The Virgin's Proposal. Shirley Jump

he remember her?

      Before he could give it another thought, Barbara piped in. “I guess the rumors aren’t true, then.”

      “And what rumors are those?”

      “That you’re becoming…well, to put it plainly,” she gave a little giggle, “a recluse, pouring everything into your shop.” She shook her head, as if Katie’s life were the saddest thing she’d ever encountered. “But after that, ah, very public display, I guess you have moved on. Why don’t you introduce us to this new man in your life?”

      “Matt Webster, my…my fiancé.”

      Matt swallowed. Engaged? This game was going too far for his tastes. Pretending to be a lover, now that he could do. And do very well. Pretending to be a future husband was way over the top. He needed to get out of here before he was saddled with an imaginary family and a St. Bernard.

      “He is? You are?” Barbara didn’t look as though she believed Katie’s story. Matt saw a flare of jealousy in Barbara’s gaze as it darted between Katie and Matt. “Well, I’m happy for you.”

      “Are you?”

      “Well, sure.” But the blonde didn’t sound happy at all. Maybe she was the type who stole her friend’s Barbies because they seemed nicer than her own. The grass, he’d found, was always greener when you looked at it with envy-colored eyes. Barbara turned to go, tugging Stevie Boy along with her.

      “Oh, Barbara?” Katie called.

      The blonde pivoted back. “What?”

      “Make sure you have a ride home from the church. In case you’re the only one who shows up.”

      Even though she knew it was spiteful, Katie took a small measure of satisfaction in Barbara’s gasp and reddened face, mirrored by the nearby jars of spaghetti sauce. Barbara yanked Steve down the aisle, striding fast and furious toward the exit.

      When they were gone, Katie let out a deep breath. What a way to change her image. Maul a stranger and then pretend she was engaged to him. In a town like Mercy, that kind of behavior was going to start a lot of talk. Talk that could get blown out of proportion, and set off a renewed stream of gossip. Had she made a mistake?

      She was almost afraid to face Matt. Even though he’d gone along with her charade, he might not find the aftermath amusing.

      Apparently a lot of other people did, Katie realized. Every minute of the exchange had been witnessed by a throng of people who had gathered at either end of the aisle. A half dozen shocked faces peeked around the spaghetti and ravioli, drinking in the sight of staid, predictable Katie Dole exchanging much more than pleasantries with a stranger and battling with her former bridesmaid beside the Chef Boyardee.

      Alice Marchand, Katie’s eighty-year-old neighbor, marched down the aisle. “Good for you, dear.” She patted Katie’s arm. “That Spencer boy and his floozy deserved every bit of that after what they did to you. Why, in my day, if a man left a woman at the altar, her daddy would get his shotgun and—”

      “I’m sure my daddy considered that.” Katie laughed.

      “And you, young man, who are you?” Miss Marchand, the toughest biology teacher ever to educate at Mercy High, lowered her spectacles and bent closer.

      “Matthew Webster, ma’am.”

      She didn’t look surprised. “Georgianne and Edward’s boy?”

      Matt nodded. So he was definitely the Matt Webster, Katie thought. Funny, he didn’t look like a wild child. She couldn’t imagine him married to Olivia, either. She seemed too…arctic and polished.

      “You have a lot of gumption to come back. But it’s good to see you home, where you belong.” Miss Marchand nodded.

      “Thank you, ma’am. I’m back for good,” Matt said.

      But that statement only started the crowd’s titterings up again. “I think that’s my cue to go, before they decide to lynch me,” he said with a dry, bitter laugh. Then he took Katie’s hand and brought it to his lips. When he kissed it, his gaze never left hers. The air between them crackled with sensuality and promise. “It was a pleasure to meet you. I do hope I see you again, Mystery Woman, and finish what we started. Soon.”

      Then he was gone, striding past the gaping townspeople, leaving Katie with a smile on her lips and a burning curiosity to know more about Matthew Webster.

      Tools and parts were spread around Matt in an ever-multiplying circle as he dismantled his motorcycle and began the tedious repair job. His midnight-blue Chevy SS convertible, which had patiently waited under a tarp for the past eleven years, had miraculously started this afternoon. Someone had taken it in for service. The telltale sticker on the windshield said the Chevy had been in for an oil change two weeks ago.

      Matt figured his mother had taken care of the car, though he couldn’t quite see her ordering up the lube special. Either way, the pampered auto had started easily, saving him from having to ask to borrow his father’s Mercedes. He was back, but he wasn’t up for a confrontation. Not yet. Using the motorcycle as an excuse, he’d taken a quick shower, avoiding his father, and then run into town for the parts he needed.

      And run into one hell of an interesting woman, he mused, recalling her impetuousness and her kiss. She’d been hot and sweet at the same time, like the fireballs he’d eaten as a kid. He imagined drawing her closer, taking her into his arms, lowering the straps of her tank top down her shoulders, over the swell of her breasts….

      The socket wrench slipped from his fingers and tumbled into his lap. Throbbing pain brought a quick halt to his fantasy.

      He took a deep breath, trying to block the searing pain and focus on the motorcycle, not the girl. It wasn’t easy. The fluid lines of the bike, the butter-softness of the leather seat, the sleek metal curves, all had him picturing the stranger named Katie and imagining her on the bike wearing nothing more than a smile.

      This time, he managed to catch the wrench before it rendered him impotent.

      “Matt, you’re home!” His mother rounded the corner and entered the garage, a basket of freshly clipped yellow tulips in her hands. Georgianne Webster, her ash-blond hair in slight disarray from her trip to the garden, stood in the shadowed entryway clutching the basket like a lifeline, looking unsure.

      “Hello, Mom.” He scrambled to his feet and grabbed a rag. He wiped his hands several times, avoiding her gaze. After eleven years of nothing but letters, he felt self-conscious, clumsy.

      “I saw you take the Chevy out earlier,” she said.

      “It started right up,” he said. “Thank you for taking care of it and getting the oil changed.”

      “I didn’t do that, Matt. Your father did.”

      “Oh.” He let that thought digest for a minute. He grabbed the bouquet, thrusting the flowers at her. “These are for you. I know roses are your favorites and because it’s April, yours won’t be blooming for two more months…” he shrugged. “Anyway, I thought they’d cheer you up a little, since you’ve been so worried about Father.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

      When the familiar scent of her hit his senses, the full impact of how long he’d been gone slammed into him. He swallowed several times to get rid of the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat before he started acting like a blubbering idiot.

      Without thinking, he drew his mother to him. The move popped the tension like a balloon burst by a pin. The basket clattered to the ground and she enfolded him in a fierce hug, not even noticing the flowers crushed between them.

      “Oh Matthew, we’ve missed you,” she whispered. Then she leaned back, cupping his face in her soft hands and studying him, as if searching for the Matt she knew. Tears trickled down her cheeks, tiny lines of emotion marring her makeup.

      The feeling of home, of belonging, surged through him. That damned lump forced