Part-Time Fiance

“Right. Well, I’ll keep thinking. I’m sure I’ll come up with something.”

“Don’t twist your brain into knots over it.”

Sam smiled. “I’ll tell Gran you’re going to stop by. She’ll be pleased—she was making noises earlier today about giving you a housewarming party.”

“That’s lovely of her, but—”

“Yes, isn’t it thoughtful? I already know what I’m going to get you.”

Delainey couldn’t stop herself. “What?” she asked warily.

“An accessory for the next time you use your fireplace.”

“If you’re thinking of buying me a poker, I should warn you—”

“Nothing so dull. I’m going to get you a smoking jacket, so you won’t have to keep ruining your pajamas. See you later, sweetheart.”

Sam had left the garage door open when he’d gone over to Delainey’s to rescue Emma, so it was easy to put the tool kit back on the shelf on his way through.

Delainey had been right on target about one thing, he thought as he lined the plastic box up precisely with the dust-free outline it had left on the metal shelf. But it was one he hadn’t expected she would pick up on at all.

You’ll need some better tools, of course, she’d said almost casually. And she was right—he’d practically twisted the head off one of the cheap screwdrivers just putting that outlet back together. But he hadn’t expected that she’d know the difference.

The woman might not be able to light a fire, but at least there were a few practical bits of knowledge floating around under all that shiny gold-flecked hair. And a good thing it was, too, because if she was going to hard-sell business loans, she’d better know what she was talking about.

And that had definitely been a hard sell she’d given him. For a minute there, Sam had half expected to find himself in the home-repair business without ever having had a chance to refuse. Scarier yet was the fact that the longer she’d talked, the more it had started to sound like a good idea.

Of course, loaning the money to set up a small home-repair business was a far different proposition from dealing with Curtis Whittington. The merger king, she’d called him. The merger maniac was more like it.

He wondered if Delainey was trying to hard-sell Curtis Whittington, or if things were the other way around.

The exterior trim on every single town house at White Oaks was basically the same, and the homeowner’s covenant that Delainey had signed along with her down-payment check made it clear that it was to remain that way. No extra awnings, purple shutters, or odd-shaped mailboxes were allowed, and Delainey suspected if a pink plastic flamingo appeared on a front lawn that a note from the manager would soon follow, giving the bird instructions to migrate.

“There’s a thought,” she mused. If Sam Wagner got to be too annoying, she could line his driveway with neon-colored pinwheels and park a painted plaster statue of a jockey next to the front door. But of course it wouldn’t be Sam who would have to take the nasty call from the complex manager, it would be Emma.

So much for a good idea.

Somehow, despite the rule about individualizing the town houses, Emma Ashford’s stood out as more personal than the units Delainey drove past on her way in and out of the complex. A potted pine tree covered with red bows stood off to the side of the front door, a holly wreath hung above the bell, and at her feet a welcome mat decorated with Santa’s face proclaimed “Welcome Ho-Ho-Home.”

Delainey rang the bell and sighed at the reminder that Christmas was only three weeks away. It wasn’t that she was a Scrooge, but exactly when was she going to find time to search out her few Christmas decorations, much less to put them up?

Emma ushered her inside, exclaimed over the roses, and went to put them in water. As Delainey waited for her to finish, she looked around. This town house was larger than her own, though the plan of the first floor was similar—basically one huge room divided into various living areas. The main difference was that the kitchen was separated by a wall rather than just a breakfast bar.

The overall impression was of vibrant color—an unusual combination of purple, lavender, and hunter green. Delainey was a little surprised, because the brilliant colors didn’t quite seem Emma’s style. She would have expected old-fashioned floral chintz that had faded gently over time until only the softest tones were left. But hadn’t Emma said something about not having lived at White Oaks long herself? Maybe she’d gone for all new furniture when she moved.

Considering the welcome mat and the wreath outside, she was also startled that there was no Christmas tree to be seen. But perhaps Emma was a purist about having a live tree and was just waiting till closer to the holiday to put it up.

On the back of a wing chair near the fireplace, a seal-point Siamese cat yawned and sat up, and deep blue eyes inspected Delainey from head to toe. “Well, hello there,” she said, holding out a hand for the cat to sniff.

Sam came down the stairs in the worn leather jacket with a helmet under his arm. “I see you’ve already met the Empress,” he said.

“Is that her name?”

“Not even close. Her official name is some long, involved, incredibly complicated mix of Oriental-sounding vowels. I gave up on it a long time ago, and she’s just been the Empress ever since. Was Gran suitably impressed with the flowers?”

“She seemed to like them.”

“I still think you should have given them to me instead. She gets flowers all the time, so it doesn’t have the same impact on her as it would on me.”

“That,” Emma said from the doorway, “is nothing more than slander. I adore roses and these are particularly lovely ones. And they’re always more fun when they’re a surprise.”

“As they are this time, because you didn’t do anything to earn them.” Sam grinned at her. “I was the one working my head off while you were over at the clubhouse going no trump and letting the manager wait on you hand and foot.”

“He’s very nice to us,” Emma admitted. “Have you met the manager, Delainey?”

“Not yet. In fact, I’ve never been in the mansion. I was so short of time the day I looked at the town house that I didn’t get any further.”

“Well, you definitely need to do something about that,” Emma said. “The mansion is one of the best features of the whole complex—it has a little of everything. Are you going out, Sam?”

“I’m not just polishing my helmet, Gran.”

“Well, have a good time,” Emma said.

Delainey watched as Sam set the helmet on his head. “You ride a motorcycle? Wait a minute—then why were you so fussed yesterday about the moving van blocking the drive? You could have gotten past it easily.”

“On the motorcycle, yes. But I was putting Gran’s car away.” He fastened the chin strap and tightened it.

“Where were we?” Emma asked. “Oh, yes—the clubhouse facilities. You should go over for dinner, at least, Delainey.”

“It wouldn’t be much fun to go alone,” Delainey said. “Perhaps you’ll be my guest.”

“She gets flowers and dinner?” Sam muttered.

Though he sounded hurt, Delainey was willing to bet he was trying to smother amusement instead of woe.

Emma shot a disapproving look at him. “The boy has no manners, of course—but he’s right. He did do all the work.”

Now there was no question; Sam’s eyes—even bluer than those of the Siamese—were full of humor. The cretin was laughing at her.

Still, even though Delainey felt she’d been set up by an expert, there was only one graceful thing to do. “I meant both of you, of course,” she said.

“And anyone who believes that,” Sam said under his breath, “is due for a serious reality check.”

Delainey raised her voice just a little. “How unfortunate that Sam has other plans so he can’t accompany us.”

“Then we’ll go tomorrow,” Emma said comfortably. “Going on Wednesday night will be better anyway. There’s always live entertainment on Wednesdays, and that usually means a crowd. You’ll be able to meet some of the neighbors.”

By the time that Delainey ushered her last client of the morning out of her office, her secretary was practically vibrating with anxiety. You’re late, she mouthed behind the client’s back. Delainey waved a hand to acknowledge her and went right on talking to the client.