capitalist. Ordinarily women fawned over him, cooing, petting and fluttering lashes. So far, from this female, he hadn’t detected a single coo or flutter.
She surprised him by sticking out a hand, apparently expecting him to take it. “I’m Jennifer Sancroft.”
Something about that name nudged his memory. Jennifer Sancroft. Why did that name seem familiar? He closed his eyes for a moment, too tired and annoyed to worry about it. It would come to him. Since she was renting the corporate property, she had to work for one of his companies, or one of his father’s that he’d just taken over. He’d no doubt heard it in a business reference.
For some unfathomable reason—possibly the insidious influence of those sensual lips—he took her hand in his. Her skin was cool, as he’d expected, her handshake firm. “How do you do, Miss Sancroft,” he said, his tone wholly unwelcoming.
“How do you know it’s Miss?” she asked, her features quizzical.
He couldn’t contain the amused twitch of his lips. Was she kidding? “Just a guess.”
Her cheeks flushed. She’d caught his sarcasm. Tugging her fingers from his, she lifted her shoulders. Any more attempts to be intimidatingly tall and her sensible brown pumps would lift off the ground. “Well…” She backed up another step. “I’ll go get unpacked.” She pivoted away, retreating across the lawn.
He watched her go, aggravation twisting his gut. Now that he could no longer be affected by those cupid’s-bow lips and unconsciously sexy eyes, he willed her to walk to the car, slide in and disappear.
When she reached her vehicle, she popped the trunk and pulled out a suitcase. Cole gritted out an oath. So much for his telepathic powers.
Ruthie flung open the front door as her boss approached. “So, is he leaving on Sunday?” Her expression more worried than hopeful, she hurried off the covered porch and grabbed one of the bags. Married or not, the look on Ruthie’s face made it clear she’d be happy to have Mr. Eye-Candy hang around for the whole three weeks.
Jen heaved a sigh, mounting the two steps to the columned colonial porch. “He’s not leaving.” Once inside, she set down her suitcase and looked around absently. “He seemed—reluctant—to change his plans. I said he could stay.” The ugly truth, that “reluctant” was a mild description of his attitude, remained Jen’s secret. Her assistant didn’t need to know she hadn’t graciously allowed the handyman to stay on out of the goodness of her heart.
“Excellent!” Ruthie’s expression brightened. “We need a good view around here.”
“The 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,
