Bought: One Bride. Miranda Lee

with the creep. She’d just been fooled by his flattering ways. He was a charmer, was Dave.

      A sales rep for a company that made cheap cards, he’d talked her into stocking his entire range within five minutes of walking into the shop. Talked himself into her life and her bed a week later.

      Not that he was all that good in bed. But then, neither was she.

      Dave had insisted she was, of course. He’d never stopped paying her compliments. Holly had come to the somewhat depressing conclusion since the demise of their relationship that he’d probably lied to her about everything, but especially that.

      The man was a liar and a louse. Lots of men were these days.

      But not this man, she thought as Richard Crawford looked up from the final desk drawer in triumph, a pair of scissors in his left hand. He was a man of honour. And depth. According to his mother, he hadn’t even looked at another woman since his wife’s death. What Holly wouldn’t give to be loved the way he’d loved his wife.

      “Thought I’d never find the darned things,” he said as he rejoined her in the hallway. “The kitchen’s down here,” he added, then took her elbow again.

      Holly shivered when another jolt of electricity shot up her arm, the same as the first time.

      “It’s cool inside these old houses, isn’t it?” he said, thankfully misinterpreting her reaction as he ushered her down the hallway.

      “Very,” she agreed. But she didn’t feel cool. Suddenly, she felt very warm indeed.

      “Your mother didn’t say you were staying with her,” she began babbling again. “That’s why I was so surprised when you answered the door.”

      “Just popped in to visit for the weekend,” he explained, steering her into a large, homey kitchen with a dark slate floor and lots of pale wooden benchtops. “Didn’t know Mum would be going out. Mmm, I wonder where she keeps the vases?” he said, stopping in the middle of the room to survey the U-shaped array of cupboards. “You wouldn’t happen to know, would you?”

      Holly tried to will her heart to slow down. Useless exercise. It kept pounding away behind her ribs, regardless.

      “Sorry,” she said with a stiff little smile. “I’ve delivered flowers here before, but I’ve never been inside. I’ll just put these in the sink and help you look.”

      “Good idea.”

      She was still half filling the smaller of the two sinks with water when he said, “Bingo! Vases galore down in here!”

      Snapping off the tap, she turned to find him hunched down in front of one of the lower cupboards, the fine wool of his grey trousers stretched tight across his buttocks and thighs. His shirt was having a similar problem as it tried to house his broad shoulders and back.

      Holly swallowed. This was crazy. She’d never been the sort of girl to ogle men’s bodies. She’d never cared if her past boyfriends had muscles or not. She’d once filled in a survey in a women’s magazine asking what it was that first attracted her to a man and she’d put eyes. Dave had had twinkly blue eyes to go with his winning smiles.

      This memory had just entered her head when Richard Crawford’s head turned and two wintry grey eyes lifted to hers.

      A strangely erotic shiver ran deep inside her.

      “Plenty of different sizes here,” he said. “What do you prefer?”

      It was testimony to her shocking state of mind that her thoughts immediately jumped to the size, not of the various vases on offer, but of the part of his anatomy that was thankfully hidden by his squatting position.

      “I’ll have that glass one there on the right,” she said. How she didn’t blush when he handed it to her, she had no idea.

      Actually arranging the flowers was a blessing. She could concentrate on what she did best, and not even look at him as he busied himself making some truly mouth-watering coffee. Not the instant kind. The kind that percolated.

      Unfortunately, he finished his job first, after which he settled on one of the kitchen stools to watch her work. She knew it was probably her over-heated imagination, but Holly could have sworn his eyes were more on her than the flowers.

      “You really are good at that,” he said.

      “It’s my job,” she returned, pleased to hear her voice didn’t betray her inner turmoil.

      “Have you always worked with flowers?”

      “All my life. My dad was a florist. He trained me.”

      “Was?”

      “He died just over two years back. A stroke.”

      “I’m sorry. That must have been tough on you and your family.”

      “My mother’s dead too,” she told him. “She died when I was just a toddler. But Dad married again when I was sixteen. I have a stepmother and a stepsister, Katie, who’s two years younger than I am.”

      Holly refrained from blurting out that both females were wicked witches, especially Katie. She didn’t want to sound like a whinger. She’d cried out her sob story to his mother, though, when she’d come into the shop one day, soon after Dave had dumped her.

      “How old are you?” he asked.

      “What? Oh, I’m twenty-six.”

      “That young,” he said in a way that indicated he had thought her older.

      Holly’s already battered self-esteem took this added blow quite badly. All of a sudden, tears welled up in her eyes. Thank God she wasn’t facing his way, giving her the opportunity to blink them away and gather herself once more.

      But the incident put a stop to her foolishly getting excited at being alone with Richard Crawford. Which she had been. No use pretending she hadn’t. She’d been thinking all sorts of silly things in the back of her head, such as he’d been looking at her with admiration and asking her questions because he was attracted to her.

      God, she was laughable. If and when Richard Crawford started dating again, it would be with a woman like his wife. A sophisticated stunner. Holly had seen a framed photo of Joanna Crawford at the funeral. Talk about gorgeous! She’d also been supersmart. A literary agent, working for an international publisher whose head office was in New York. Mrs Crawford senior had told Holly all about her daughter-in-law-to-be when she’d dropped into the shop to select a mother-of-the-groom corsage the day before the wedding.

      What interest could Richard Crawford possibly have in a simple girl who arranged flowers for a living, was passably attractive at best and had never been further from Sydney than the Central Coast?