Bedroom Eyes. Sandra Chastain
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he? Where was he and what was he thinking to give him such an expression? Even the odd smile on his lips added to the mystery. A longing in his eyes, yes, but something about him said that he was neither a ne’er-do-well, as her mother’s first husband had been, nor driven and determined like the second, Anne’s father. And if she dreamed about Mitchell Dane every night, she was the only one who knew.
When her night dreams gave way to daydreams, Anne decided she was in trouble. And this time it wasn’t totally Faylene’s fault. Mitchell had become far too real in her mind, if not in her life. And the steady parade of female employees who made up excuses to come through her office just to see his picture boxed her in even tighter. Now in order to stay in Mr. Jacobs’s good graces, she’d just made arrangements to put her fiancé on exhibit. She’d be spending the weekend with Mitchell Dane.
She told herself she had no choice. She had her mother to consider. Not only had her father left a letter asking her to take care of Faylene, he’d also named Anne administrator of her trust. Unfortunately, after paying off his business debts, there hadn’t been enough money in the trust left to manage. Even worse, she’d been forced to make a small withdrawal to pay for her move from Baltimore to Atlanta. Faylene wasn’t worried about the loan but Anne was.
“I’ve held back all my life for my children,” Faylene had said. “Now I’m going to enjoy myself. When I run out of money, I’ll find another husband. Too bad you don’t do the same thing—look for a husband, that is. You need to loosen up, Anne. Stop worrying about me. Have some fun. Fall in love.”
But Anne worried. As the only unmarried junior executive in line for a promotion at Bundles of Joy, this was the wrong time to confess her deception. If she didn’t produce her fiancé, this weekend would be the end of Anne Harris’s career and the payments on her mother’s RV would come to an end. She had no choice. This weekend had to succeed.
The doorbell rang. “This is it, Anne,” she muttered to herself. “If this is the wrong man, you’ll just have to face Mr. Jacobs and confess your deception sooner than you planned.” When she opened the door, she heard a gasp. She wasn’t certain if it came from her mouth or his. This was the man in the picture, the man Bettina had called Mitchell Dane, the wanderer who never stayed in one place. And he was…perfect.
The black-and-white photograph hadn’t begun to do him justice. Bathed in the June sunlight, he looked down at her with blue eyes that sent a shock wave of awareness through her. She opened her mouth, but her voice died in her throat. How could she have been so wrong about the expression in his eyes? Longing was wrong. Restless was even more wrong.
Mitchell Dane had bedroom eyes.
He was taller than she’d expected, perhaps six feet four inches or so, and, though he was slim, his shoulders were broad. He needed a haircut but she suspected that the ragged, casual cut was intended to show a wild streak. With skin the color of warm copper and tawny hair bleached to a white gold by the sunlight, he was a wild savage who only had to look at a woman to promise forbidden pleasure.
The connection she’d felt with the photograph was even stronger in person. The heat filled her throat, swooped down through her lungs, sucked out all the air, and puddled in the pit of her stomach as hot as lava straight from a volcano.
She couldn’t breathe. She just waited. When she didn’t show up at the wedding, Faylene would discover her standing in the doorway, turned into a petrified shell of ash.
To Mitchell Dane, meeting Anne was like being hit by a tidal wave. Or a tornado. Now he knew the reason for Anne Harris’s hoarse, whiskey voice. This was a woman so hot, she was on fire.
He stared at his new fiancée in stunned silence. Her hair was a rich mahogany color, like fine wood rubbed to a flawless sheen. It hung straight, touching her shoulders in a saucy swing as she stepped back. In the right setting, with a spray of orchids behind her ear, she could be a barefoot pagan girl on some South Sea island. In fact, for a minute, he thought he was looking at Melia.
“Mr. Dane,” she finally managed to say. “Thank you for coming.”
Mitchell nodded, finding it difficult to speak.
“It’s really you,” she said. “You’re my Mitchell.”
“It’s really me.”
If this was a joke, Bettina had really pulled it off. Mitchell had assumed Anne Harris would be as plain as dry toast. Boy, was he wrong. This woman could walk down the street, hold out her hand, and find a ring on every finger before she’d gone two blocks.
Casual clothing, she’d said. And that’s the way she was dressed, sort of elegant casual. Her khaki cotton shorts were matched with a tan tank top and covered with some kind of neutral-colored gauzy shirt with flowers the same bright hue of her turquoise canvas shoes. His fingers itched for the camera he had packed in his duffel bag at the last minute. If he were smart, he’d turn around and leave now. But that option disappeared the moment she’d opened the door. When he’d first heard her voice, he’d been stunned by the unexpected rush of desire that hit him, and even more by its intensification as he stood in her doorway.
The urge to photograph her didn’t surprise him as much as the electricity that hung between them, barely held in check. She felt it, too. He could see it in the way her gaze darted everywhere but to his face. Her mouth opened slightly, and her hand moved to catch a strand of hair that caressed her cheek. For a long moment he simply looked at her, at slim fingers that curled behind her ear and slid down her neck to catch the point of the collar on her blouse. “Thank you for coming,” she finally said in that throaty whisper he’d heard on Bettina’s phone.
His fiancée glanced down at his jeans. Bettina accused him of being casual to the point of being threadbare. He hadn’t thought about it until he viewed himself through the eyes of this elegant woman. Maybe he could stand some upgrading. That had never mattered before. And it was too late to worry about that now.
“Well,” he finally said, “are you going to let me in or do we just stand here and stare at each other?”
She blinked and stepped back. “I’m sorry. Come in.”
He followed her, dropped his bag, and closed the door behind him, gathering control as he looked around. His photographer’s eye noted that her little house was much like a beach cottage. That surprised him. He’d expected her to live in a condo, not a wood-frame bungalow on a small side street. From where he stood in the living room, he guessed he could see most of it. There was an archway behind Anne that apparently led into a dining area with a kitchen to the right. To his left was a bedroom and a tiny sitting porch. It was warm, cozy. The walls were creamy white. Two fat couches seemed to shake hands in front of a fieldstone fireplace at the end of the room. She’d covered them in a bright turquoise and coral print. The colors of the islands.
“I didn’t really expect you to be the man in the photograph,” she said. “I hoped, but I didn’t believe you’d really come.”
“And I didn’t expect you to be a beautiful woman. I guess we’re both surprised.”
“You thought I’d be ugly?”
“You don’t want to know what I thought. Let’s just say I’m surprised you had to use an agency to find a fiancé.”
“Believe me, I didn’t want to. It was my mother’s idea.”
“Your mother?”
“My mother took it upon herself…never mind. I should never have let it happen. If we can just get through this weekend, I’ll put an end to it.” She reached into her pocket. “I have your cash.”
Mitchell took a step closer. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to pay for services in advance? After all, I might not live up to your expectations.”
“Mr. Dane, let’s get this straight right now. I just want a man who can convince my employer that he is my fiancé for two days. Are you up to the job or not?”
Oh, he was up all right, or well on the way, and there