Triplets Found: The Virgin's Makeover / Take a Chance on Me / And Then There Were Three

Ow! Damn. Right in the eyeball. Ouch. And it stung. By the time she rubbed and blinked, two black smears made her look like a raccoon.

Forget it. Vanity was definitely overrated.

Somehow, she managed to get her face washed, but her eyes still looked a bit dark around the edges. Well, that’s what she got for trying to be somebody else—somebody feminine and attractive.

She looked at her watch. Six forty-five. Oh shoot. People would be arriving any minute. She slipped on a pair of low-heeled black pumps—sensible shoes like good old Aunt Clara wore, she supposed—then headed for the kitchen to give her mother a hand.

Donna had hired a caterer for this evening, so there probably wasn’t much left for Lissa to do, other than greet everyone.

Just as she stepped away from the foot of the stairs, a knock sounded, alerting her to the arrival of the first guest. Showtime. She strode across the carpet to the polished hardwood entry and opened the door.

Sullivan stood on the porch, wearing expensivelooking black slacks, a white shirt—open at the collar—and a stylish sports jacket. A GQ cover boy come to life.

He flashed her a playful grin. “You look great this evening, Lissa. Nice dress.”

“Thank you.” Did he really think she looked nice? Or was that just the standard how-do-you-do comment that folks made at dinner parties?

“You did something to your eyes,” he said.

“Yeah. During a moment of weakness, I nearly blinded myself. But it won’t happen again. Come on inside.” She stepped away from the door and led him through the living room. “Can I get you a drink?”

“How about Scotch and water?”

“You’ve got it.”

Within moments, the house began to fill with the local vintners and wine connoisseurs they’d invited. Lissa milled around, making cocktail-hour conversation.

The next doorbell announced the arrival of the last guest, or so Lissa hoped. The reporter from Through the Grapevine magazine had yet to arrive.

Her name was Gretchen, which was all Lissa had been told over the telephone. No one had prepared Lissa for the voluptuous blonde in a traffic-stopping red dress revealed when the door swung open.

The word tacky came to mind, but that wasn’t really true. The blonde merely had a sophisticated style and a healthy dose of self-confidence.

But heck, Lissa would feel confident, too—if she had a face and figure like that.

More than a few men turned to gawk, as the statuesque woman stepped into the foyer. Unable to help herself, Lissa peeked at the woman’s feet, expecting to see high heels. Wow. Those red strappy sandals weren’t exactly stilettos, but they were pretty darn close. They also showed off a pedicure and cherry-red toenail polish.

Lissa glanced at her own size nines. At least the dependable pumps were comfortable. And who needed bunions and foot problems later on? Heck, Sullivan’s Great-aunt Clara probably had gorgeous feet—wrinkled, maybe. But not all crippled up from years of abuse.

Gathering the hostess skills her mom had taught her, Lissa extended a hand and introduced herself to the attractive reporter. “You must be Gretchen Thomas.”

“Yes, I am. Thank you for inviting me.” Gretchen’s lively blue eyes quickly scanned the milling crowd, then landed on Sullivan.

And wouldn’t you know it? The sexy GQ hottie had spotted her, too.

“Who’s that man near the bookcase?” Gretchen asked. “Is he one of the local vintners? I don’t believe I’ve met him.”

“He’s a business consultant,” Lissa said.

“Interesting.”

Yes, wasn’t it? Lissa wanted to place the sole of her sensible shoe on the blonde’s shapely backside and boot her out of the house before the reporter and the consultant had a chance to exchange telephone numbers.

But why bother?

Lissa didn’t need a crystal ball or a cup of tea leaves to see how the evening would unfold. She could sense what was coming down the pike.

Well, c’est la vie.

Here today. Gone tomorrow.

Que sera, sera.

With hormones dancing in her eyes, Gretchen threw back her shoulders, lifted her chin and made her way toward the only eligible bachelor in the room. Well, the only bachelor in the twenty—to fortysomething range.

One of their guests, Anthony Martinelli, a longtime friend of her father’s and a successful local vintner, had lost his wife last winter. Rumor had it he was looking to find love again. But the older man, while handsome, was probably too tame for a woman like Gretchen.

On the other hand, Sullivan was more the reporter’s style. And the lady in red appeared to have staked her claim.

So much for Lissa’s silly hope of having a onetime fling with the consultant. She had a feeling Sullivan would be taken before the night was over.

But why should she give a flying leap about that? She’d known nothing would ever become of her silly fantasy. Still, as she watched Sullivan smile at the blonde’s swivel-hipped approach, an ache settled in her chest.

Get over it, she told herself, shoving aside the sting of disappointment and hiding behind an I’m-not-the-least-bit-interested stance.

Anthony Martinelli approached her little corner of the world, interrupting her thoughts.

“Hello, Lissa.” The handsome older man, who wore his Italian heritage well, flashed her a charming smile that crinkled along the edges of his sharp blue eyes. “You look lovely tonight.”

Lissa didn’t warrant the “lovely” comment, although she had tried to look her best this evening. But she appreciated Anthony’s kindness, especially as she watched her hopeless romantic fantasy go up in a sensuous swirl of smoke. “Thank you. You look rather dashing yourself.”

Anthony must have been a real lady-killer when he was younger, because he was one of the most attractive middle-aged men she knew. Many of her father’s friends and business associates developed a paunch, a softness. But the widowed vintner didn’t appear to have aged in all the years Lissa had known him.

The silver at his temples merely gave him added charm, while a trim, solid physique and a sundeepened olive complexion suggested he still did a lot of the physical work on his vineyard.

“I hear you’re about to introduce a new blend this evening,” Anthony said.

Lissa smiled, glad to focus on her work. “We’re calling it Virgin Mist.”

“Sounds intriguing. And appealing.”

So Sullivan had been right. The name was perfect in a marketing sense.

“We wanted our closest friends to be the first to taste it,” she added.

“Then I’m especially happy you’ve included me.” Anthony cast her a charming Al Pacino smile. “I’ve been meaning to call you, Lissa. I’m not sure what your calendar looks like, but I’d like to take you to lunch or dinner someday soon.”

The comment took her aback. Had the widowed vintner taken an interest in her?