “Are you sure?”

She frowned. “Well, unless we count that time in high school when my swimsuit bra came up as I jumped off the high dive—”

“No, I mean, are you sure that we can never see each other again?” He couldn’t believe he’d said that. He had no right. And yet, here he was flirting—and maybe wanting this chance encounter to go somewhere.

“Oh God,” she said, covering her face with her hands again, but not before he saw her turning red. “First I talk about my butt and then my boobs.” She was talking through the web of her overlapping fingers. “Can you just go back in that fitting room and forget about all this? Just pretend you never saw me and that this didn’t happen?”

His voice ringing with as much regret as humor, Joe said, “Sure. I can go back in the fitting room. But I have to tell you, it will be damned hard to forget this ever happened.”

1

“IT’S FRIDAY EVENING, Meg,” she said to herself, “you’re alone in your apartment, your date tonight is with a department store, and—wait for it—you’re talking to yourself. How sad is that?” She grabbed up her handbag, turned the light off in her spacious bedroom, and walked down the narrow, carpeted hallway toward the living room. At least she lived in a great place. The Mediterranean-style courtyard apartment complex, with over two hundred units, was the address for young singles in Tampa. “Okay, so maybe I’m not totally pathetic.”

At least she looked good, dressed in her new V-neck, white T-shirt and stretchy, hip-hugging khaki pants. She wished Wendy could see her in them, but her friend had left today for a wedding in Dallas. On the other hand, school was out for spring break. Finally. That meant no precious little third-graders to teach for a whole week. Bless their hearts. And tomorrow night she had a date-that-wasn’t-a-date. A date who also wasn’t Carl “the high school football coach and big, fat cheater” Woodruff. So, life was good.

However, it would be even better if, instead of going out with Maury’s great-nephew tomorrow, she’d see Mr. Hot and Shirtless from the dressing room debacle two evenings ago. That man was causing her to toss and turn at night with torrid dreams of anonymous sex in a fitting room. Meg felt the tightening of desire tense her tummy muscles. “Great. One look from the guy in the tight jeans and the oh-my-God chest and I’m signing up for sex with him in elevators, airplanes and swimming pools.”

Sighing over what could not be, Meg sorted through her designated junk drawer in the tiny wet bar in her living room. Spying what she was looking for, she grabbed up the small can of pepper spray—blame Wendy’s talk of serial killers—and dropped the defensive weapon into her purse. “Wait. Car keys.” Rooting through her purse for those, Meg grimaced in sympathy for Wendy, who was at her younger sister’s wedding. “Younger. That hurts.”

It didn’t especially fill Meg with joy, either. Here she was, already twenty-five—practically middle-aged—and she had yet to fire some guy’s jets to the point of a white dress and ring.

Meg found her keys and zipped her purse closed, wishing she could do the same thing with her bridal and hormonal thoughts. Apparently there was nothing like a wedding to make a woman rethink her whole love life. “What love life?” She checked her wristwatch. “Yikes. Nearly seven. Time to shop.”