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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.
D.A.A. was woefully behind the times when it came to its married female employees and their needs. The company, too, could use updating in other ways, and Jen had plans there, too. She had no doubt she could transform the small, prestigious firm into one of the most respected in Texas.
She hadn’t planned to find a husband quite this quickly, or precisely this way, but to have a shot at the presidency she must be stable and settled. The presidential-quality Jennifer Sancroft must arrive at that interview with a legitimate, accomplished spouse.
She’d had no choice but to act and act now. In her unwavering, intense way, the plan to correct her marital status had been hatched and put into action. With a mere eighteen days until the fateful audience with the company’s CEO, she had to focus like she’d never focused before. She must have a supportive spouse, must be settled and family oriented.
By heaven, she would succeed!
Jen stretched then lowered her arms, exhaling. She raised her arms again, taking in a deep breath, working to restore her confidence. “Don’t worry, Jen,” she told herself. “Tomorrow will be better. They won’t all be as discouraging as they were today. So what if a few of them looked at you like you’re insane?”
Maybe she should have put the word “marriage” in her Wall Street Journal advertisement. The closest she’d come to even hinting at matrimony had been a few phrases like, “successful businessman, tired of the rat race, looking for new challenges,” sprinkled among more sterile requirements like “excellent people skills,” “degree required” and “loyalty a plus.”
What had she thought would happen, that Mr. Right would sweep in, take one look at her and fall to his knees begging her to marry him? “Ha!” she scoffed. “Way to go, Jen. Your optimism certainly isn’t hindered by sound reasoning!”
She hadn’t been able to bring herself to place a personal ad. It seemed too lurid for her high-minded intention. The truth was, her pride hadn’t allowed her to solicit a mate in a personal ad. Considering her restrained, conservative upbringing, a businesslike request through the Wall Street Journal held the right note of respectability and civility.
Besides, her mind whispered, keeping your search on a business plane reduced the taint of desperation.
She winced, muttering, “Unfortunately, your precious business plane didn’t have the directness that would have cut down on the looks of horror on a few faces.”
A handful of the men looked at her like she was from another planet. The memory stung. Deflated, she dropped her arms to her side. Today’s interviews were too depressing to dwell on. “How dare they be insulted!” she muttered.
She felt something wet and looked down to see the surf skittering across her shoes and sloshing inside. “Oh, fine!” She hopped back, too late. Pulling off one pump then the other, she dumped out seawater. “That’s just great!”
“What do you expect, coming out here wearing those?” came a voice from behind her.
Jolted by the nearness of the male voice, Jen jumped, almost stumbled. She made a pained face, willing him to disappear.
“Why don’t you take off your stockings, Miss Sancroft? Beach sand is meant to seep between your toes.”
Trying to appear unruffled, she didn’t respond or turn around, but went about shaking the last of the water from her suede shoes.
“Here.” He nudged her arm.
She didn’t want to acknowledge him, but he was making it tough. Annoyed that she couldn’t seem to stop herself, she peered in his direction. To her astonishment, he held out a glass of iced tea. A sprig of fresh mint sprouted festively from the tumbler. She eyed the glass suspiciously, then transferred her stare to his face. “What’s this?”
His lips twitched as though he found her question ludicrous. “Take a wild guess.”
She faced him, holding up her pumps, one in each fist. “I don’t have any place to put it.”
He examined her shoe-filled hands. Without a word he snatched first one shoe then the other, tossing them over his shoulder. She gasped as they sailed above the fence and landed on the lawn. “There.” He held out the tea. “Now you do.”
She glowered at him. “You—you threw my shoes!”
His laugh was deep and rich even with its derisive edge, causing a tingle to dance along her spine. She squelched the tickle with a shoulder-squaring stance.
“Take the tea, Miss Sancroft.” He indicated her with a nod. “You have to be sweltering in all those clothes.”
She couldn’t believe his audacity. “I don’t care for any tea,” she said. “And I’m not a bit hot.”
His lips twitched again, as though he were laughing at her. “I won’t argue that.”
She eyed him dubiously. Had he deferred to her or insulted her?
He lifted the glass as though in a toast, and took a sip. “Your loss. I make great tea.”
She didn’t like to admit it, but she was hot and uncomfortable and she was ruining a perfectly good pair of stockings. With a harrumph, she turned away. Grateful her skirt was full, she inched it up until she could reach the elasticized rim of her thigh-high stocking and began to roll the nylon down her leg.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Go away.”
“Ah—taking off your stockings.”
She cast him a grim look. “I hope you’re enjoying the show!”
He’d cocked his head to better check out her stocking striptease. When their gazes clashed, he lifted his glass in her direction, as though in a toast to her bare leg. Heat flamed in her cheeks and she flipped her skirt down to cover her thigh.
He indicated her with the tumbler. “I feel like I owe you a sip now.”
“I’m not taking off my stockings for your gratification, Mr. Noone!” She turned her back, easing the stocking off her foot. Her balance wasn’t good in the damp sand, but she managed it. Not knowing what else to do with the nylon, she draped it across her shoulder and eased up her skirt on the other side to get the second stocking off.
“There ought to be music for this.”
She ignored him, but her face flamed. It wasn’t all due to the fact that she was overdressed for standing on a Texas beach in June. She finally got the other stocking off and tossed it across her shoulder with its mate. Straightening, she unbuttoned a cuff and rolled her sleeve up to her elbow, then did the same with the other.
She hadn’t heard any lewd comments for a full half minute, so she had high hopes he’d gone away as quietly as he’d arrived. She peered around to check and was unsettled to find that he’d taken a seat on the sand, crossed his legs at the ankles and was watching her. “Don’t stop now,” he said.
She faced him, irked. She would not let herself be flustered by this guy! She disciplined her voice. “I hadn’t planned to stop.” She unbuttoned the top two—no three—buttons of her blouse.
His eyes swept over her speculatively. “Go on.”
She wiped a hand across her forehead to banish telltale beads of sweat. “That’s the end of the show.”
“What a shame,” he said, his mocking evident. He held up the half-empty glass. “Thirsty, yet?”
Refusing to admit she was, she shook her head. “I’m going for a walk.”
He nodded. “Good idea.” He indicated the incoming tide. “Walk in the surf, it’ll cool you down.”
She made a guttural sound of aggravation. “I’m from Dallas, I know all the ins and outs of walking on Gulf of Mexico beaches.”
“Right.” He glanced pointedly at the stockings riding her shoulder. “Just to update you, some people take off their stockings before they hit the sand.”
She blew out a puff of air, aiming the draft at her bodice, hoping some of it would slip beneath the fabric and cool her sweltering skin. “It’s a free country,” she said. “You have a right to pass along unwanted advice.”
She spun away and headed toward the undulating surf. He was right, of course. The water rushing around her ankles would make her cooler. She sloshed into the tide. Oh, how refreshing it felt. And the squishy sand between her toes was delicious. If she’d been alone, she might even have allowed herself a smile.
“You didn’t say why you were interviewing for a husband,” he said, sounding like he’d stood up and was trailing her. “Pregnant?”
Unsettled by his nearness and his choice of subjects, she aimed a dagger-filled glare his way. “Do not follow me and no, of course I’m not pregnant!”
“I didn’t think so.” He caught up with her. “Okay, I admit you might not be the sexiest thing on two legs, but you’re no dog. Why advertise?”
She stopped and glared at him. “Are you horribly insensitive or just horribly dense?”
He halted beside her. Taking a sip of the tea, he considered her over the rim of the glass. The eye contact seemed to go on forever and Jen began to detect an odd, disconcerting buzzing in her head—as though brain wires were shorting out. His eyes had a debilitating effect but she continued to endure the contact. If he thought she was going to justify herself to him, he was very wrong.
He lowered the glass to the accompaniment of clinking ice, and drawled coolly, “Just curious.”
Her anger flared. “Look, you have a job to do, so do it and stay out of my personal life.”
His dark hair ruffled as saucy Madam Sea Breeze ran flirtatious fingers through it. He watched her for a few seconds, his expression hard. “If an employee of mine did something as idiotic as advertising for a husband,” he said, “I’d fire her.” He continued his direct inspection until she was so uneasy she had to turn away.
How dare he have the gall to speak to her that way. Her focus shifted and skidded over the water, up to the clear sky as inwardly she bridled at her rare bout of uncertainty. Regaining her conviction she scowled at him, so angry she could hardly breathe. “Well, Mr. Noone,” she said, “since the way I find a husband isn’t my employer’s business, it’s fortunate for you—because of the lawsuit I’d slap you with—that I don’t work for you!”
Cole watched her stalk off through the surf, the irony of her frosty threat chilling the air around him. Since his beach house was only available to employees of the companies he owned, at some level or other, Miss Priss did work for him. Not directly, of course, but somewhere in the pecking order of one of his firms. He rubbed his eyes. She was right about the lawsuit. How she got a husband wasn’t his business, as long as she did her job. His personal prejudices shouldn’t enter into his business dealings.
He wasn’t about to tell her she really did work for him. Not yet, anyway. She confounded him, intrigued him and annoyed him. She had no idea he was anything other than a handyman. For that reason alone she was worth scrutinizing—to see how a woman who was oblivious to his wealth and power reacted to him. So far his little experiment hadn’t done his ego much good.
Mainly, his curiosity was driving him nuts. He had to know why she would resort to a bizarre plan to acquire a husband the way most people would buy a used TV. The outcome of her project, not to mention discovering her reasons for it, drew him even though the very idea infuriated the fire out of him. He wasn’t sure when—if ever—any one woman had brought out so many conflicting emotions in him all at one time.
His resentment gaining intensity, he mumbled, “Stubborn little idiot.” He shook his head, staring after her. “How did women get the reputation for being the romantic sex?”
Cole knew plenty of females who didn’t take love into consideration when picking a mate. Over the years, he’d had his share of clinging opportunists with varying self-serving motives. Money, position, power, prestige and celebrity were just a few.
But what was Miss Priss’s motive? What did she have against falling in love?
Cole knew how powerful an emotion love could be. Albert Barringer, his father, never got over his love for Adrianne Bourne, a twenty-year-old high-fashion model he’d had a brief affair with. The elder entrepreneur was wise enough to understand that the young beauty was using him to gain access to his wealth and position. But Albert had been in love, so he simply reveled in her affection for as long as she offered it, keeping his foreboding of her looming abandonment locked in his heart.
Not once over the years after Adrianne dumped him had Albert spoken negatively of her. Even though she readily, even eagerly, gave up all rights to their newborn son in exchange for Albert’s Hollywood contacts.
All these years, knowing his own mother bartered him away—for stardom—had been a difficult truth for Cole to live with. His father’s unwavering devotion to his only son made up for a lot. He’d taught Cole well in the ways of business. Yet he also taught him something else, something unspoken and tragically sad, that abided forever in his father’s eyes—how all-consuming and tragic love could be.
Long ago Cole vowed never to lose his heart unless it was real for both him and that one, special woman. He would not end up like his father, with only distant, tattered memories of love lost.
He flicked his glance to the woman on the beach. She stooped to pick up a seashell, straightened brushing sand from her prize. “Love is a dangerous thing to trifle with, Miss Sancroft,” he murmured. “What in Hades are you scheming?”
CHAPTER THREE
COLE had lots of time to reflect on the frustrating and fascinating Miss Sancroft as he cut and stacked limbs he’d pruned from the live oak the day before. The metal rack where he piled the wood was around the back of the house. Even so, he could hear cars come and go all day. Every time another set of tires crunched over the gravel and pulled to a stop in front of the beach house, his anger heightened a notch.
Old memories of his youth, sneaking off to the movies to see his mother on the huge screen, smiling, faking sweet vulnerability, added fuel to the fire. Adrianne Bourne, the queen of grasping females, had become the Hollywood star she’d schemed and clawed to be. Now, in her mid-fifties, she was still a beauty and occasionally played character roles. Married to her fifth boy-toy, she may have been a beloved Hollywood icon, but to Cole, his mother was a cold-hearted, calculating woman who’d never once contacted her only son.
By the time six o’clock rolled around, Cole was hot, tired and thoroughly incensed—mainly at himself—for letting the woman interviewing for husbands in his beach house get under his skin. Let her do whatever she wanted. What was it to him?
Even after counseling with himself, when she came out of the back door onto the deck to gaze out to sea, he stopped work, leaned against the warm brick wall and observed her over the woodpile. He scanned her as she walked to a chair and sat down. To his surprise, she removed her leather shoes, setting them aside. Then she slid her hands up one leg and began to slip off a stocking.
The unobstructed glimpse of pale thigh startled him. Apparently she was so preoccupied with her thoughts she didn’t even consider someone might be nearby. After slipping the stocking off, she carefully folded it. After placing it in a shoe she went about removing the other stocking. As she did, her navy skirt remained high on her legs. Nice legs. He’d observed that on the beach when she’d been much more self-conscious about taking the garments off. He felt like he should make himself known, or turn away, but he did neither.
She deposited the second stocking neatly in the other shoe. Standing, she straightened her skirt and gazed out to sea. In the shapeless navy skirt and mannish, short-sleeve Oxford-cloth shirt, she looked like a repressed schoolmarm, even barefoot.
After another moment of silently staring, she turned in his direction and padded to the steps that led to the lawn. Her features were pensive, her forehead creased in what looked like unhappy thoughts. Unfortunately for Cole, her solemn expression didn’t diminish the effect her pouty lips had on him—siren-like in their sensuality—consuming his attention. Even with her hair swept back in that unbecoming style she was beautiful. A truth he didn’t enjoy admitting.
As she walked down the steps, he stepped into view. Lifting a log, he purposely dropped it on the stack to make noise. She started, green eyes shooting in his direction.
“Evening.” He nodded without smiling.
“Have you been there all along!” she asked.
He stripped off his work gloves and tossed them onto the rick of wood. “I wasn’t born here, but I’ve been here most of the day.”
Her features grew pinched. “You could have made yourself known!”
