That Marriageable Man!. Barbara Boswell
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glanced again at her ringless hand. Not all married women wore wedding rings. And might not a psychiatrist be unconventional enough to do away with defining symbols like rings?
“So when will your husband be joining you?” Not his smoothest opening, but Rafe gave himself points for being direct. Well, it was worth half a point at least.
“I’m not married,” replied Holly.
“Your fiancé, then. Is he moving here with you?”
“I don’t have a fiancé.”
“How about your boyfriend? A live-in, or are you doing the long-distance bit?”
“I don’t have a boyfriend, either.” Holly shook her head. “You’re beginning to sound like my mother grilling me for information.”
“Feel free to grill me right back,” he invited.
“I’d better not. You got so nervous when I told you I was a psychiatrist, you’d probably suspect me of diagnosing you if I started to ask questions.”
“I’m not nervous. Or married or involved with anyone.” Rafe supplied the answers anyway. “Are you in—”
“If you ask me if I’m looking for Mr. Right, I will not be responsible for my actions,” she warned lightly.
“Is that what all your mom’s grilling is about, finding Mr. Right?” Rafe laughed.
“It’s not only my mother. My sister and my aunts and cousins are just as persistent,” Holly admitted. “They all love to play matchmaker and so far I’ve been their only failure.”
“You present the ultimate challenge, huh?”
There was a certain note in his voice... Holly was quite perceptive when it came to the nuances in tone or language, a necessity in her profession. She comprehended subtext—and knew he wasn’t talking about her mother’s matchmaking anymore.
Holly lifted her eyes and saw him, really saw him for the first time. She knew there were all sorts of subconscious reasons why she’d remained immune to his striking masculine appeal until this moment. She’d been fatigued from the drive, preoccupied with her new surroundings. Uncertain of his eligibility and unwilling to be attracted to another woman’s man?
Bingo. Forget about being tired and preoccupied, now that she knew his status her feminine radar had been fully activated. Holly took in every male detail.
His hair was thick, straight, and black as coal, worn a little longer than the very short, very trendy cuts currently in vogue. He had a long straight nose and well-shaped sensual mouth. His smooth shaven jaw, his skin the color of polished bronze, was strong and firm with high, sculpted cheekbones. And his eyes...
Holly felt herself being drawn into his gaze. He had the most fascinating eyes. Arched by jet-black brows, they were almondshaped and very dark. Compelling eyes, burning with intelligence.
And something else. Something alluring. Daring.
She pulled her eyes from his, yet her gaze didn’t leave him. It lingered on his broad shoulders and muscular arms. He was so tall. Though she’d always tried to reason away such a superficial concern, a man’s height mattered to her. She was attracted to tall men; Rafe Paradise fulfilled that requirement quite well.
Where was her mind taking her? An unnerving combination of excitement and alarm tingled through her. Holly tried to shake it off, but a slow heat began to suffuse her, kindling in her midsection and spreading upward to her face and lower, lower—Her heart jumped. This primitive physical reaction was so unlike her. She was not the sort of woman who looked at a man and felt her insides turn to jelly. She was sensible, logical; too much so, according to her family. Far too prone to rational explanations and intellectualizing, also according to them.
But right now, sensible, logical Holly felt the totally irrational urge to run away from Rafe Paradise and the internal chaos he’d incited in her. Suddenly she was as jittery as a shy eighth grader face-to-face with her first big crush. It was appalling!
“I—I’d better go unpack the car.” Her voice, breathless and higher than usual, sounded strange to her own ears.
Rafe cocked his head and stared at her. Her cheeks were flushed and she was breathing rapidly. He watched the outline of her breasts rise and fall beneath the sky blue cotton of her shirt.
Holly felt as if he were looking through her, that he could see the riotous confusion taking place within her and was fully aware of his potent effect on her. Maybe he thought she was coming on to him! After all, she’d blatantly revealed the lack of a boyfriend, fiancé, or husband in her life. She’d let him know that she was single and available! Mom and the rest of the family cupids would be thrilled. Holly winced.
She fairly raced out of the room and down the stairs. When Rafe joined her outside, resentment shot through her. He had effortlessly accomplished something that no other man in her life had ever done. Rafe Paradise had reduced her—a self-confident, self-assured professional woman—to the level of a quivering adolescent!
“Are you okay?” he asked.
His voice—deep, gravelly, and low, the same voice she’d previously been listening to with no untoward effects—suddenly affected her like a physical caress. Holly shivered.
“Y-yes, I—” she tried to think of something to say. Some excuse to offer for her manic bolt from the house. And couldn’t She felt like an idiot. Maybe she really ought to read The Rules to learn some clever quips to disguise this sort of wildly emotional reflex. Not that she expected it to happen to her again—not ever again!
She and Rafe stared at each other for a long moment.
The silence was shattered by the sound of a young, very disdainful voice coming from the vicinity of Holly’s car. “Hey, know what? Your music really sucks! I mean, totally.”
Startled, Holly and Rafe turned to stare at the teenage girl who was sitting behind the wheel of the Chevy Cavalier, going through the container of compact discs that had kept Holly alert and entertained during her long drive from Michigan.
“Camryn!” Rafe rasped through his teeth. He strode to the car, Holly at his heels.
Camryn continued to riffle through the CDs. “Yuck, what is this crap? Guys and Dolls, Finnegan’s Rainbow, Annie Get Your Gun? Even you have better stuff than this, Rafe.”
“Get out of there right now, Camryn!” Rafe grabbed the girl’s arm and yanked her out of the car. “You have no right to—”
“Believe me, I’m sorry I did,” Camryn cut in sarcastically. “I’ll have nightmares for weeks about what I saw here. The soundtrack from Brigadoon? You gotta admit that’s scary, Rafe.” She stared at Holly, incredulous. “Do you actually listen to that? Or maybe you have your real CDs in those faux covers because—” Camryn paused, trying to think of a possible reason why anyone would resort to such a scheme.
“Thanks for graciously offering me an out, but no, what you see is what you’ll hear,” Holly said wryly. She shrugged. “I love Broadway show tunes, maybe because I was in the spring musical every year, from middle school through high school. We put on all those—”
“Oh, God, you were one of those perky, girly types who sings in school musicals and sells candy bars to raise funds for the big class trip!” Camryn accused. She stared at Holly with the horrified revulsion most people reserve for cold-blooded killers.
Holly’s eyes swept over the girl, taking in her chopped-off black hair, greasy with styling mousse, bobby pins stuck in at haphazard angles. She wore the definitive punk makeup, anemic white face powder, at least three coats of black mascara, smudged black eye shadow, and ultra-pale lipstick.
Camryn’s attire was the urban decay look: black spandex leggings—never mind the August heat—and a tiny black T-shirt that exposed her midriff and most of her stomach. Naturally, she had a belly button ring. Holly would’ve been surprised if