The Bravo Bachelor. Christine Rimmer
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“You didn’t want me to feel that I had to stay.”
It really wasn’t fair. The man was always a couple of steps ahead of her. He came closer. So gently he cradled her face between his hands. Gabe’s palms were warm against her cheeks and he smelled of some light, tempting aftershave. “Well, I want to stay.”
Mary wrapped her fingers around his wrists. At her slight tug, his hands dropped away. And something scary happened within her–a sadness, a longing. She wished that he would touch her again, deliberately, the way he’d just done. Tenderly. The way a man will touch a wife.
Or a lover…
Available in April 2010 from Mills & Boon® Special Moments™
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The Bravo Bachelor by Christine Rimmer
The Nanny Solution by Teresa Hill
An Ideal Father by Elaine Grant
Not Without Her Family by Beth Andrews
Christine Rimmer came to her profession the long way around. Before settling down to write about the magic of romance, she’d been everything from an actress to a salesclerk to a waitress. Now that she’s finally found work that suits her perfectly, she insists she never had a problem keeping a job–she was merely gaining “life experience” for her future as a novelist. Christine is grateful not only for the joy she finds in writing, but for what waits when the day’s work is through: a man she loves, who loves her right back, and the privilege of watching their children grow and change day to day.
She lives with her family in Oklahoma. Visit Christine at www.christinerimmer.com.
The Bravo Bachelor
BY
Christine Rimmer
For Tom and Ed, the sweetest guys I know—well, on four legs, anyway.
Chapter One
That March morning, Mary Hofstetter dragged herself out of bed at dawn. It was going to be a beautiful, sunny day and Mary felt lousy. Her back ached. All night, the baby had played football with her rib cage. She’d gotten maybe two hours’ sleep.
Mary trudged outside to feed the two aging horses, the chickens and the goats. Inside again, she prepared breakfast; she brewed herb tea, made toast and whipped up a protein shake.
The plan was to go straight to the computer once she’d eaten. Instead, she started cleaning. Nesting instinct, she told herself. After all, she was due in three weeks. She whipped the kitchen into shape, made her bed, dusted her bedroom and the living room. After that, she cleaned the shower and mopped the kitchen floor.
By then, it was a little after ten and the work that really needed doing could no longer be put off. Strangely, in the past month or two, as her stomach had gotten bigger, her mind had gotten…dreamier. This was normal, she knew from her reading on pregnancy and childbirth, and would pass eventually after the baby came. Too bad that knowing she would someday have her focus back didn’t help her meet her deadline now.
With a sigh of resignation, Mary sat down at the computer in the corner of the living room. Her two thousandword article on canning summer fruit was due at Ranch Life magazine the next day. She’d have the article finished and e-mailed in by five if it killed her. Which, considering how tired and unfocused she was, it just might.
She booted up the PC—and stalled some more, fiddling with stuff on the desktop, straightening the tape dispenser and the stapler, moving the coffee mug full of pens from the left corner to the right. Another sigh and she made herself bring up the document she’d started yesterday.
Enjoy Summer’s Bounty All Winter Long.
“Blah.” Mary made a face at the title. And then she yawned. From the rug near the fireplace, her dog, Brownie, lifted her head and yawned, too. “I know, I know,” she told the dog. “Bo-ring.”
Then she scowled at the screen again. And shook her head. Later, if she finished with time to spare, she could stew over the title. Right now she needed to get some serious words on the page. She started typing.
Four sentences later, she heard the crunch of tires on gravel out in front. Brownie lifted her head again, gave a halfhearted “Woof,” and then dropped her head back to her paws.
Mary wasn’t expecting company, but hey, any excuse to get up from that desk sounded wonderful to her.
Groaning softly at the effort, she put her hands on the desktop and pushed herself to her feet. She arched her back to get the kinks out and then waddled over to the front window to see who’d dropped by.
Her visitor was still inside the car. It was a Cadillac SUV, that car. Black as a polished patent-leather shoe, with pricey gold rims that gleamed proudly in the Texas sun. It looked more than a little out of place in her dusty front yard.
Mary rubbed the base of her spine with one hand and supported her heavy belly with the other as she watched a tall man emerge from the fancy vehicle. Dark glasses covered his eyes. Though the vehicle blocked most of his body, she could see he wore a western shirt.
But the guy was no cowboy. If he were, he wouldn’t be driving an Escalade with shining gold rims. And he certainly wouldn’t be hauling out a briefcase and laying it on the roof of the car. Plus, something about the arrogant set of those broad shoulders spoke, loud and proud, of money and privilege. He stood for a moment without closing the door, his dark-gold head turned toward the house. Bright morning sun sparkled like stars on the lenses of his sunglasses.
Mary knew by then why he’d come. The Bravos must have sent him. Her tired shoulders slumped. So much for a nice diversion. She would rather be back at her desk, racking her fuzzy brain for a fascinating way to describe sterilizing canning jars, than dealing with the man who’d just taken off his sunglasses and tossed them casually to the seat of his pricey SUV.
He shut the driver’s door, grabbed the briefcase and came around the front of the vehicle. Mary dug her fingers into the aching muscles at the base of her spine and wished he would just turn around, open that door again, get back in that beautiful car and drive off. How many times does a woman have to say “no” before the big-money types take the hint and go away?
As he mounted the steps to her front porch, she actually considered not answering his knock. After all, she was feeling like a beached whale, she’d already told the Bravos “no” three times and meant it—and she had work that truly did need doing.
But then, with a certain bittersweet sadness, she thought of Rowdy. Rowdy had always been the soul of politeness. Though he was fourteen years older than she was, he’d called her “ma’am” for weeks after they met—until their first date, as a matter of fact. A gentle, soft-spoken, oldfashioned man, he would always take off his hat in the presence of a woman.
Rowdy would never have given those Bravos what they were after. But he would do them the courtesy of answering the door and telling them “no” straight to their faces. Again.
So when the rich man knocked,