Secret Admirer: Secret Kisses / Hidden Hearts / Dream Marriage

“Even you?” he asked.

She felt her face heat. She was sure she was blushing, which was even better for his ego than actually telling him he’d been terrific.

“Did anybody ever tell you, you’re way too conceited, Harper?”

“Just you.”

She got up and began gathering her books and reports noisily.

“Darlin’, are you going to hate me forever?”

“I—I don’t hate you.”

“Well, that’s a start.”

“Just leave me alone. Okay?”

“What if it’s not okay?”

“Don’t be too sure you’ve got the promotion, Harper. Not until it’s announced.”

When she walked toward the door, he stepped in front of her. “Is that all you care about? This morning I thought that maybe…” When he swallowed, she thought he looked human, too human; hurt even, and it bothered her. A lot.

She swallowed, too. “Don’t think about this morning. And don’t brag to anybody about that kiss either.”

“Kisses. Plural. And I think we need a repeat.”

“Don’t even think about it, Harper.”

He grabbed her. “What if I can’t stop thinking about it, darlin’, any more than you can?”

Slowly he removed her glasses. When his mouth touched hers, she melted into his big body. Then it was all over but the kissing—long passionate, drowning kisses, which didn’t stop until she was wet and feverish, and he was shaking violently.

When he finally let her come up for air, her legs were wobbly, and she was reeling. Somehow she managed to say in a chilly tone, “This has got to stop, Harper.”

“You could have fooled me.”

He calmly picked up her glasses and handed them to her.

She shoved them onto the bridge of her nose. Then she grabbed her purse and briefcase and walked toward the door. She didn’t look back.

She didn’t dare look back.

Chapter 6

Wednesday evening

Jane seethed as she swallowed a nervous breath against the panic that threatened to overpower her. She tilted her chin upward, fighting not to glance at Matt, who was surrounded by kids and their mothers, all wanting to buy tickets to his armadillo races and chicken-flying contests.

Harper was good. What was the use of even trying to compete with him? He could beat her with both his hands tied behind his back. Once again he’d proved that her hard work and discipline and careful planning were nothing against his gut instinct, common touch and savvy charisma. While he was too busy to believe manning his armadillo races and chicken-flying contests, she’d hardly sold a pie. Anytime he had a free second, he strode up and down among the throng hawking his wares.

She clicked her nails against the counter and tried not to feel bored or depressed at her failures or resent the excellent job Matt and his brother, Jerry Keith, had done building booths for her under the bleachers of the baseball stadium. They’d worked cheerfully until nearly 2:00 a.m. last night. Even though Matt had been exhausted, he’d insisted on following her home, which was out of his way.

“Just to make sure you get there safely,” he’d said.

“Like you really think there might be a criminal lurking behind every mesquite tree and cactus bush,” she’d replied.

“Is it a major crime I want to protect you?” His handsome face had been touchingly earnest as she’d slid behind the wheel.

She was fighting to be a good sport about his popularity. After all, he was outdoing himself for a good cause. Her cause. The nagging question was—why? To help her? For the cause? Or to improve his position as contender for director of market research?

She was afraid she knew the answer.

While stragglers trickled by her booth to buy cakes or pies or bicker about her prices, Matt patiently answered his young fans’ nonstop questions in between armadillo races. For the most part, Jerry Keith was manning the chicken-flying booth, which was almost as popular. Feathers were flying, chickens were squawking and kids were running wildly about inside the screened booth, screaming in delight.

Upon the rare occasions when Jane sold a cake or pie, she couldn’t help glancing at Matt, hoping he’d see she wasn’t a total loser. He always smiled back at her.

“Are armadillos really really fast, Mr. Harper?” squealed cute little ten-year-old Susanna Hays, who was jumping back and forth, causing her red pigtails to bounce.

Matt knelt so that he was at eye level with the excited little girl. “When they think you’re tracking ’em down to carve out their insides so you can sell ’em on the side of the road as baskets, they can skitter away over the rocks mighty dern fast.”

Susanna stilled. “Do bad people really do that?”

“Mostly they’re slow though,” said Beaver Jackson, pushing his rumpled black Stetson back. His tone was authoritative because he was in the sixth grade. “I got one. Wumpus I call him. He’s my pet.”

“I’ve got one too,” Matt said, looking up and winking at Jane.

Oh, why didn’t somebody, anybody, come up and buy a pie?

“I got a scorpion for a pet,” another little boy said. “In a bottle with holes in the cap.”

“Well, don’t let him out in the house,” Matt warned, patting him on the head.

Pretty Annie Grant, the bank teller, and Greg Flynn, a local cop, were ambling among the tables side by side, pretending not to be too interested in each other as they eyed the items to be sold in the silent auction. Annie wrote her name down beneath several items, including the card to buy Jane’s cooking services.

Matt watched Annie and then nodded at Jane.

Good. She was glad he’d noticed that at least somebody appreciated her cooking skills. She said a quick prayer that somebody would buy more of her pies so she could sell out and leave. Just being around Matt made her hot and edgy.

“Got any ideas about who wrote that love letter?” cracked a voice to her right as he slapped a ten-dollar bill down. “Two strawberry pies, please.”

Jane turned. Ol’ Bill Sinclair’s weather-beaten face looked like a human road map, but his bright blue eyes twinkled at her with more mischief than most youngsters. Obviously he knew Matt wrote it.

“I have an idea or two,” she said, not looking at him as she rung up the sale.

“A lot of people do,” he said, glancing toward Matt. “You two did a mighty good job together on these booths.”

“Matt and his brother did most of it.”