Bridegroom On Her Doorstep. Renee Roszel

Gulf of Mexico is practically in the backyard.”

      Ruthie waved that off as insignificant. “No offense, boss, but you’d think considering why you’re here, you’d be more interested in looking at men.”

      Jen ignored her assistant’s gibe. “Yes, well—this is more of a partnership than a—a—physical attraction match.” She didn’t like Ruthie’s doubtful expression. “There’s no logical reason why I can’t find a perfectly respectable husband this way. Compatibility and common interests are very important. Why, my own parents—”

      “I know, boss,” Ruthie cut in, her tone pensive, almost pitying. “Your parents are a great team—with mutual goals. A great example of a sensible union.”

      “Don’t forget, I know all about the treacherousness of blind devotion,” she said, a knee-jerk defense.

      Ruthie nodded, looking sad. “Tony.” Her rueful gaze met her boss’s. “I know. Remember, I was your assistant when he broke your heart. But I think it’s wrong to give up on love because of one jerk.”

      “I’m not giving up on love.” Jen was weary of trying to get Ruthie to understand.

      “Sure, boss,” Ruthie mumbled. “You think love can grow if two compatible people work at it.” She couldn’t make it plainer she wasn’t one hundred percent on board with Jen’s theory.

      Refusing to defend her rationale again, Jen clamped her jaws. She’d made it abundantly clear why she’d decided to find a husband in such an unorthodox way.

      Jen felt fortunate her assistant was accustomed to keeping her own counsel and wouldn’t gossip about Jen’s so-called “vacation.” Everybody else at the accounting firm thought Jen was getting quietly married and on her honeymoon. All but Ruthie. Looking at her dubious expression, if there had been any way Jen could have handled this husband hunt alone, she would have.

      “Well, at least the place is nice.” Ruthie’s remark drew Jen from her mental wanderings. Indicating a staircase at the end of the wide entry, her assistant went on. “That leads up to the bedrooms. Naturally, you’ll want the master. There’s a guest room right across the head of the stairs for me.”

      Jen cast a glance at the staircase. A landing, halfway up, caught her eye. A tall window in the back wall revealed a cloudless sky. “Mm-hmm. Bedroom,” she mumbled.

      “I figured we could set up interviews at the dining table here.” Ruthie indicated the formal dining room to the left of the entry. A carved oak china cabinet dominated the wall behind a glass-topped table. Jen noted the table’s base looked like four columns set into a central pedestal. The massive base had been created from some kind of light-colored stone. The table wasn’t huge, but it looked to be about six feet square. Two elegant chairs made of light wood stood on each of the four sides.

      “Unless you’d rather interview over there.” Ruthie indicated a location behind Jen and she turned to view the sprawling living room. A fireplace with a white, marble surround dominated the far end. Though situated on the north of the house, three tall windows let in plenty of light.

      Decor in pale pastels helped keep the room airy and light. Sheer window treatments swagged and swooped and puddled attractively. While not so sheer as to prevent a degree of privacy, they allowed in diffused sunlight. Strategically located in massive ceramic pots, scatterings of green foliage enlivened the space. The pale hues and muted radiance of the room reminded Jen of a certain pair of eyes.

      “Pretty,” Ruthie murmured, coming up beside her boss.

      “Yes, he is.”

      “Huh?” Ruthie’s skeptical query yanked Jen from her musings. “I was talking about the house, not the hunk.”

      Jen had a bad feeling she’d said something she hadn’t meant to say—and would deny to her dying day. “So was I—talking about the house!” She made sure neither her tone nor her expression allowed room for argument. She had enough to deal with without entering into a debate over whether she suffered from some daft fixation for a certain arrogant handyman.

      CHAPTER TWO

      COLE couldn’t help noticing the prissy little gate-crasher kept her distance for the remainder of the weekend. The other one, the freckled one with the barking laugh, was more sociable. She waved greetings whenever their paths happened to cross. The frosty one, the one he’d dubbed Miss Priss, stayed inside. That was too bad. Not that he had any desire to see her. It wasn’t that. It was just that she was pale. Walking on the beach, catching a few rays, would do her some good.

      Monday morning, as he headed out of the surf after an energizing swim, he noticed a strange car in the drive. Toweling his hair, he wondered what kind of interviews these two women were holding. He shrugged it off. What in blazes did he care? He had things to do.

      Even though Cole worked hard on his disinterest, he couldn’t help noticing that every half hour a car pulled into the drive as the previous one drove away. Around two in the afternoon, he decided to trim dead limbs high in a live oak near the front of the house.

      From up there he had an excellent view of the driveway. The sound of tires crunching over gravel caught his attention as one car drove off and another arrived. A thin, balding man in a chocolate-brown suit stepped out of the ebony compact. It occurred to Cole that not once today had he seen a woman arrive. All visitors had been men in three-piece suits. Most carried briefcases.

      Cole had a healthy curiosity, but he wasn’t nosy. Nevertheless, every time a car pulled up and another man got out, he couldn’t help but wonder what was going on inside the residence.

      At four, he finished the tree trimming and climbed down. Aggravated with himself for this weird preoccupation with the goings-on in the main house, he grabbed up his toolbox. He had to know what those females were up to. Miss Priss had made it plain she didn’t want him banging around inside the house. But the leaky kitchen faucet required nothing noisy, only a washer. He could do that very quietly.

      He headed around the rear of the house and bounded up the eight wooden steps to the expansive, covered deck. With as little noise as possible, he slipped inside the back door that led into a rustic den and open kitchen. This was his favorite place in the big house. Less formal than the front rooms, its leather furniture and American-Indian decor was more to his taste. Instead of carpeting, the floor consisted of wide oak planking. The fireplace was constructed of stone instead of marble. Though he enjoyed staying in the cottage on these solitary visits, preferring its rustic intimacy, the big house brought back fond memories.

      He ambled around the green- and gold-flecked granite eating bar separating the kitchen from the den, and set his toolbox on the stone countertop. Metal against granite clanked and he grimaced. So much for being quiet. He heard shuffling and turned. Little Ms. Freckle-face peered around the door frame from the entry hallway. Her concerned expression opened in a grin, and she whispered, “Oh, I thought you were a burglar.”

      He gave her a skeptical once-over. “What would you have done if I were?”

      “Kicked you to heck-and-gone, handsome.” She entered the kitchen and leaned against the counter nearest the doorway. “I was a sergeant in the Marines. Covert Ops. If I wanted to I could drop you where you stand.”

      He grinned. “Are you flirting with me?”

      Laughing, she held up her left hand to show him her wedding set. “No—but it crossed my mind.”

      “Ruthie?” Miss Priss called from the living room. “The next candidate just drove up.”

      “So your name’s Ruthie?” Cole kept his voice low enough so he couldn’t be heard outside the kitchen.

      “Ruthie Tuttle.” She headed toward him, hand outstretched. “And the boss tells me you’re Cole Noone,” she whispered. “Nice to officially meet you, Noone.”

      He took her hand and