Mail-Order Cinderella. Kathryn Jensen
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the tape again.
She sat down without looking to see if a chair was nearby, and her bottom made serendipitous contact with a sofa cushion. Hugging her knees to her chest, she held her breath while the amazing man on the screen answered a list of questions posed by a female interviewer.
“What line of work are you in, Mr. Fortune?” the woman asked.
“Construction.”
Ah, Julie thought, so that’s how he got those strong neck and shoulder muscles—swinging a pickax, hefting lumber, lugging sacks of cement mix. Even in a respectable dress shirt and tie, he clearly was a well-formed man.
“And your hobbies?”
“Not many.”
“Name one or two, please.”
“I, um, well, I like the outdoors.”
Great! Children should play outside a lot. She wasn’t very athletic herself, so it would be wonderful if their father took them on hikes, fishing, played ball with them.
“Is marriage a high or low priority for you, Mr. Fortune?”
“Very high,” he answered solemnly, his gray eyes steady and calm.
A little yelp of joy escaped Julie’s lips. She took a quick sip of wine, then giggled as some dribbled down her chin. And this man had liked her tape!
“What about children?”
“Yes, there definitely need to be children in my marriage.”
This was almost too good to be true! Perhaps these were the very reasons this Tyler Fortune found her tape appealing. He obviously wanted a family just as much as she did. He was a man capable of looking beyond her ordinary appearance and nervous responses, to more important and practical issues. To a future that could be good for both of them.
But there was one thing that bothered her. She’d learned to be wary of handsome men. A man who was too good-looking usually knew it and took full advantage. Tyler Fortune should have been awash with women. There must be something drastically wrong with the man.
Julie watched the interview all the way through to the end, rewound, then watched it three more times—accompanied by three more glasses of wine. Instead of defects showing up, Tyler looked better and better with each playing, and each glass of wine. He seemed to be staring straight through the camera lens at her. Only her. His gaze was direct, intelligent and sometimes playful. He was a man she at least could like, if not love. He was a man who made strange, tickley things happen inside her.
Turning off the TV, Julie picked up the letter that had come with the tape. She rolled the side of the wineglass across her forehead, cooling her feverish skin. She thought about possibilities…dreams…a future. And risks.
The letter said it was now up to her to contact Mr. Fortune if she was interested in meeting with him. He had not been given her address or phone number, in case she decided against following up on his invitation to call.
“It’s not really a date,” she whispered. “It’s more like a business meeting, isn’t it?”
Call it what you will, this may be your last chance, a voice nagged from a fragile, worried corner of her soul.
“I know,” she said. “I know.”
Two
Tyler was prepared for the worst when he arrived early and parked outside Van Gogh’s, just north of Westheimer. The trendy Houston restaurant was nestled on immaculately landscaped grounds. Along the sloping grass that ran down to the bayou, the famous peacocks were strutting their stuff for tourists wielding zoom-lensed cameras.
He parked within easy sight of the main entrance to the restaurant, hoping to see Julie arrive. If she looked just too dreadful to consider marrying, he’d make the meal a quick one then send flowers to her home the next day. The polite note accompanying them would thank her for her gracious company then explain that he felt they weren’t as natural a match as he’d hoped.
However, as he sat restlessly in the sleek Lincoln Continental he’d rented earlier that afternoon at Hobby Airport, he doubted the remaining six months before his thirtieth birthday would bring a more suitable prospect.
He waited nervously, trying to recall her most promising traits. Julie seemed polite, moral, genuinely fond of children and interested in the domestic arts. When they’d spoken on the phone two days after Tyler had first seen Julie on her tape, she’d mentioned her love of cooking twice. He assumed she’d eventually become so busy with the children and her own interests, he wouldn’t need to worry about changing his life much at all. If Julie did object to his long working hours, he’d just put her straight, and, as meek as she was, she wasn’t likely to insist.
Something told him she wouldn’t be terribly demanding in bed either.
Maybe it was her naturally quiet nature. Her voice over the phone that night he’d called had been as sweet and shy as on the tape. He’d started to ask about her sexual history, which seemed to him a logical question for two people considering making babies together. But she became so flustered he immediately bailed out, deciding to wait until they could discuss the subject face-to-face.
Tyler looked down at his hands and found he was gripping the Lincoln’s steering wheel as tightly as if he were maneuvering through careening traffic. Deliberately, he loosened his fingers. Women never made him nervous. Why should this little mouse?
At last a faded red subcompact pulled up hesitantly in front of Van Gogh’s entrance. The driver seemed confused when the valet tried to open her door for her. Tyler couldn’t help smiling. After several minutes of animated conversation, the young man coaxed the woman out of her car and took her place in the driver’s seat. She stood at the curb, staring after her vehicle as it disappeared around the corner, as though expecting never to see it again.
This could be none other than his Julie Parker.
Her charming naïveté tugged at Tyler’s heart. He decided he couldn’t in good conscience let her walk into the restaurant alone and deal with Jean Paul. The maître d’s icy French scowl would be enough to send her scurrying home.
Quickly, Tyler let himself out of the car and jogged across the street, punching the button on his electronic key to lock the car doors as his long legs ate up pavement. Just as Julie’s hand reached with an obvious tremor for the polished brass door handle, he caught up with her.
“Allow me,” he said, stretching around her to open the door.
Julie caught her breath as if she hadn’t been aware anyone was behind her. “Oh. Thank you.” She blinked up at him warily, and he was struck again by the subtle variations of colors in the irises. Her breath across his nostrils was petal-sweet. “You’re Mr. Fortune?”
“Tyler.” Placing his free hand at the small of her back, he guided her inside. “I just arrived myself. And you’re Julie, right?”
“Oh, well, yes,” she managed.
“Here, let me take your coat.” It was still chilly for a Texas March. The Southwest had seen an unusually cold winter. People were wearing wool coats and scarves that hadn’t been taken out of closets in years.
“Thank you,” she murmured again, flicking her eyes up at him for a hasty view of his face before she looked around the foyer.
It was designed to resemble a Roman grotto—bare stone, little sprigs of green growing between the rough gray rocks. A waterfall splashed sedately at the far end, near the dining rooms. He’d chosen this restaurant because it felt like his turf. Rugged yet refined. Sophisticated…quiet…intimate. He’d flown dates to Houston for a weekend when he didn’t want the whole town of Pueblo gossiping about who their most eligible bachelor was seeing socially. The restaurant’s atmosphere was tinged with upper-class seduction. He felt his body react mildly to the suggestion, and he folded his hands in front of himself.
“I