Love's Nine Lives. Cara/Cassidy Colter/Caron

he muttered, but kissed his fantasy of an evening with her kneecaps goodbye. Tea? If the offer had been for a beer or, better yet, a whiskey, there might have been hope, but he could see there was not. She was not his kind of woman.

      While she busied herself in the kitchen, he reviewed a two-page letter that invited him to study the Statement of Work—in brackets, SOW—for the installation of a Cat Door and Yard Fence and then sign the Contract for Work (COW) if he was in agreement with the SOW.

      With growing consternation he studied her invitation. Lettered from A to I, she required a firm price, payment schedules, commencement dates and completion dates, warranties of workmanship and materials, proof of insurance, four references and any other information he felt might be pertinent.

      He listened to the kettle whistle in the kitchen, eyed the door, thought of Fred and took a deep breath. He opened page one of her twelve-page Statement of Work.

      On page three he got it suddenly. He peeked up from the document and saw her in her kitchen arranging cookies on a plate.

      He slid a look around the living room. There had to be a hidden camera somewhere. The guys loved a practical joke, and this was a good one. Imagine them roping Fred into playing a part in getting him here. Pure genius, that one. This probably wasn’t even her house. She was an actress, maybe even a professional one, though Justin wasn’t sure how you went about finding someone like that in Hunter’s Corner. He decided he’d play along until she said, “Smile, you’re on…”

      She came back in with a silver tea tray and set it on the coffee table. The teacups looked as though they held about a thimbleful of tea, which suited Justin just fine. He wasn’t much of a tea drinker. He watched, reluctantly fascinated, as she poured. He didn’t think the queen could do it any better.

      “Have you had a chance to look things over?” she asked eagerly, passing him a cup and a saucer. When he took it, the tea sloshed out of the cup. The cup was flimsy, as if it was looking for an excuse to shatter, and his fingers did not fit through the wispy little handles the way hers did. He could only hope it was a prop.

      “This is a complicated job,” he said solemnly. He took a sip of tea and tried not to wince at the bitter, weedy flavor, since he was sure that would entertain the guys more when they reviewed their videotape. He set the cup down, locked his hands together and leaned intently toward Bridget.

      “You probably didn’t know that the construction of the door affects the integrity of the structure of the house. It won’t be cheap.”

      “That’s what I thought,” she said sadly.

      God, she was good. The guys must have the tape running. He hoped so. Because he planned to have the last laugh when they all looked at it together later.

      “For instance, this—” he flipped randomly to page four of the SOW “—about R28 insulation? That would make the depth of the cat door at least eight inches. And heavy. Not even Mr. Hefty over there could push it open.”

      “Mr. Hefty?” she said. Her voice had a little squeak in it that seemed quite genuine and her eyes sparked with indignation that looked real.

      “Not to worry,” he assured her. “All problems are surmountable. We’d have to install an electronic opener.”

      “For a cat door?”

      “Well, you’re the one who specified R28,” he pointed out not unkindly, playing to the camera that he just knew was in here somewhere.

      “I didn’t realize that would make the door quite so cumbersome,” she admitted.

      She talked like a girl with a college education. Yeah, majoring in drama. She was frowning and looking anxious.

      Playing it perfectly. And the Academy Award goes to…

      He ignored the distressed look and flipped to another page of the SOW. “And this part here, about preventing rodent infestation? You have to take it further than that. You have to think of skunks and raccoons. Even a small break-and-enter artist—one of those young kids who hang around the park at night—might be able to squeeze through.”

      “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said nervously.

      “No, ma’am. I can see that. Twelve pages of SOW and you missed the obvious. Luckily I have a solution.”

      “You do?” she said hopefully.

      “Yes, ma’am. I think we could rig a computer system that identifies your cat, and your cat only, by his nose print.”

      She went very still. Comprehension dawned in her eyes. After a long time she said very softly, “Are you making fun of me, Mr. West?”

      “Hell, yeah!” She winced when he said hell. “The game’s up. I know the guys put you up to this. A twelve-page prospectus for a cat door! Ha-ha.”

      He slapped his knee, but noticed uncomfortably that Miss Bridget Daisy was not laughing.

      Chapter Two

      Bridget stared at the big man, and she was struck again by how his big, powerful hand was making her teacup—a lovely Royal Doulton that she had inherited from her grandmother—look like a toy.

      He was having the same effect on her sofa. With his huge frame jammed into the corner of it, a sofa she had always been perfectly content with suddenly seemed as though it belonged in a dollhouse.

      In fact, Justin West, in the short time he had been there, was having the unfortunate and powerful effect of making it seem as if her whole life was make-believe, as if she had been playing with toys and imaginary friends and here was the real thing.

      Justin West was real, all right. The man was one hundred per cent real—huge, handsome and infuriatingly male. She had felt addled from the moment she had opened the door, looked way up and seen him push his fingers through the chocolate silk of his hair. His eyes had been absolutely mesmerizing—a mix of gold and green, with a light burning in them that even she could see was frank male appreciation.

      That light said Justin didn’t see her as little Miss Librarian, despite the severity of her hairdo and the straight lines of her skirt. Somehow he had seen through all that as if it was nothing more than a disguise—a role she played. He had seen her as a woman, and something shockingly primal in her had answered back.

      Oh, not in words, thank God. In awareness. She had felt as though she sat on her edge of the couch practically quivering with nervous awareness—the easy play of his muscles; his scent, wild and intoxicating as high mountain meadows; the light in his eyes; the husky, deep sensuality of his voice.

      Which was dreadful, of course. Because it went without saying that Justin West was the kind of man she absolutely loathed: full of himself, sure of his own attractions, shallow as a mud puddle. He would be just like all those athletic boys in high school and college who had known she was alive only long enough to poke fun at her. Justin West was one of the happy heathens of Hunter’s Corner.

      Any small and secret hope that he might be different somehow than the other redneck men of this town were dashed. If Justin was really different she would have seen him at the library where the more refined citizens tended to gather. And she had never seen this man in her library.

      This man thought the cat door was some sort of joke. He was making fun of her, just the way all those handsome, cocky boys in high school and beyond had always made fun of her.

      Miss Priss. Four-Eyes. Brainiac.

      As if there was something shameful about being smart. The painful taunts came back as though he had uttered them…and so did her feeling of helpless fury, not that she would ever allow him to see it. In her experience, showing vulnerability only made things worse.

      With as much dignity as she could muster she said, “I don’t know what guys you are talking about, Mr. West.”

      “Probably Harry