Bedroom Eyes. Sandra Chastain

a client of Bachelor-in-a-Box or a potential one. If she was already signed up, she knew the rules. The contracts lying on Bettina’s desk plainly said, No contact between bachelors and clients.

      Mitchell propped his feet on his sister’s desk and tried not to feel responsible. Bettina was a big girl now, and this was her business. But the tight, low voice on the answering machine had imprinted itself on his mind and wouldn’t go away. Too agitated to sit still, Mitchell replayed the tape. Annoyed that he felt a responsibility toward Anne Harris, he finally decided that it wasn’t her problem that stirred him, it was her voice—intriguing, polished, with a hint of a honeyed Southern accent. The throaty whisper brought to mind visions of hot tropic nights, of moonlight and wild orchids. He tried to imagine the face that went with that voice.

      Then he considered the kind of woman who went out and bought a man. She was probably shy, a woman who lived her life through the movies and resorted to an imaginary lover to convince her girlfriends that she had someone who cared. He found himself trying to fit that kind of woman to the sexy voice. They didn’t match.

      Creative curiosity was part of every photographer’s psyche, though of late he’d felt less and less curious. After too many long nights, extended flights and lonely assignments, everything looked the same. He rarely remembered the country…except for the children. Their faces haunted him. He felt responsible for every one of them.

      But this woman caught his interest. Mitchell leaned back in his chair, thinking about her. His analysis started with what kind of woman would pay for a pretend lover, but it ended with why his sister had given Anne Harris his name.

      Moments later, the phone rang once more. “Bettina, this is Anne again. Believe me when I tell you that I have a life-threatening situation here.” The voice was even tighter, lower. “It’s complicated, but I desperately need my pretend fiancé to become real, just for two days. It’s not just my job, but my mother’s future depends on it. You have to help me get in touch with the model who posed for my picture. I’ll pay him a thousand dollars for two days of his time.” She sighed. “Please, Bettina, you and my mother got me into this; now you have to help me.”

      Bettina got Ms. Harris into a life-threatening situation that now threatened her mother? Mitchell groaned. For all he knew, this kind of thing happened all the time. But now he was worried. If Bettina was liable, some of the responsibility fell on him. He’d helped make his sister’s idiotic idea a reality. Now she’d left him in charge.

      And this woman was looking for Mitchell. Why?

      Why was she willing to pay a thousand dollars for two days of bachelor work? It might as well be called gigolo work—an intriguing idea. He smiled. He didn’t know what Mitchell was worth, but two days of Dane the professional photographer was a lot more expensive.

      “I’ll take full responsibility for the weekend,” she promised.

      She’d have to take the responsibility. Taking responsibility for someone else was a thing he knew well. When his father died, he’d turned a part-time job in a photographer’s studio into a seven-day work week while completing high school. He’d been a swimmer, with hopes of a scholarship. But as the breadwinner, swimming, dances, girls—all had to be left behind. Later, when Ran, Jess and Bettina were old enough to go out on their own, he took a gofer job with a photographer on assignment in Hawaii. For the next three years he’d lived the life of a beach bum, working only to buy film and supplies. Little by little, he learned and finally started to sell.

      For Mitchell, Hawaii was freedom. Hawaii was life and beauty rejuvenating itself. Hawaii was Melia, a beautiful dark-haired native girl who became his model and his mate. They were young and reckless, drunk on moonlight and making love. Then he landed an assignment to photograph a waterfall in a wilderness area generally bypassed because native superstition warned that it was a sacred place.

      A dozen times they’d gone into the rain forest, climbed rocky paths that led almost straight up, put themselves into danger to capture the beauty of the islands. But this time he’d had second thoughts about taking her. She’d begged him. “Please,” she’d said over and over, kissing him wantonly until at last he agreed. But this assignment had been different from the start. It rained nonstop. When the rain didn’t keep them away, the island gods reached down and reminded the intruders that they were unwelcome.

      Melia fell to her death from the top of the falls. He didn’t know until later that she was carrying his child. Suddenly the beauty of the island was gone. He threw himself into his work, swore he’d never be responsible for another person again and began the nomad life he’d lived ever since. But he saw the face of the child he’d lost everywhere he went.

      And now, he was responsible for this Anne Harris with the come-hither voice, whether he wanted to be or not. But it wasn’t personal, he told himself. He was simply helping his sister.

      Then he realized that she hadn’t hung up the phone. He could hear a faint, jerky rumble, as if she’d laid the phone against her chest and he was hearing her heart beat. He thought at first that she was crying, then he realized that she was muttering to herself under her breath, cursing in a way he hadn’t heard a woman do since the breakdown of a bus hauling a group of models to a desert shoot in Arizona. The words seemed to be directed at men in general. His slumbering curiosity went up another notch.

      Then her muttering softened. “Please?” she whispered, speaking into the receiver again.

      An unwelcome jolt of heat hit his loins and he clenched his teeth. Not only did the woman have the sexiest voice he’d ever heard, she’d said please. She needed him. Before he realized what he was doing, he’d picked up the phone. “I’ll take the job. But you’d better know, I travel first class and I don’t do things halfway.”

      There was a long silence. “What number do I have?” she asked, suddenly suspicious.

      He repeated the number, adding, “You called Bettina, didn’t you? Well, she’s out of town.”

      “Of course. First my mother disappears, now Bettina,” the voice said, then asked, “Who are you?”

      “I’m Mitchell. Isn’t that who you wanted?”

      “Yes, but you don’t understand. You have to be the right Mitchell. My associates have seen his picture. They know what he looks like. If I bring the wrong man, my career will be over.”

      “I am the right Mitchell. Trust me.”

      “Who am I kidding?” she said helplessly. “Without a future husband, I’m right back where I started and I have nobody but myself to blame. How could I have let this happen? I knew better.”

      “Future husband?” That was not part of the plan, imaginary or not. “Tell me about Mitchell,” he said, stalling, “What does he look like?”

      “In my photograph, he’s standing on a beach by a big black rock, looking back at the camera. He’s tall with tawny hair and…” she paused “…he looks a little sad.”

      The beach by the black rock—he remembered it well. He and Melia had shared some special moments there. After she died, he’d gone back to that beach a lot. The photograph was one of those he’d given to Bettina, taken by an acquaintance. The memory of that beach sucker-punched him in the gut. He’d thought he’d put it behind him but he obviously hadn’t. He’d seen that expression in his mirror every time he shaved.

      “Mitchell, do you know the photograph I mean?”

      “I do,” he said, a sudden attack of regret causing him to backpedal on his rash offer. “I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re in, but I think you’d better wait for Bettina to handle it.”

      “Normally, I’d agree with you. Waiting would be wise. But this time I can’t wait. If I can produce the real Mitchell, I stand a chance at getting a promotion. With a promotion I can afford to look after my mother.”

      Her mother. She must be ill. That would explain Ms. Harris’s desperation. “I really am Mitchell. I promise you, I’m the guy you’re