A Hopeful Heart and A Home, a Heart, A Husband. Lois Richer

      When Mitch handed her the steaming cup, his fingers brushed hers, and Melanie felt the sparks his touch always caused in her body. She watched as his intelligent blue eyes studied her face carefully before he sank into a chair.

      “Okay,” he began, dark eyes probing hers. “I know my timing stinks, but I guess the best way to tell you this is to just get it over with.”

      Melanie watched his chest expand as he sucked in a lungful of air. A wave of foreboding hung over her. What now, she wondered.

      He began.

      “A rep from Papa John’s was in to the office to see me today.” His blue eyes bored into her. “From what I understand, they were also here to see you,” he told her sourly. “Apparently they have come to some decision regarding their grand prize.” Mitch’s face was flushed, and he fidgeted in his chair uncomfortably.

      “Say it,” she ordered, gripping the armrests. When he didn’t speak, she answered for herself. “I don’t win, do I?”

      “Melanie, just listen to me for—”

      She ignored his pleading. All her grand ideas, all her plans. She felt her dreams dissolving around her.

      “I thought it was probably too good to be true. After all, I don’t even use their product. How could I possibly endorse it?” She turned to him, eyes glittering. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

      “Melanie, can you be quiet for once?” The usually calm, deep voice was hard and strident. “Just let me speak, would you?”

      Pursing her lips, Melanie leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. Her soft curls flopped across her cheek, but she was too angry to notice.

      Mitch, however, noticed. He noticed only too well.

      Thoughts of their evening together flooded his mind until he could almost feel her in his arms, feel her silky hair against his cheek, taste her soft mouth.

      Shaking his head sharply, Mitch ignored the heat that was building in his brain and forced himself to concentrate on getting this right. It would not be easy.

      “Melanie, they have both our entries now. And the home address you put on yours seems to be my apartment. Number 108. The winner lives at number 108.” He waited for her to assimilate the information. When she said nothing, he tried again.

      “I said—”

      She stopped him immediately.

      “I’m not a child, Mitch. I know what it means. It means I don’t win, right?”

      Her reddish gold head was tilted to the sun. As he watched, a single tear trickled from the corner of her eye.

      “Not exactly,” he told her.

      She studied him curiously, intrigued by his mysterious manner. When he said nothing, she punched him lightly on the shoulder.

      “Explain.” She gave the command with all the imperious demands of royalty. He smiled at her dictatorial tone.

      “I, er, I kind of told them that we lived in the same building. That, uh, we were roommates. Well, almost.”

      Mitchel Stewart had never seen anyone move that fast. In microseconds she was standing over him, hands on her hips as she glared at him.

      “You…you fibber! You cheat! You liar!” Then she stopped. Her huge green eyes blinked twice before crinkling in puzzlement. “Why?”

      “It seems that my contest entry has no apartment number on it. My name, however, is on the lease for apartment 108.”

      “And?” Melanie was completely puzzled by his strange attitude.

      “Well, your name does not appear on any lease. Just Shawna’s.” He met her glittering gaze squarely. “And there is no phone number listed in your name.”

      “I know that. I only moved in after another of her roommates was married. We share the phone bill.” It was clear to Mitch that Melanie didn’t understand what he was telling her.

      “But your entry says you live in my apartment. If you are not in fact living in apartment 108, your entry is null and void because you have misrepresented yourself.”

      He watched her absorb the information. Her small hands rested idly on his shoulders as she thought.

      “How do you know this?” she demanded.

      “I’m a lawyer, remember? Corporate law. Well,” he said smugly, “I asked this rep guy for a copy of their contest rules.”

      He waited for her approval. In vain. Melanie merely glared at him. “And?”

      “They must award the prize if we can both be shown to be living in apartment 108.” As dismay flooded her beautiful face, Mitch quickly changed his wording. “That is, if you and I are both living in apartment 108.”

      He was triumphantly pleased with himself. Mitchel had made it his business to find out about Melanie Stewart in the past few days, and he could understand how badly she needed that money. Sunset Retirement Home was an under-funded, overworked nursing home that was following the patterns of business all over the world by cutting back.

      Several of his golfing buddies had relayed horror stories about the place before Melanie had taken over, and Mitchel found out she was well respected in her field. The simple, humanitarian changes she had wrought in her tenure as director of care had resulted in Sunset becoming one of the choice locations for those requiring the services they provided.

      At the same time, he had watched her surreptitiously with a number of her clients. Melanie was unfailingly polite and courteous with everyone, but her seniors seemed her closest friends. Even Mrs. Strange had spoken glowingly of Melanie’s special interest in each resident’s needs.

      “Don’t you see?” he demanded, anxious for her to understand his contribution in all this. “If you move some of your stuff to my spare room and stay there for a few nights, they’ll know you’re living there, and you’ll get your share of the money.”

      She looked as if he had hit her with a Mack truck, Mitch decided. The color was coming back to her face, but he didn’t think that was a good sign. Mostly due to the sharp fingernails digging into his shoulder blades.

      He lifted her hands away, careful to keep the lethal pink nails far from his eyes. She looked steamed, and with her temper, she would probably scratch his eyes out.

      “Let go of me, you lecherous, manipulating, overbearing…” As the stream of vitriolic descriptives flowed from her soft peach lips, Mitch twisted her arms behind her back.

      He disliked using force, but he wanted to preserve the skin on his face, as well. He let her blow off steam, but when she had not stopped a few moments later, his temper peaked.

      Using the method he most favored, Mitch pulled her stiff, unyielding body close and pressed his lips against hers, stemming the tide of outrage. And he kept kissing her even when she stopped fighting him. Only when she finally started kissing him back did he pull away.

      Women! Why didn’t he smarten up? Surely after Sam’s dirty tricks, he should be prepared for the way they operated.

      “Listen, Ms. Stewart. I don’t need a roommate so badly that I would go to these extremes. I’ve told you before, I don’t intend to get married. Not now. Maybe not ever.”

      Mitch let go of her arms and stood back, furious that he had allowed himself to become so involved in someone else’s affairs. That’s what he got for trying to help!

      “You know,” he added, upset with himself for the stupid idea that had streaked into his head an hour ago, “I can use twenty-five grand for a few little schemes of my own. You’re not the only person who has things to do, people you want to help out. And if you back out now, they will redraw the names.” Mitch’s dark eyes glared at her accusingly. “I’ll lose out altogether because of your mistake.” He