Bridegroom On Her Doorstep. Renee Roszel

I suppose…” The sentence died from lack of enthusiasm. With effort, she forged on, facing the fact she didn’t have a choice. “I guess—you can stay. I only ask that you don’t bang around inside the house while I’m—I’m interviewing.” She met his hard, pale gaze. “You’ll keep your distance. Agreed?”

      Even filled with animosity his brilliant, fire-opal eyes were awe-inspiring. After a silent interlude that seemed like a year, his head dipped in a slow, begrudging half nod.

      Cole glowered at the woman standing before him, stunned to realize he’d actually agreed to any concession. His plan had been to grab whoever showed up by the scruff of the neck and haul him bodily out to the highway. What had it been about this female that made him change his mind? Or more correctly, lose it?

      Frowning at her, he took in the tailored suit. The muddy cotton broadcloth, cut to make her look like she wore two cardboard boxes, thoroughly hid any evidence of her femininity. And that hair. Parted in the center, she’d slicked it back into a tight twist at her nape. She might as well wear a sign that read I Am A Dowdy, Finicky Virgin. Approach At Your Own Risk.

      Unfortunately for his plans, her glistening eyes told a different story. They were large, shiny. The lids rode low over the most vibrant green he’d ever seen. Her slumberous lids and a sweep of sooty-brown lashes whispered sly seductiveness. The come-hither sensation, however unwittingly given, was impossible to ignore. Then there was her mouth. Those lips had a pouty way about them that, even amid all that muddy-brown fabric and skinned-back hair, gave off a stirring eroticism.

      He had the strong sense the sexiness of those cupid’s bow lips was unintentional, unlike most of the women he’d brushed up against in his life—designing femme fatales angling for personal gain. But not this one. She hadn’t come on to him. Far from it. That fact alone—the “I’m sexy but I’ll never tell” vibe—so intrigued Cole it addled his brain to the point of this crazy compromise.

      Suddenly the quiet month of June he always looked forward to, vacationing in his family summer home on the Gulf, was to be shared by a quarrelsome little Puritan with sultry lips and wide-set, bedroom eyes that spoke bewitching volumes, but not a syllable they spoke was a conscious come-on.

      Muttering a curse, he turned away and grabbed up his paintbrush, furious with himself for caving in. This was his month, blast it! He’d looked forward to this vacation as a balm to help ease his grief over the recent death of his father. Not to mention his need for an escape from business stress, which up to yesterday had been brutal, battling a hostile takeover bid for the largest of his holdings, Quad-State Oil and Gas. The pressure had been incessant and deadly. The poison pill he devised to hold on to the company had been a successful tactic, making the purchase unpalatably expensive for the challenger. He was weary from eighteen-hour days, mentally and emotionally drained. He needed the escape he found here to do nothing but relax, listen to the surf or take on some welcome, physical exertion.

      He loved this house and the childhood memories it brought with it, of happy times with his doting father. The man who, at fifty-five years of age, took in a newborn child, gave him a name, raised him, nurtured him and passed on his wisdom. Seeing to the property’s upkeep restored Cole, made him happy. Because of his care, year by year, he kept the beloved place whole and beautiful.

      Working with his hands in solitude by the sea, Cole could quietly reflect, spend time getting reacquainted with his imagination. Through unaccompanied toil and thought, he connected with men of bygone ages who helped steer his hands. These reclusive vacations exercised his mind and his soul as well as his body. Each year he looked forward to June, to this place, coming away from it energized, revived, ready for the rat race again.

      He began to brush white paint on the fence, his failure to handle the intrusion as he’d planned affecting him in deep, disturbing ways. What was his problem? What was it about this female that had the power to short circuit his intentions?

      “Maybe we should—exchange names?”

      He shot her a perturbed look and she stared at him. Her annoyance was so evident from her pinkened cheeks and sparking eyes, he experienced a surprise prickle of appreciation. Damn, she was stubborn. He wondered what her meetings were all about. What her applicants might apply for. Nothing kinky, he suspected. She was too prim and punctilious to be up to any pornographic shenanigans.

      “Call me Cole,” he muttered. “Cole—Noone.” Though he was “Cole” to his friends, he smirked inwardly at the hurriedly conjured last name. Noone—shoving together the words “no” and “one.” She thought he was a handyman. He’d let her. It might be interesting to observe how a woman reacted to him when she didn’t know he was J. C. Barringer, wealthy capitalist. Ordinarily women fawned over him, cooing, petting and fluttering lashes. So far, from this female, he hadn’t detected a single coo or flutter.

      She surprised him by sticking out a hand, apparently expecting him to take it. “I’m Jennifer Sancroft.”

      Something about that name nudged his memory. Jennifer Sancroft. Why did that name seem familiar? He closed his eyes for a moment, too tired and annoyed to worry about it. It would come to him. Since she was renting the corporate property, she had to work for one of his companies, or one of his father’s that he’d just taken over. He’d no doubt heard it in a business reference.

      For some unfathomable reason—possibly the insidious influence of those sensual lips—he took her hand in his. Her skin was cool, as he’d expected, her handshake firm. “How do you do, Miss Sancroft,” he said, his tone wholly unwelcoming.

      “How do you know it’s Miss?” she asked, her features quizzical.

      He couldn’t contain the amused twitch of his lips. Was she kidding? “Just a guess.”

      Her cheeks flushed. She’d caught his sarcasm. Tugging her fingers from his, she lifted her shoulders. Any more attempts to be intimidatingly tall and her sensible brown pumps would lift off the ground. “Well…” She backed up another step. “I’ll go get unpacked.” She pivoted away, retreating across the lawn.

      He watched her go, aggravation twisting his gut. Now that he could no longer be affected by those cupid’s-bow lips and unconsciously sexy eyes, he willed her to walk to the car, slide in and disappear.

      When she reached her vehicle, she popped the trunk and pulled out a suitcase. Cole gritted out an oath. So much for his telepathic powers.

      Ruthie flung open the front door as her boss approached. “So, is he leaving on Sunday?” Her expression more worried than hopeful, she hurried off the covered porch and grabbed one of the bags. Married or not, the look on Ruthie’s face made it clear she’d be happy to have Mr. Eye-Candy hang around for the whole three weeks.

      Jen heaved a sigh, mounting the two steps to the columned colonial porch. “He’s not leaving.” Once inside, she set down her suitcase and looked around absently. “He seemed—reluctant—to change his plans. I said he could stay.” The ugly truth, that “reluctant” was a mild description of his attitude, remained Jen’s secret. Her assistant didn’t need to know she hadn’t graciously allowed the handyman to stay on out of the goodness of her heart.

      “Excellent!” Ruthie’s expression brightened. “We need a good view around here.”

      “The Gulf of Mexico is practically in the backyard.”

      Ruthie waved that off as insignificant. “No offense, boss, but you’d think considering why you’re here, you’d be more interested in looking at men.”

      Jen ignored her assistant’s gibe. “Yes, well—this is more of a partnership than a—a—physical attraction match.” She didn’t like Ruthie’s doubtful expression. “There’s no logical reason why I can’t find a perfectly respectable husband this way. Compatibility and common interests are very important. Why, my own parents—”

      “I know, boss,” Ruthie cut in, her tone pensive, almost pitying. “Your parents are a great team—with mutual goals. A great example of a sensible union.”

      “Don’t