Bridegroom On Her Doorstep. Renee Roszel
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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?”
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