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Marriage On His Mind
Susan Crosby
CINDERELLA IN WAITING With just one look Jack Stone could tell that Mickey was a princess living in a self-imposed ivory tower. But he wasn't one to let a few flights of stairs keep him from what he wanted. And he most definitely wanted the reluctant Cinderella next door. Melting her icy reserve would be his pleasure.Men had pursued Mickey before, but never with such a fervor as her enticing neighbor. How was a woman with her turbulent past supposed to resist Jack's tempting caresses? Especially when her sexy suitor began talking about… marriage! Was it enough to make a girl toss her glass slipper and run for the preacher?
“Exasperating Woman,” He Growled, Hauling Her To Him For A Final Stormy Kiss. (#ucda1b7d9-51fe-5254-9d17-f6cfbef06d6b)Letter to Reader (#uf4848e98-476c-5d68-b259-eae603bf5efe)Title Page (#u1b87a68b-4db4-5b43-a0ce-cd5f95639f2f)About the Author (#ubf0330cb-c15f-599c-a591-2652895885d6)Dedication (#u27e6d2f0-bc0b-594e-a18e-89cc7a647b0f)Chapter One (#u556b5cbc-7834-52ea-97ea-394e7ee0c07f)Chapter Two (#u4e5d104a-9bbe-5271-8784-961411b745dc)Chapter Three (#u6f4b0365-ea12-555a-baf9-b3de150c0a36)Chapter Four (#ufdb95010-b636-5fc9-a015-bddb1d5bfab0)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Exasperating Woman,” He Growled, Hauling Her To Him For A Final Stormy Kiss.
Reluctantly Jack let her go, then watched as she slowly walked away. He shook his head, irritated with himself. He wouldn’t blame Mickey for shying away from him now. He’d told her they would play by her rules; then he’d forced the issue when he shouldn’t have. He was the one with the marriage timetable, after all.
Okay, so she hadn’t resisted. Okay, so she had pushed him as much as he had pushed her. Still, it was his responsibility to be in control. A true Prince Charming would be the epitome of patience, wouldn’t he? And a true Prince Charming would never lose control.
He just had to stay patient and keep control. Simple, right?
But Jack didn’t think his life would ever be simple again.
Dear Reader,
The celebration of Silhouette Desire’s 15th anniversary continues this month! First, there’s a wonderful treat in store for you as Ann Major continues her fantastic CHILDREN OF DESTINY series with November’s MAN OF THE MONTH, Nobody’s Child Not only is this the latest volume in this popular miniseries, but Ann will have a Silhouette Single Title, also part of CHILDREN OF DESTINY, in February 1998, called Secret Child Don’t miss either one of these unforgettable love stories.
BJ James’s popular BLACK WATCH series also continues with Journey’s End, the latest installment in the stories of the men—and the women—of the secret agency.
This wonderful lineup is completed with delicious love stories by Lass Small, Susan Crosby, Eileen Wilks and Shawna Delacorte. And next month, look for six more Silhouette Desire books, including a MAN OF THE MONTH by Dixie Browning!
Desire...it’s the name you can trust for dramatic, sensuous, engrossing stories written by your bestselling favorites and terrific newcomers. We guarantee handsome heroes, likable heroines...and happily-ever-after endings. So read, and enjoy!
Senior Editor
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Marriage on his Mind
Susan Crosby
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
SUSAN CROSBY
is fascinated by the special and complex communication of courtship, and so she burrows in her office to dream up warm, strong heroes and good-hearted, self-reliant heroines to satisfy her own love of happy endings.
She and her husband have two grown sons and live in the Central Valley of California. She spent a mere seven-and-a-half years getting through college and finally earned a B.A. in English a few years ago. She has worked as a synchronized swimming instructor, a personnel interviewer at a toy factory and a trucking company manager. Involved for many years behind the scenes in a local community theater, she has made only one stage appearance—as the rear end of a camel! Variety, she says, makes for more interesting novels.
Readers are welcome to write to her at P.O. Box 1836, Lodi, CA 95241.
To Linda and Lee, whose friendship caught fire.
We should all be so blessed.
One
Crack!
“Foul!” the umpire called.
Jack Stone heaved a sigh of relief from his position at shortstop on the baseball diamond. One less catch muffed. What the hell am I doing here? he asked himself for the hundredth time. Midlife crisis, remember? his mind whispered back.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he muttered as the pitcher tossed another softball underhanded to the batter.
Crack!
Oh, God, it was headed toward him. Please, let me catch it. Please. Otherwise, The Mouth—
The ball hit the hard infield once before magically bouncing into his glove. Stunned at his luck, he stared at the white orb nestled in oiled leather until the second baseman yelled at him to throw it to first. Jack cranked up his arm and threw—and missed the first baseman by six feet, the ball skittering to the fence as the runner chugged into second standing up.
“Hey, Ponytail, whaddaya need, a map?” a woman yelled from the stands of the small stadium hosting the men’s recreational league game.
The short, neat ponytail Jack sported suddenly felt as inconspicuous as Rapunzel’s hair, but he wouldn’t let The Mouth provoke him into cutting it, not after he’d gotten it long enough to stop using gel to hold it in place. After a year’s time, he could finally just pull it back and fasten it.
The ponytail served as a symbol, an important one. He saw it as a sign of his new independence and a reminder to be patient with the world, and he refused to buckle under to some loudmouthed, self-appointed bleacher coach who’d decided to make him her cause. This was only the fifth game of baseball he’d played in twenty-two years, since being thrust into the role of provider for his seven-year-old brother, Dan, when Jack had been only seventeen himself.
He hadn’t had time to play. Not just baseball, but anything. He’d been changing that, though. If only The Mouth—
“Strike three, you’re out!” the umpire called, ending the inning and Jack’s mental wandering.
“Sorry,” he said to the first baseman as they shuffled into the screened dugout.
“Turned out okay,” his teammate Scott Lansing replied. “They didn’t get any runs out of it. That woman in the stands making you nervous?”
“I don’t know what The Mouth’s making me feel. If she’d yell at someone else once in a while, it probably wouldn’t bother me so much. I just can’t figure out why she’s chosen me as her personal project. Stacy said she’d try to talk to her tonight.” Envy burrowed in as he watched a teammate knock the first pitch deep into left field, a skill Jack hadn’t mastered yet. “The woman was right about my switching positions with Drew. I’m more effective at short than I was at third. I needed that extra split second of reaction time. And I’ve almost gotten two hits since she told me to drop my front shoulder before I swing. I just wish she’d kept on passing instructions through Stacy instead of yelling at me on the field.”
“I give you credit for rising to the occasion, Jack. Most guys wouldn’t.”
He pulled on an earlobe as his gaze wandered to where The Mouth sat. “Unfortunately, she’s right too often to ignore.”
“And you abhor mediocrity, especially in yourself.”
Jack grinned as he stood and hefted a metal bat over his shoulder. “Some things I can’t change.”
Mickey Morrison watched the man she’d dubbed Ponytail stroll from the dugout to home plate. Keep your shoulder down, she ordered him telepathically as he sliced the air with the bat a couple of times. She tugged the bill of her L.A. Seagulls baseball cap a little lower on her forehead, grasped the wooden bench under her tightly with both hands and leaned forward in concentration, ignoring the person taking a seat beside her, jostling the bench.
“Strike one!”
Mickey groaned. “Both eyes, Ponytail. Watch the ball with both eyes,” she yelled at her self-appointed protеgе. She saw him flinch, then bear down, his lanky frame hardening visibly as he focused on her instructions.
“Strike two!”
He’d missed the ball by a mile, she thought, frustrated. She’d seen such potential in him. A few weeks ago he’d been raw—the rookie of all rookies, doing everything wrong. But he’d obviously been working hard in the interim. That pickup he’d made in the field last inning proved he was keeping his eye on the ball more. Now if he would just focus as hard on the one being pitched to him.
Crack!
Mickey sprang up. He’d hit it! He’d actually hit the darn thing!
The ball caromed off an invisible divot in the field and angled past the center fielder’s legs.
“Crank it up, Ponytail. Take second,” she hollered as he hit first at full stride. She watched approvingly as he made a wide swing and pumped toward second. The outfielder snagged the errant ball, then fired it to the infield.
“Slide! Slide!” Mickey screamed, crouching, her arms extended in front of her as if she were on the field coaching him.
An explosion of dirt rocketed above the heads of the players near second. When the dust cleared, Ponytail lay stretched along the base line spitting dirt, his fingers digging into the base.
“Out!” the umpire shouted.
The call brought raucous cheers from the opposing team and supporters, and cries of outrage from those who thought “Blue” needed glasses. The man sprawled in the settling dust dragged himself to his knees, then uncurled slowly upward, wobbling a bit before taking a step. He brushed off his hands, Chung Li’s Pizza T-shirt and filthy jeans as he started a slow jog to the dugout.
“Hey, Ponytail! Real men slide feet first!”
Silence descended. She’d gone too far this time. She hadn’t only maligned his athletic ability but his masculinity, as well. Holding her breath, Mickey watched as he stopped, swept off his cap to whack dust against his leg, then pinned her to the bench with his direct look, his chest heaving from the exertion of the run. He changed direction and headed straight toward her, not stopping until he stood at the base of the stands, ten feet from where she sat.
“Why?” he queried, panting.
Mickey gulped, grateful she could read the single word on his lips, because the sound was swallowed up by her thundering pulse. “Why what?”
“Why should I slide feet first?”
The question penetrated the rhythm section in her head, and she straightened a little in relief. She’d been afraid he was asking why she was picking on him, and she didn’t have an answer to that, except that she admired his grit—and he seemed self-confident enough to take it. “Because you can ruin your hands going head first, either by jamming them into the base or by the baseman stepping on ’em.”
His fists propped low on his hips, the hat dangling from his little finger, he cocked his head as if considering her words. When his gaze—deep blue, she noted, a nice contrast to his ebony-colored hair—bored into hers, she tugged her cap down even farther.
“Can you teach as well as criticize?” he asked.
“What?”
“Can you teach me to slide?”
She shifted uncomfortably. “I guess—”
“Monday at six o’clock, here?”
“I’m sure many of your teammates could give you the same instructions—”
“I’m asking you.”
“Play ball!” the umpire called.
“Monday at six,” he repeated, a man obviously accustomed to having orders obeyed. “Be here.”
Mickey watched him trot into the dugout, then make a comment to a teammate who laughed uproariously.
Well, she didn’t have to obey his command, she thought militantly. She hadn’t committed herself to anything. But if she didn’t show up, she couldn’t come to any more games, she argued with herself. And she wanted to keep coming. Needed to. She hadn’t felt so alive in years. Two years, to be exact.
“Hi.”
At the simple greeting, Mickey turned her head toward the young woman seated beside her. She recognized her as the one she’d spoken to the first game she’d observed, last month when she’d been in town looking for a place to rent. Always drawn to baseball games, whether professional or little league, she had found a seat and watched, then had become increasingly frustrated at the third baseman’s ineptness. She had sent him suggestions on how to improve, using the young woman as intermediary.
Mickey eyed her now, noting she wore a summer shift, as she always did, this one a tiny flowered print. Mickey returned the greeting, then asked, “Have you been sent to question my intentions?”
“How’d you guess?”
“The male ego is a fragile thing,” she said, drawing a grin and a nod from her companion.
“My name’s Stacy.”
A soft, feminine name to match her clothes and long, silky hair, Mickey thought with an inward sigh. The kind of woman every tomboy dreads. “I don’t have answers for you, Stacy.”
“Not even a name?”
“My name would mean nothing to him.”
“I see. You just dispense advice to the baseball-lorn. Sort of a Dear Yogi Berra.”
Mickey smiled. “Actually, this is the first time I’ve given advice uninvited.”
“Why won’t you at least tell us who you are?”
Because I’m trying not to lean on anyone. I need to find happiness alone, she thought. She forced herself to ignore Stacy’s friendly overture. Standing, she looked at the field briefly, then returned her gaze to the curious woman seated beside her. “Tell Ponytail—”
“His name is—”
“I don’t want to know his name. Just tell him to lose the jeans and buy some baseball pants by Monday.”
“That’s it? That’s all you could get out of her?” Jack queried Stacy, his voice rising above the din at Chung Li’s Pizza Parlor, where the team had gone after their losing effort. “Buy some baseball pants?”
“I’m not skilled at interrogation like you, Jack. She obviously doesn’t want to make friends.”
He drummed his fingers on the lacquered wood tabletop. “How old is she, can you tell?”
“Around thirty, I guess.”
“Wedding ring?”
Stacy smiled. “No-o-o.”
“She uses that baseball cap like a shield over her face.”
