Bridegroom On Her Doorstep. Renee Roszel

programs, like on-site day care and job sharing for support staff who would like to work half days so they could spend more time at home with children. Jen also planned to initiate eight weeks of paid maternity leave. In addition, mothers would be allowed to keep newborns in the office, and a lactation and child care consultant would be hired.

      D.A.A. was woefully behind the times when it came to its married female employees and their needs. The company, too, could use updating in other ways, and Jen had plans there, too. She had no doubt she could transform the small, prestigious firm into one of the most respected in Texas.

      She hadn’t planned to find a husband quite this quickly, or precisely this way, but to have a shot at the presidency she must be stable and settled. The presidential-quality Jennifer Sancroft must arrive at that interview with a legitimate, accomplished spouse.

      She’d had no choice but to act and act now. In her unwavering, intense way, the plan to correct her marital status had been hatched and put into action. With a mere eighteen days until the fateful audience with the company’s CEO, she had to focus like she’d never focused before. She must have a supportive spouse, must be settled and family oriented.

      By heaven, she would succeed!

      Jen stretched then lowered her arms, exhaling. She raised her arms again, taking in a deep breath, working to restore her confidence. “Don’t worry, Jen,” she told herself. “Tomorrow will be better. They won’t all be as discouraging as they were today. So what if a few of them looked at you like you’re insane?”

      Maybe she should have put the word “marriage” in her Wall Street Journal advertisement. The closest she’d come to even hinting at matrimony had been a few phrases like, “successful businessman, tired of the rat race, looking for new challenges,” sprinkled among more sterile requirements like “excellent people skills,” “degree required” and “loyalty a plus.”

      What had she thought would happen, that Mr. Right would sweep in, take one look at her and fall to his knees begging her to marry him? “Ha!” she scoffed. “Way to go, Jen. Your optimism certainly isn’t hindered by sound reasoning!”

      She hadn’t been able to bring herself to place a personal ad. It seemed too lurid for her high-minded intention. The truth was, her pride hadn’t allowed her to solicit a mate in a personal ad. Considering her restrained, conservative upbringing, a businesslike request through the Wall Street Journal held the right note of respectability and civility.

      Besides, her mind whispered, keeping your search on a business plane reduced the taint of desperation.

      She winced, muttering, “Unfortunately, your precious business plane didn’t have the directness that would have cut down on the looks of horror on a few faces.”

      A handful of the men looked at her like she was from another planet. The memory stung. Deflated, she dropped her arms to her side. Today’s interviews were too depressing to dwell on. “How dare they be insulted!” she muttered.

      She felt something wet and looked down to see the surf skittering across her shoes and sloshing inside. “Oh, fine!” She hopped back, too late. Pulling off one pump then the other, she dumped out seawater. “That’s just great!”

      “What do you expect, coming out here wearing those?” came a voice from behind her.

      Jolted by the nearness of the male voice, Jen jumped, almost stumbled. She made a pained face, willing him to disappear.

      “Why don’t you take off your stockings, Miss Sancroft? Beach sand is meant to seep between your toes.”

      Trying to appear unruffled, she didn’t respond or turn around, but went about shaking the last of the water from her suede shoes.

      “Here.” He nudged her arm.

      She didn’t want to acknowledge him, but he was making it tough. Annoyed that she couldn’t seem to stop herself, she peered in his direction. To her astonishment, he held out a glass of iced tea. A sprig of fresh mint sprouted festively from the tumbler. She eyed the glass suspiciously, then transferred her stare to his face. “What’s this?”

      His lips twitched as though he found her question ludicrous. “Take a wild guess.”

      She faced him, holding up her pumps, one in each fist. “I don’t have any place to put it.”

      He examined her shoe-filled hands. Without a word he snatched first one shoe then the other, tossing them over his shoulder. She gasped as they sailed above the fence and landed on the lawn. “There.” He held out the tea. “Now you do.”

      She glowered at him. “You—you threw my shoes!”

      His laugh was deep and rich even with its derisive edge, causing a tingle to dance along her spine. She squelched the tickle with a shoulder-squaring stance.

      “Take the tea, Miss Sancroft.” He indicated her with a nod. “You have to be sweltering in all those clothes.”

      She couldn’t believe his audacity. “I don’t care for any tea,” she said. “And I’m not a bit hot.”

      His lips twitched again, as though he were laughing at her. “I won’t argue that.”

      She eyed him dubiously. Had he deferred to her or insulted her?

      He lifted the glass as though in a toast, and took a sip. “Your loss. I make great tea.”

      She didn’t like to admit it, but she was hot and uncomfortable and she was ruining a perfectly good pair of stockings. With a harrumph, she turned away. Grateful her skirt was full, she inched it up until she could reach the elasticized rim of her thigh-high stocking and began to roll the nylon down her leg.

      “What are you doing?” he asked.

      “Go away.”

      “Ah—taking off your stockings.”

      She cast him a grim look. “I hope you’re enjoying the show!”

      He’d cocked his head to better check out her stocking striptease. When their gazes clashed, he lifted his glass in her direction, as though in a toast to her bare leg. Heat flamed in her cheeks and she flipped her skirt down to cover her thigh.

      He indicated her with the tumbler. “I feel like I owe you a sip now.”

      “I’m not taking off my stockings for your gratification, Mr. Noone!” She turned her back, easing the stocking off her foot. Her balance wasn’t good in the damp sand, but she managed it. Not knowing what else to do with the nylon, she draped it across her shoulder and eased up her skirt on the other side to get the second stocking off.

      “There ought to be music for this.”

      She ignored him, but her face flamed. It wasn’t all due to the fact that she was overdressed for standing on a Texas beach in June. She finally got the other stocking off and tossed it across her shoulder with its mate. Straightening, she unbuttoned a cuff and rolled her sleeve up to her elbow, then did the same with the other.

      She hadn’t heard any lewd comments for a full half minute, so she had high hopes he’d gone away as quietly as he’d arrived. She peered around to check and was unsettled to find that he’d taken a seat on the sand, crossed his legs at the ankles and was watching her. “Don’t stop now,” he said.

      She faced him, irked. She would not let herself be flustered by this guy! She disciplined her voice. “I hadn’t planned to stop.” She unbuttoned the top two—no three—buttons of her blouse.

      His eyes swept over her speculatively. “Go on.”

      She wiped a hand across her forehead to banish telltale beads of sweat. “That’s the end of the show.”

      “What a shame,” he said, his mocking evident. He held up the half-empty glass. “Thirsty, yet?”

      Refusing to admit she was, she shook her head. “I’m going for a walk.”

      He