Bride Candidate #9

Luke took three long strides to reach the front door He leaned around the jamb. “You’re fired.”

“Fine,” she yelled back. “You’re a pain in the butt to work for, anyway.”

He grinned as he shut the door.

“That’s funny?” Ariel asked.

“She either quits or I fire her once a week.”

“But she doesn’t leave, and you don’t replace her, right?”

“She’s engaged to my cousin. Where should I put my gear?”

Ariel blinked at the quick change of subject. She picked up the suit bag and led the way to the guest room. “What did Marguerite mean about not climbing my stairs?”

“Nothin’ for you to worry about. My knee’s been a little tender, that’s all. I’m tryin’ to rest it. Hadn’t counted on your being up a flight.”

She glanced at his legs, but didn’t see anything unusual. No sign of a knee brace, no excess bulk from being wrapped. His jeans fit him from hips to ankles nicely. Very nicely, indeed.

He filled up the room, Ariel thought as she hung his bag in the closet. An average-size room to start with, it suddenly seemed tiny now, the queen-size bed too small for his frame, the quilt too dainty, the curtains too frilly. It wasn’t that he was so big, actually. Although in comparison to herself, he was. He was just so...so much a man. One who was a little overbearing—well, maybe more than a little. And extremely appealing.

“Are you hungry?” she asked into the quiet that had settled between them. She didn’t want to feel so comfortable with him.

“If you’d share a pot of tea with me, I’d be obliged.”

“I never figured you for a tea drinker, Lucas. Coffee, black. Whiskey, straight. Steak, rare. That’s what I would have expected.”

“You got the rest of it right. Don’t care much for coffee, though. Why don’t I unpack, then I’ll join you.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, Ariel?”

She turned in the doorway.

“This is a real nice place you’ve got here.”

“Thanks. The view was the deciding factor for me. On a clear day, you can see the world from my front window. Well, at least a good portion of San Francisco Bay.”

Ten minutes later, he wandered into her kitchen and leaned against a counter. He’d exchanged his rain-soaked clothes for sweatpants, a T-shirt and socks. “I take it you were worried when I didn’t show on time,” he said.

“A little bit.”

“It does my heart good to hear that, Ariel. Real good.”

She poured a mug for each of them, not meeting his gaze. “I was afraid I’d have to find someone to take over all the jobs I’ve volunteered you to do.”

He chuckled. “Afraid you might spoil me if you ever let a compliment cross your lips?”

“Too late for that. You were ruined long before I met you.” They moved into the living room and sat on the sofa, one at each end. “I am in your debt, however, for what you’ve done for the Center.”

“I’m glad I could help.” Luke tried to get a handle on her mood. Except for her opening salvo when he’d first arrived, her insults weren’t being delivered with much punch, as if she felt the need to get them out, but not engage in any bantering with him. “What’s got you quiet as a cloud? Thinkin’ up some new insult?”

She smiled slightly. “Actually, the quiet part you should take as a compliment. I’m tired. I generally hide that from most people.”

She did look tired, now that he looked more closely. “Anything I can do?”

“I’ll put you to work tomorrow. Sam and Marguerite, too, I guess. I’m assuming they’re here to help.”

“I promised the board of directors at the Center that we’d oversee the finances of this event. I want to make sure there’s a profit, not just the break-even goal you said would satisfy you.”

“No one told me that”

“Are you on the board?”

“No. I’m an angel, though. And this event was my idea.”

“Well, now, I’d say your golden hair might lead some people to think you’re wearin’ a halo, but I’ll bet Saint Peter’s gonna give you grief at the Pearly Gates. He’ll have seen the way you treat me.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Benefactors are called angels. I’m on the board of the Angel Foundation, which contributes regularly to the Center.”

“I’m curious about that, Ariel. How do you support yourself? As far as I’ve been able to determine, you’re not employed.”

“Interest.” She tucked her feet under her and cupped the mug more closely.

“Interest?”

“On investments. People don’t volunteer time the way they used to. I can afford to.”

“You’ve got an MBA from Stanford, but you don’t put it to work. Why’s that?”

“Who says I don’t put it to work?” She lifted the mug again, then lowered it to her lap. “How’d you know that, anyway?”

“Part of my investigation into the Center. I checked out everyone. We had so little time, we hired a PI.” He tapped his fingers against his mug. “Funny thing. He didn’t find any record of you before you enrolled at Stanford.”

She took a quick sip of tea. “Why would that matter?”

“Professionally? For no reason. But personally? I was curious.”

“What’d you expect to find?”

“Perfect attendance in elementary school? A driver’s license issued on your sixteenth birthday? I don’t know. A past. Apart from learnin’ you’re twenty-seven years old, you’re Stanford educated, you’ve lived at this address for three years, and you donate your time to a lot of worthy causes, I don’t know anything about you.”

“There’s nothing mysterious about it. I told you I grew up in Europe.”

He noted that wariness had combined with weariness to darken her eyes. “And you said you were tired Me, too. Let’s go to bed, darlin’.” He took her empty mug and stood. “Now, don’t you go lookin’ at me like that. I wasn’t bein’ suggestive. I have nothin’ but the utmost respect for you. I can’t help it if you’ve got a dirty mind”

He returned from the kitchen just as she levered herself up from the couch. She shook her head.