style="font-size:15px;"> 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 leaned closer to murmur, “I think it’s best if you don’t mention I’m here.”
She winked conspiratorially. “Gotcha. The boss’d have my head if she knew. She’s got enough to do without beheading me. Besides, I really, really want that dripping to stop. The last two nights it drove me bonkers.”
“You could hear it all the way upstairs?”
Her grin wrinkled her nose. “I have the ears of a bat.”
The doorbell chimed. “Ruthie! What are you doing in there? Please, get the door.”
The redheaded assistant made a face, mouthing, “Duty calls.” She hurried around the corner. “On my way, boss.”
Cole turned to his work. During the next fifteen minutes, he slowly, soundlessly replaced the washer, his attention focused more on the interview in the living room than on the repair job. He couldn’t make out every word, but what he did hear he found difficult to believe.
It sounded as though Miss Sancroft was interviewing for a husband. Finished with the repair, he laid the flats of his hands on the cool granite and shook his head, strangely disappointed. He wasn’t surprised by much, but that surprised him. He had a hard time restraining his irritation. Why in the name of all that was nuts in the world, would she resort to such a stupid, sterile plan? With eyes like hers? And those lips! Surely some of the men she’d dated would have looked past her drab, frumpish clothes and seen—
“Well—thank you for your time, Mr. Robertson.”
Cole glanced over his shoulder. Miss Sultry-lips sounded closer.
“It was—interesting,” the man said with a tense laugh. “Goodbye, Ms. Sancroft. Good luck.”
“Thank you for coming.”
Cole heard the door close, then silence.
“When’s the next appointment, Ruthie?”
“Not for fifteen or twenty minutes. He called to say his flight had been delayed.”
“Thank heaven.” Cole heard her sigh. “I need a break. I think I’ll have a health nut bar and a cup of instant—” She rounded the corner into the kitchen. Her sentence and her forward movement ended when she saw him. Outrage transformed her features. “You!”
He shifted to fully face her and lounged against the counter. Crossing his arms over his bare chest, he eyed her critically. She wore a white blouse with long sleeves and a high, Puritan neckline. Her shapeless, gray skirt hit her midknee. Between the skirt hem and her sensible pumps, he saw slender, attractive legs that could be shown off to better advantage.
She wore her hair slicked back the same, sexless way she’d worn it on Saturday. Even so, the extremely unattractive style couldn’t quite make her plain. Her vivid, jade eyes, full lips and great bone structure were difficult to spoil, no matter how hard she might try. He wondered why she was trying so hard.
The stillness crackled with tension. Cole was unaccustomed to being glared at by women. He ignored the prickle of irritation and eyed her without smiling. “Afternoon.”
His chilly greeting seemed to revive her from her paralysis and she threw him a stiff-armed point. “You are not supposed to be in here.”
Another thing Cole was unaccustomed to was being told he wasn’t supposed to be somewhere. His irritation billowed, but he didn’t let it show. “I didn’t make noise.”
She gasped. “You—that’s not the point! You were not supposed to come inside during my interviews! I specifically ordered you not to!”
He stared for a count of ten. During the stretched-out silence she exhaled with agitation, plainly upset by his dawdling to get on with his groveling and apologizing. Well, she’d have a long wait.
“I don’t take orders well,” he said, then turned away, dismissing her with body language. Hefting his toolbox he strode around the eating bar toward the rear door. With his hand on the knob, he halted and glanced back. “Why in Hades are you interviewing for a husband?”
Her mouth dropped open at his bluntness. “Get out!” she demanded, her
