Her Necessary Husband. Sharon Swan

her. A chrome-and-glass coffee table with smoothly curved lines as quietly refined as the rest of the room occupied the space between them.

      “Actually, I was waiting for your call,” she admitted. “When you said you’d get back to me, I wasn’t sure if you’d want to meet again.” And when he had called her at the home of a friend where she was currently staying and invited her to come over, she’d imagined she was well on her way to being offered the housekeeper’s job. Until she’d seen his expression.

      Now even his polite smile had faded. “I meant to get in touch sooner,” he said, “but I had some things to consider.”

      What things? Jenna couldn’t help wondering as she folded her arms across the front of her deep tangerine pantsuit. No ready answer came to mind, but there was no denying that her prospective employer—most likely ex-prospective employer—looked far from overjoyed at the moment. He also didn’t look quite as much like a businessman today.

      Then again, it was Saturday. Even the top guy at Hayward Investments was allowed to dress down on the weekends, she supposed. Not that his cream-colored knit shirt and well-ironed khaki pants were anywhere near as casual as faded denim, but the outfit still displayed some impressive sights. Strong shoulders snugly outlined by smooth cotton and forearms left bare to reveal lean muscles dotted with swirls of crisp hair readily indicated that this man didn’t spend all his time behind a desk.

      Jenna dropped a brief glance down, half expecting to find gleaming leather loafers to complete the picture. Instead she saw no shoes at all, merely dark socks.

      “We generally take off our shoes when we come in,” he told her, obviously noticing the direction her gaze had taken.

      “Ah, yes, the white carpet,” she summed up with a nod. She dropped another look down, this time at her black pumps.

      “You’re a guest, so you get to keep yours on.”

      The wry statement had her chuckling. “Thanks,” she said.

      Her host cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair. “I know your qualifications are top-notch.”

      But…He didn’t say it; she heard it, anyway. And what more could she say? He’d checked her references before their lunch. Three couples in the Denver metropolitan area combining dual careers with a bustling family life had confirmed that she’d run their busy households and done a bang-up job of it at a time when they’d needed someone like her most.

      Jenna could only agree.

      During the seven years since she’d left Nevada—where her father had relocated her family when she was sixteen—for the high plains of Colorado, she had put talents learned at her mother’s side to good use. Combining them with her own love of tackling new challenges, she had built a solid career for herself despite the lack of a college degree—a career she’d still be pursuing in the Denver area if the urge hadn’t hit to revisit her birthplace in Arizona during an unexpected break between jobs.

      And then there’d been no question of a permanent return. As she’d come around the last curve on a winding highway lined with tall pines and gazed down on the small, sun-splashed city rimmed by a chain of low mountains northeast of Phoenix, something inside her had recognized it as…home. After more than a dozen years she was home, and she meant to stay.

      “Look,” she said, deciding it was time to stop skirting the issue, “I’ll admit I’m more than getting the feeling that for some reason you don’t think I’m right for this position.”

      And maybe it wasn’t right for her, she mused, all at once aware of precisely how attractive this specific member of the male species was—not to the female half of the population in general, which was probably a given, but to her in particular.

      Good heavens, she couldn’t still have a crush on Ross Hayward, former Golden Boy. That would be ridiculous.

      “Why don’t we just declare this visit over?” she suggested, then slanted a sidelong look out a curtained window and waited for the expected agreement.

      Rather than simply concurring, however, the man seated across from her held back a grimace at her abruptly brisk tone. He hadn’t meant, Ross thought, to be quite so obvious about having reservations where this woman was concerned—reservations resulting from a recent conversation he had no trouble recalling.

      “People are bound to talk if a widowed man still in his early thirties hires a single woman in her twenties as a live-in housekeeper,” Tom Kennedy, Harmony’s veteran police chief, had pointed out when Ross had stopped by police headquarters for a brief chat after his initial interview with Jenna. And hard on the heels of that statement, Ross remembered, the longtime friend of the Hayward family had gone on to share some news.

      “Normally, I’d say it’s your choice on whether to just ignore the gossip,” Tom had told him. “But voters gossip, too, and you know our mayor is pushing seventy, and I’ve heard he may not decide to run again. That means we could wind up with another Hayward in the mayor’s office next year, provided you’re interested.”

      And he was interested. Ross couldn’t deny that. His grandfather had been the last Mayor Hayward, and it was a sure bet that the old man, rest his stubbornly upright soul, would have counted on his direct descendant and the sole grandson to bear the Hayward name to try to follow in his footsteps. Especially since the old man’s only son had already left a black mark on the pages of the family history.

      Ross knew it could be argued that he had been an upstanding citizen of Harmony right from the day he’d been born into one of the founding families first to settle the city. For generations most Haywards had been dedicated to getting things done and had won respect for their achievements. As time passed, some residents had even come to expect Haywards to set an example of what good stock and hard work could accomplish.

      What no one had expected a Hayward man to do was to walk out on his wife of many years and head off to Southern California to live the life of an aging playboy. Which was exactly what his father had done, Ross thought grimly. And if he hoped to be mayor in spite of Martin Hayward’s hardly admirable behavior, it could only be smart to look after his own good standing in the community.

      So, taking all of that into account, he’d been having a devil of a time making up his mind about whether to offer Jenna Lorenzo the job.

      There was no question that he needed to fill the position—and fairly soon, what with Myra Hastings having to leave at the end of the month to care for her elderly mother full-time. But replacing his middle-aged housekeeper with a younger person who, while perhaps no true beauty, was still a striking-looking woman, might not be the wisest course he’d come to recognize.

      And now that woman had just handed him an easy out.

      The thing was, for some reason he found himself reluctant to take it. Not yet, anyway.

      “Let’s not be too quick to throw in the towel,” he told her.

      A fast frown formed on his visitor’s brow as she pulled her gaze away from the window. “I don’t understand. Either you want to hire me or—”

      “Daddy!” a young voice wailed, breaking into the conversation. A rosy-cheeked blonde dressed in a pink cotton top with matching pants soon appeared in the doorway to the living room. She was a six-year-old bundle of usually cheerful energy. Yet despite her angelic looks, Ross knew full well she could sometimes be as mischievous as a pint-size imp.

      “My daughter Katie,” he explained to his guest before fixing his attention on his youngest child. “What’s wrong, sunshine?”

      Katie brushed back a small tear as she ran to him. “Pandora lost her hair again!” She held out a doll wearing a well-worn yellow satin gown and sporting a jumble of deep auburn curls.

      Ross studied the object in question. It was a collector’s item more than a child’s toy, but his mother had presented it to Katie on her third birthday, anyway, with the warning to be careful when she played with it. Reality had, of course, stepped in; the doll had