Married By Morning. Shirley Jump

he’d moved into last month, to be closer to TweedleDee Toys and to escape the constant disapproval of his father back in Indianapolis. The space was neat, tidy and perfect—and totally devoid of personality. It didn’t welcome or invite him in at the end of the day. The apartment simply existed, like something out of a catalog.

      The Pier 1 furniture, the pale beige walls, all chosen by a decorator because Carter hadn’t had the time or inclination. A weekly maid service polished the glass coffee table and set it at a right angle with the lines in the area rug.

      Every space he’d ever lived in had been like this. Cold, impersonal and cared for by someone else. Just as he had been most of his life. He’d never settled down, never found his calling, and hadn’t wanted to until the reading of Uncle Harry’s will.

      Six months ago, Uncle Harry’s boat, The Jokester, had been found drifting at sea somewhere in the Atlantic. The Coast Guard had searched, then finally declared him dead two months ago, an announcement that seemed to make Carter’s father, Jonathon, Harry’s only brother, even more withdrawn and colder than usual.

      At the reading of the will, Carter had looked around at his family—Cade and his father—and realized each of them had a purpose. Cade had Melanie, the franchise. Jonathon had the law practice. They seemed to be holding a card that Carter had never seen.

      And then, when the stunning news that Uncle Harry had left TweedleDee Toys to Carter came out, the crazy thought that Carter could be something had popped up. The attorney had handed over the ownership of TweedleDee Toys and Carter’s father had let out a snort of derision. “You’ll be filing bankruptcy in a month. That place was a mess when my brother ran it and it’s undoubtedly only gotten worse in his absence.”

      A thousand times before his father had predicted Carter’s failure—with pinpoint accuracy. For some reason, though, that day the comment had gotten Carter’s dander up. “Never,” Carter said to his father. “I can turn that company around.”

      His father had laughed, then shook his head. “Face it, Carter. You’re not made of CEO material.”

      The only thing that had kept Carter from throwing in the towel in the last two months was the knowledge that he would once again prove his father right. And if there was one thing Carter was tired of doing, it was that.

      Their father was a perfectionist. Every detail of his life was organized and filed, structured and meticulous. He expected nothing less of his sons. Cade, who had followed him into the family law practice, had measured up to that impossible standard while Carter had continually fell at least a mile short.

      Carter shrugged off the thoughts, then crossed to the kitchen and opened the fridge, found a few sips of red wine left in a bottle shoved behind the expired carton of milk and poured the alcohol into a glass. “Cheers,” he said, hoisting the drink toward the stiff furball in his armchair. “I think you’ve got the better end of the deal, my petrified friend.”

      He had just tipped the glass into his mouth when someone started banging at his door. Nosy Mrs. Beedleman and her binoculars, he was sure, had seen him and Cemetery Kitty through her courtyard window. And, as Mrs. Beedleman was wont to do, had assumed the worst about him and called the authorities.

      Again.

      Carter sighed, placed the glass on the counter and opened his apartment door.

      “Let me guess,” he said to the slim brunette in his hall. She wore a funky pair of dark purple glasses that turned up at the corners, in that popular sixties style. Tall, thin, she wore her brown hair in an angle cut bob that set off a graceful neck. But the suit she had on was all business and Carter knew better than to flirt with a government employee. “You’re from the ASPCA and you’re here to write me up on charges of animal cruelty, right?”

      “No. I—”

      “The thing is stuffed. Tomorrow, I’m firing the guys who invented it. So go on back to the office or wherever you came from because there’s no dead cat in my apartment. At least, not a real one.”

      She blinked. “Dead cat?”

      “I told you, it’s not real. It’s the Cemetery Kitty toy.”

      She blanched. “Uh, I think I knocked on the wrong door. Thanks anyway.” The woman turned to leave.

      She looked like someone he knew, but hell, so did half the city of Lawford. As a new CEO, he made more friends he didn’t need at city networking events and golf tourneys, then forgot their names as soon as he put on his coat.

      Still, something was familiar about this woman. Not familiar in the kind of way that told him he’d dated her, though.

      Had he?

      How deplorable. He had dated so many women, he’d forgotten more than he remembered. Unlike Cade, who had found his true love in high school, married her after graduation and was still enjoying the fairy tale.

      Carter was more of the big, bad wolf smart fathers warned their daughters about rather than the prince on the white horse.

      The woman in his hallway had a long, delicate face with a slim nose and defined cheekbones, giving her a Grace Kelly kind of beauty. But unlike the screen legend, her hair was a medium brown, and the easy way it skipped over her jawline and neck seemed made for convertibles and lazy summer days. And her legs—well, hell, they were made for a lot of things he was pretty sure were illegal in Indiana.

      Whoa. He needed a bigger drink.

      Either way, hers was the first friendly face he’d seen all day. And here he was chasing her from his apartment, like a fool. “Wait.” She pivoted away from the elevator. “Can we start over?”

      She paused a moment, then relented and returned to his doorway.

      He ran a hand over his face. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’ve got an unmarketable stuffed cat sitting on my recliner and I’m out of wine. Let me try this again. I’m Carter Matthews, and you are?”

      “Daphne Williams.”

      Daphne. Didn’t ring any bells.

      “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Daphne.” He slipped on the smile that had won a number of women’s hearts—and broken a few, too. “What brings you by?”

      “I have a message for you.”

      “Now that’s intriguing.” Carter leaned against the door frame and sent a second glance running over her. “And what might that be?”

      She smiled, any trace of friendliness gone. “Actually, a little hate mail.”

      He thought of telling her where she could stick her hate mail, then reconsidered.

      She was, after all, a pretty woman and he had wished for one a few minutes earlier. He had the drink, albeit a thimbleful a wine, and with the certain demise of TweedleDee Toys now that his designers had launched a goth theme for spring, he’d have that vacation he wanted—a permanent one.

      Be careful what you wish for, Matthews. It might just come true in spades.

      Yet again, he was proving his father’s adage that he was about as useful as snow in August. Carter hated when his father was right—and hated how easy it had become to be the kind of man who fell instead of rose to the occasion.

      “Tell me who hates me now,” Carter said. Besides his entire staff, and himself, of course.

      “Me.”

      “You? Why?” Oh Lord, she must be an ex-girlfriend. Definitely a sign he was dating and drinking too much.

      Daphne Williams parked a fist on her hip and glared at him. “You made me break up with my boyfriend for no good reason.”

      “Are you insane? I don’t even know you.”

      “No, but you do know a—” she reached in her pocket and pulled out a small card “—Cecilia, who sent you a breakup basket today.”

      Oh,