Triplets Found: The Virgin's Makeover / Take a Chance on Me / And Then There Were Three

Jared could hear his pulse pounding in his ears, could feel his palms growing moist, his stomach knotting. “Are you telling me that we can’t find out what happened to the baby?”

“The child survived the accident, was born prematurely and put up for adoption through the Children’s Connection. What we’ve got are bits and pieces of information.”

“Like what?” Jared asked, his hopes resurrecting.

“A name, an address, a gender…but I’m not sure what matches up.”

“Let’s see what you’ve got, and we’ll take it from there.”

Could that baby he’d fathered twenty-seven years ago be the miracle they needed?

That evening, as Lissa prepared for bed, she couldn’t find Barney. And when she asked her folks, neither of them had seen him, either. Obviously, the rascally pup had sneaked out again. But it was too dangerous for him to stay outside all night.

She grabbed her robe and put on a pair of slippers, intent on searching the grounds.

As she stood on the front porch and scanned the lawn and the pond, she spotted Sullivan sitting quietly on the deck of the cottage, her puppy in his lap.

“Looking for this little guy?” he called out.

“Yes.” She touched the sash of her blue chenille robe, checking to see that it was snug, then fingered the edge of the lapel, making sure it covered her flannel nightgown.

She walked across the grass, then made her way over the small, wooden bridge.

All the while, Sullivan watched her.

She felt weird letting him see her like this, yet she was probably more bundled up than in her street clothes.

When she neared the guest cottage, he asked, “Why don’t you join me for a while?”

Join him? Sit down on one of the padded, wrought-iron chairs on the wooden porch and chat? She really ought to take Barney and go back to the house, yet something urged her to stay.

“All right,” she said. “Just for a few minutes.”

He glanced into his lap, where the puppy rested. “This little rascal was chasing a duck, who didn’t take too kindly to being barked at.”

Lissa laughed. “Barney has a lot to learn.”

“But he’s brave. Instead of running back to the house with his tail between his legs, he wandered over to me.”

“You were sitting out here?”

He nodded. “I like sitting outside when the day is done.”

She didn’t tell him, since it seemed like an insignificant thing for two people to have in common, that sitting on the deck in the backyard was how she always started her days.

“My great-aunt Clara has a front porch like this. It overlooks the stream that runs through her property.” Sullivan shot her a crooked grin. “You have a lot in common with her.”

“How so?”

He shook his head and chuckled, but didn’t answer.

For some reason, she had a feeling he wasn’t being complimentary. And that the commonality she shared with his aunt wasn’t something to be proud of. But curiosity got the better of her. “Speak up, or I’ll take my dog and go home.”

His eyes crinkled with mirth. “She wears comfortable walking shoes like yours. And she wraps herself in chenille and flannel before going to sleep.”

So, Lissa had been right. He was making fun of her. Yet there wasn’t a cruel edge to his laughter. And she chose not to be offended by his teasing. Heck, there was nothing wrong with choosing comfort over glamour and style.

“What would you prefer I wear?” she asked. “Stiletto heels and a silk scarf?”

His eyes lit up. “Do you have them hidden in your bedroom?”

She swatted at his arm. “No. But I’ve got drawers full of flannel and chenille.”

“Too bad.” He slid her a playful grin.

The conversation had turned a bit sexual, which might have excited her, had she been dressed in satin. But her chenille robe weighed heavily upon her shoulders.

“Well,” she said. “Those few minutes have flown by. And it’s time for me to turn in.”

“I hope you’re not mad. Great-aunt Clara is a great gal. And she’s got more spunk than her eighty-five-year-old sister.”

Lissa arched a brow. “How old is your aunt?”

“Ninety-seven. And she still mows her own yard and works in the garden.”

“Impressive. Then there’s hope for the flannel-and-chenille crowd.”

“Great-aunt Clara has a boyfriend, too.” He tossed her a dimpled grin.

“You don’t say.” Lissa figured she’d be ninety before a guy noticed her.

She glanced toward the house and saw that her parents had turned off their bedroom light. Her mother’s doing, no doubt. Trying to give Lissa a little push toward romance.

When she looked at Sullivan, he was gazing at her.

“Are you involved with anyone?” he asked.

The question took her aback—in part because the truth was too revealing. She didn’t mind if he knew she chose sensible shoes. Or that she wore flannel to bed. But she didn’t want him to think of her as the awkward virgin that she was.

So she said, “No one at the moment.”

He didn’t comment, merely studied her.

But she was afraid he’d see through her half truth, so she stood. “Well, I really need to go. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

He stroked Barney’s head. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

She nodded, then reached to pick up the sleeping pup. As she did so, their hands touched, and a warm shiver shimmied through her veins.

Before she could react—or run—Sullivan tugged gently upon her braid. “Do you ever let your hair down, Lissa?”

“Never,” she said, her voice a near whisper.

“You ought to.” His words settled over her like a cloak of crushed velvet.

She slowly straightened, pulling her braid from his hand. “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

As she strode toward the house, she tried to shake the adolescent fascination with a man who was out of her league.

Yet she couldn’t shake the thought of letting her hair down—for him.

Chapter Four

Do you ever let your hair down?

Lissa stood before the antique floor-length mirror in her bedroom, studying the brown mop that hung over her shoulders and down her back.

Why didn’t she just go to the salon in town and have it all chopped off?

Because she’d become so good at braiding it, so used to twisting it this way or that. Shorter hair meant styling gel, mousse, curling irons and spray—stuff Lissa had never been adept at using. Of course, she could always plop a hat on her head.

But not on a special occasion like tonight.

She’d dressed in a black, A-line dress with three-quarter length sleeves and a hem that reached midcalf. The simple style suited her.

Now, the only thing left to do was her hair. For a moment, she considered letting it hang loose—as Sullivan had suggested. But she felt incomplete, exposed. And far too vulnerable for a night like this.

Her dad planned to serve the new blend Lissa had created as a prelude to a bigger unveiling later this month. But with the exclusive guest list of local vintners and wine connoisseurs, Lissa felt this dinner party was critical and her nerves were on edge.

And to add more stress to the evening, her dad had invited that reporter from Through the Grapevine magazine to record everyone’s reaction.

Normally, Lissa preferred to blend into the crowd, to be discreet and unnoticed. But her basic shyness didn’t surface while she was making wine or discussing the vineyard she loved. So, for the first time in years, Lissa had actually primped—a little.

She decided upon a French braid that hung down her back. The style might be a bit more elegant than she was used to, but tonight called for something special, out of the ordinary.

If Eileen were here, she’d insist Lissa put on some makeup. A while back, her sister had given her a monstrous palette of colorful goop for no reason at all, volunteering to help her choose the perfect shades. Unfortunately, Lissa had declined the lesson.

She glanced at the unused palette that sat on the bathroom counter. As klutzy as she was, she’d probably smear on the stuff and look like a clown. Yet a tiny spark of vanity surfaced, and she picked up a tube of lipstick, lifted the lid and rolled out the stick. A pink gloss. She could handle something simple like that.

And what was in this blue tube? Mascara? Maybe a dab would be okay. She unscrewed the top and pulled out the small, curved brush. Leaning toward the bathroom mirror, she stroked the bristles along her lashes.

Gosh, this was tough. And some women fussed with makeup every day. Talk about gluttons for punishment.

Her mouth opened on its own, which seemed to help with her aim. Maybe a little to the left.

Ow! Damn. Right in the eyeball. Ouch. And it stung. By the time she rubbed and blinked, two black smears made her look like a raccoon.

Forget it. Vanity was definitely overrated.

Somehow, she managed to get her face washed, but her eyes still looked a bit dark around the edges. Well, that’s what she got for trying to be somebody else—somebody feminine and attractive.

She looked at her watch. Six forty-five. Oh shoot. People would be arriving any minute. She slipped on a pair of low-heeled black pumps—sensible shoes like good old Aunt Clara wore, she supposed—then headed for the kitchen to give her mother a hand.

Donna had hired a caterer for this evening, so there probably wasn’t much left for Lissa to do, other than greet everyone.

Just as she stepped away from the foot of the stairs, a knock sounded, alerting her to the arrival of the first guest. Showtime. She strode across the carpet to the polished hardwood entry and opened the door.

Sullivan stood on the porch, wearing expensivelooking black slacks, a white shirt—open at the collar—and a stylish sports jacket. A GQ cover boy come to life.

He flashed her a playful grin. “You look great this evening, Lissa. Nice dress.”

“Thank you.” Did he really think she looked nice? Or was that just the standard how-do-you-do comment that folks made at dinner parties?

“You did something to your eyes,” he said.

“Yeah. During a moment of weakness, I nearly blinded myself. But it won’t happen again. Come on inside.” She stepped away from the door and led him through the living room. “Can I get you a drink?”

“How about Scotch and water?”

“You’ve got it.”

Within moments, the house began to fill with the local vintners and wine connoisseurs they’d invited. Lissa milled around, making cocktail-hour conversation.

The next doorbell announced the arrival of the last guest, or so Lissa hoped. The reporter from Through the Grapevine magazine had yet to arrive.

Her name was Gretchen, which was all Lissa had been told over the telephone. No one had prepared Lissa for the voluptuous blonde in a traffic-stopping red dress revealed when the door swung open.

The word tacky came to mind, but that wasn’t really true. The blonde merely had a sophisticated style and a healthy dose of self-confidence.

But heck, Lissa would feel confident, too—if she had a face and figure like that.

More than a few men turned to gawk, as the statuesque woman stepped into the foyer. Unable to help herself, Lissa peeked at the woman’s feet, expecting to see high heels. Wow. Those red strappy sandals weren’t exactly stilettos, but they were pretty darn close. They also showed off a pedicure and cherry-red toenail polish.

Lissa glanced at her own size nines. At least the dependable pumps were comfortable. And who needed bunions and foot problems later on? Heck, Sullivan’s Great-aunt Clara probably had gorgeous feet—wrinkled, maybe. But not all crippled up from years of abuse.

Gathering the hostess skills her mom had taught her, Lissa extended a hand and introduced herself to the attractive reporter. “You must be Gretchen Thomas.”

“Yes, I am. Thank you for inviting me.” Gretchen’s lively blue eyes quickly scanned the milling crowd, then landed on Sullivan.

And wouldn’t you know it? The sexy GQ hottie had spotted her, too.

“Who’s that man near the bookcase?” Gretchen asked. “Is he one of the local vintners? I don’t believe I’ve met him.”

“He’s a business consultant,” Lissa said.

“Interesting.”

Yes, wasn’t it? Lissa wanted to place the sole of her sensible shoe on the blonde’s shapely backside and boot her out of the house before the reporter and the consultant had a chance to exchange telephone numbers.

But why bother?

Lissa didn’t need a crystal ball or a cup of tea leaves to see how the evening would unfold. She could sense what was coming down the pike.

Well, c’est la vie.

Here today. Gone tomorrow.

Que sera, sera.

With hormones dancing in her eyes, Gretchen threw back her shoulders, lifted her chin and made her way toward the only eligible bachelor in the room. Well, the only bachelor in the twenty—to fortysomething range.

One of their guests, Anthony Martinelli, a longtime friend of her father’s and a successful local vintner, had lost his wife last winter. Rumor had it he was looking to find love again. But the older man, while handsome, was probably too tame for a woman like Gretchen.

On the other hand, Sullivan was more the reporter’s style. And the lady in red appeared to have staked her claim.

So much for Lissa’s silly hope of having a onetime fling with the consultant. She had a feeling Sullivan would be taken before the night was over.

But why should she give a flying leap about that? She’d known nothing would ever become of her silly fantasy. Still, as she watched Sullivan smile at the blonde’s swivel-hipped approach, an ache settled in her chest.

Get over it, she told herself, shoving aside the sting of disappointment and hiding behind an I’m-not-the-least-bit-interested stance.

Anthony Martinelli approached her little corner of the world, interrupting her thoughts.

“Hello, Lissa.” The handsome older man, who wore his Italian heritage well, flashed her a charming smile that crinkled along the edges of his sharp blue eyes. “You look lovely tonight.”

Lissa didn’t warrant the “lovely” comment, although she had tried to look her best this evening. But she appreciated Anthony’s kindness, especially as she watched her hopeless romantic fantasy go up in a sensuous swirl of smoke. “Thank you. You look rather dashing yourself.”

Anthony must have been a real lady-killer when he was younger, because he was one of the most attractive middle-aged men she knew. Many of her father’s friends and business associates developed a paunch, a softness. But the widowed vintner didn’t appear to have aged in all the years Lissa had known him.

The silver at his temples merely gave him added charm, while a trim, solid physique and a sundeepened olive complexion suggested he still did a lot of the physical work on his vineyard.

“I hear you’re about to introduce a new blend this evening,” Anthony said.

Lissa smiled, glad to focus on her work. “We’re calling it Virgin Mist.”

“Sounds intriguing. And appealing.”

So Sullivan had been right. The name was perfect in a marketing sense.

“We wanted our closest friends to be the first to taste it,” she added.

“Then I’m especially happy you’ve included me.” Anthony cast her a charming Al Pacino smile. “I’ve been meaning to call you, Lissa. I’m not sure what your calendar looks like, but I’d like to take you to lunch or dinner someday soon.”

The comment took her aback. Had the widowed vintner taken an interest in her?

A romantic interest?

Surely not. He probably wanted to discuss business.

“I’ll have to check my calendar, but since my dad is leaving for San Diego in the next day or so, I’ll be pretty busy.”

“What’s in San Diego?”

“He needs to get his uncle situated in an intermediate-care facility.” She didn’t want Anthony thinking she was trying to blow him off, so she added, “While Dad’s gone, I’ll be working with the marketing consultant we brought in, but after he goes home, I should have some time.”

“Good. I’ll give you a call next week,” Anthony said, his blue eyes vivid and…

And what?

Flirtatious?

Not likely. Ever since Sullivan had arrived on the scene, Lissa’s schoolgirl imagination had certainly taken her on a romantic joy ride.

Still, she liked the idea that someone might have found her attractive—even if he was more than twenty years her senior.

Gretchen Thomas had latched on to Sullivan for the cocktail hour and it appeared she planned to stay that way until after breakfast tomorrow morning.

She was an attractive woman, aware of her beauty and adept at showing off her double-D assets to the fullest. Sullivan might have taken her up on the unspoken offer of sex, had they met while he was on vacation. But his only interest in Gretchen this evening was the article she would write about Virgin Mist.

Her lips curled into a smile. “Maybe we can sit together during dinner.”

“Mrs. Cartwright has probably assigned place settings.” At least Sullivan hoped so. It would make things easier for him if Gretchen latched on to someone else for the remainder of the evening. Otherwise, he’d have to make sure he rejected her affections with grace and charm. If he failed to do that, things could get really hairy.

A woman scorned was one thing. But a female reporter scorned was something entirely different.

He tried to remain cordial and keep things on an impersonal level, but Gretchen wasn’t making things easy.

“I have no qualms about moving a couple of name tags,” she said, with a cherry-red smile.

“That sounds appealing, but it’s my job to rub elbows with some of the vintners this evening.” Sullivan scanned the mingling crowd, looking for Lissa. He could use a little help slipping away from Gretchen.

Several times during the past half hour, he’d searched the room and caught Lissa’s eye, only to have his gaze ricochet off an unreadable expression.

Was she mad about something? Did she think he’d dropped the ball because he’d been lusting after the busty reporter who’d tried to attach herself to his hip?

Lissa needed to understand this thing with Gretchen wasn’t going anywhere, that as attractive—and obviously willing—as Gretchen was, Sullivan wouldn’t let things take a sexual and unprofessional turn.

“Excuse me,” Ken Cartwright said, addressing his guests. “May I have your attention?”

Ah, a way out. Thank goodness.

People gradually grew silent and turned toward their host, allowing Ken to continue his speech. “My daughter Lissa has worked with me for years, learning everything I know about wine. And I think she’s surpassed anything I’ve ever done.”

The guests smiled and looked at Lissa, then at her father.

“My daughter has created a new blend called Virgin Mist,” Ken said, pride evident in every word. “And we’d like you to try a glass before we officially unveil it later this month.”

As the catering staff carried in silver platters laden with glasses, offering Virgin Mist to each guest, Sullivan couldn’t help but study Lissa. She worried her bottom lip, undoubtedly waiting for the reaction of her peers, waiting for their response.

Sullivan should be at her side. It was his job to support her.

As glasses raised, a few murmurs rippled through the room. Anticipation grew steadily.

Taking the chance to untangle himself from the determined blonde, he said, “It’s been great talking to you, but it looks as though I’m back on the clock. Will you please excuse me?”

The woman gave him a sad-eyed pout, which he quickly dismissed. Leaving Gretchen, he made his way toward Lissa, but before he could reach her side, an older man eased close to her. It was the guy he’d seen her talking to earlier, although both seemed friendlier now.

The man was expensively dressed and the picture of refined charm. Handsome.

And he was also old enough to be her dad.

He whispered something that lit up her eyes. Complimenting her wine, Sullivan realized, as the other guests burst into nods and smiles.

Lissa appeared to be pleased with the attention. But Sullivan spotted masculine interest in the man’s gaze, in his stance.

Ever since his ex had dumped him for a rich guy who was old enough for Medicare—or so Sullivan thought—those May-December things stuck in his craw.

What attracted a young woman to an old duck like that?

He’d always suspected Kristin had gone for Atwater’s bucks. Not that Sullivan hadn’t had money when they’d first married. He’d had a ton of it—all tied up in a trust fund, which his father had refused to release until after Sullivan had earned his first million.

And Kristin, apparently, had gotten tired of waiting.

Yet Lissa didn’t seem to be the kind of woman who was attracted to a hefty bank account.

Maybe it was the father-thing, her being adopted and all. But even that psychological stretch didn’t help Sullivan understand. Or make it any easier to accept.

The older gentleman intimated something to Lissa, and she laughed. Sullivan supposed the friendly exchange shouldn’t bother him. The guy was probably one of the vintners in this region. A successful man, no doubt.

But as the evening unfolded, he learned a little more about the man who’d set his sights on Lissa.

Martinelli’s second wife had died in a skiing accident last year, while vacationing with friends in Canada. The woman had also been fifteen years younger than Martinelli.

Why didn’t the guy go after women his own age?

Not that Sullivan had staked any kind of claim on Lissa. Nor did he intend to. But there were plenty of guys in their thirties who would appreciate her, who were better suited.

Sullivan decided Anthony Martinelli was too old, too charming, too…too wrong for Lissa.

Much later, after the last guest had said goodbye at the door and Ken and Donna had disappeared upstairs, Lissa joined Sullivan near the fireplace. “So? What do you think?”

He thought that Gramps was making a play for her, but he knew that wasn’t what she meant. “Everything went exceptionally well. Word will spread about Virgin Mist. And when we have the official unveiling later this month, Valencia Vineyards should become a force to be reckoned with in the wine industry.”

A slow smile lit up her face, warming the emerald flecks in her eyes to a brilliant gleam. “Anthony said the same thing.”

So, Sullivan had been right. The old guy had charmed her.

Normally, Sullivan didn’t involve himself in his clients’ personal affairs, but he couldn’t help commenting this time. “Martinelli was making the moves on you all evening. And you’re young enough to be his daughter.”

She bristled.

Okay, maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. But it was too late to backpedal now.

“Anthony was the epitome of grace and charm this evening,” she said. “But on the other hand, that buxom reporter kept thrusting her chest at you and making a scene.”

“I admit, Gretchen was pretty brazen. But I didn’t take her up on her offer.”

“She offered you sex?”

“Not with words.” Sullivan crossed his arms, unsure of how or why they’d gotten into this conversation. But for some reason, he couldn’t back off, couldn’t keep that old baggage from surfacing. “But, in case you didn’t notice, ol’ Dapper Dad had the same idea. He just had more class and style.”

Lissa blew out a heavy sigh. “You’re crazy.”

Maybe he was. But like a bulldog with his jaws locked on a meaty bone, Sullivan couldn’t seem to let it go, let it drop. “Are you interested in him?”

Her brow furrowed, as though his question offended her. But she seemed to recover. “I might be interested. Anthony is a nice man.”

“And he’s old enough to be your father.”

“So what?” She crossed her arms. A spark of anger brought a fire to her eyes. “Lots of women like older men.”