Nothing Short of Perfect. Day Leclaire
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“Are you telling me you used a computer program to find the perfect woman?”
“Yes.”
“So how did you end up with me, Justice? There’s no way I could have been on your short list.”
“You weren’t. It would seem the computer program contained a flaw. I didn’t want them. I wanted you.”
At the first touch of her soft form colliding against his hard angles, he discovered he’d made a serious miscalculation. Whatever they’d experienced all those months ago hadn’t dissipated over time as he’d anticipated. If anything the craving had grown progressively worse. It might not be logical, but it was unquestionably true.
He lowered his head toward hers. “And I’ll do anything—and I do mean anything—to have you.”
Dear Reader,
When I was little, I dreamed of my “perfect” man. He’d be tall (six feet two inches, to be exact). He’d have wavy black hair and blue eyes (sinfully handsome, naturally). He’d be rich (of course). And we’d have ten children (oh, yes, I was truly insane). My mother asked me who would feed us since I couldn’t cook and would get so lost in a book that I’d forget to feed myself, let alone all these children.
The man I ultimately married missed the mark by two inches, but hey, who’s counting? His hair is the color of sand. He does have those blue eyes. And to me, he’ll always be sinfully handsome because my eyes see all that makes him such an incredible person. Instead of ten children, we have one—beloved by us both and if not perfect, darn close.
I learned over the years that there is no such thing as the “perfect” man, any more than the “perfect” woman. The trick is to find the person perfect for you. And I think my husband and I came very, very close.
Which brings me to my current story about a brilliant scientist who creates a program to find the perfect wife. What he ends up with is far, far different (of course). But maybe, just maybe, she’ll show him that what they create together is perfect for them. I hope you enjoy Nothing Short of Perfect and I wish for you the “perfect” mate!
Warmly,
Day Leclaire
About the Author
USA TODAY bestselling author DAY LECLAIRE is a threetime winner of both a Colorado Award of Excellence and a Golden Quill Award. She’s won RT Book Reviews Career Achievement and Love and Laughter Awards, a Holt Medallion and a Booksellers’ Best Award. She has also received an impressive ten nominations for the prestigious Romance Writers of America’s RITA® Award.
Day’s romances touch the heart and make you care about her characters as much as she does. In Day’s own words, “I adore writing romances, and can’t think of a better way to spend each day.” For more information, visit Day at her website, www.dayleclaire.com.
Nothing Short
of Perfect
Day Leclaire
To Rita Doerr.
Thank you so much for your assistance with the
Prologue of this book and helping me keep it real.
And to the imperfect people in my life,
who make my life so perfect.
All my love.
Prologue
“Can you hear me, sir? Can you tell us your name?”
Pain exploded all around him. His head. His arm. His chest. Something had happened to him, but he didn’t understand what. He sensed movement and heard a siren. What the hell? Was he in an ambulance?
“Sir? What’s your name?”
“St. John. Jus— Jus—” The words escaped, sounding slurred and tinny to his ears. For some reason he couldn’t coordinate tongue and mouth well enough to give his first name, forcing him to settle for the closest approximation. “Jus St. John. What …?”
The man seemed to understand the simple question. “You were in a car accident, Mr. St. John. I’m a paramedic. We’re transporting you to the hospital where they’ll treat your injuries.”
“Wait,” someone else said. A woman this time. Soothing voice. “Did he say St. John? Justice St. John? The Justice St. John.”
“You know this guy?”
“Heard of him. He’s some famous inventor. Robotics. Runs a company called Sinjin. A bit of a recluse. Worth billions.”
The man swore. “Which means if he doesn’t make it, guess who’s going to get blamed? We’d better call this in to the supervisor and alert her we have a VIP. She’ll want to get ahead of the media circus.”
Someone asked another question. Endless questions. Why the hell wouldn’t they leave him alone? “Do you have any allergies, Mr. St. John?” the voice persisted. Then louder, “Any medical conditions we should know about?”
“No. Can’t move.”
“We have you immobilized as a precaution, Mr. St. John.” The soothing voice again. “That’s why you can’t move.”
“BP is dropping. We need to get him stabilized. Mr. St. John, do you remember how the car accident occurred?”
Of course he remembered. An idiot driver was texting or yakking on a cell phone and lost control of the car. God, he hurt. Justice pried open one eye. His world appeared in a blur of color and movement. A harsh light struck him and he flinched from it.
“Stop it, damn you,” he growled. Okay, that came out better.
“Pupils reactive. IV’s in. Repeat vitals. Let the supervisor know we’re gonna need a neurologist, just to be on the safe side. Request Forrest. No point in taking any chances. Mr. St. John, can you hear me?”
Justice swore again. “Shouting. Stop shouting.”
“We’re taking you to Lost Valley Memorial Hospital. Is there someone we can contact for you?”
Pretorius. His uncle. An image flashed across Justice’s mind, of tawny St. John eyes set in a hound dog face and broad shoulders hunched over a computer keyboard. They could call his uncle. They’d need the phone number since it was unlisted and right now Justice couldn’t think of it through the roar of pain. He tried to explain the problem and found his tongue refused to twist around the words.
And then Justice realized that even if he could explain, Pretorius wouldn’t come. Oh, he’d want to, no question of that. He’d be desperate to. But like the impenetrable wall that prevented Justice from giving his rescuers the necessary phone number, an equally impenetrable wall prevented Pretorius from leaving their estate, his fear too great to overcome.
And that’s when it struck him. He had no one. No one who gave a damn on an intimate level whether he lived or died. No one who could take care of his uncle if he didn’t survive. No one to carry on his legacy or benefit from what he had to offer. How had it happened? Why had he allowed it to happen? When had he cut himself off so completely?
He’d lived in isolation these past years, keeping himself distant from emotional attachment, from the pain life had a habit of inflicting. And now he’d die alone and unmourned except by those who respected him in a professional capacity. He’d wanted to hold himself apart from the rest of the world, craved the solitude. Wanted desperately to just be left the hell alone. And he’d succeeded. But at what price? He could see it now, see so clearly how year after year, winter after winter, a fresh layer of ice had coated his heart and