Книга - Kiss A Handsome Stranger

Kiss A Handsome Stranger
Jacqueline Diamond


One kiss led to another and…!Lying blissfully in her dream lover's arms, Daisy Redford had the shock of her life. Her one-night-man was the Chance Foster–King of the Conquest! So she darted out of bed and into hiding. But Daisy found out she was pregnant, just as Chance found her. Though Daisy's most heartfelt wish was to be a wife and mother, she rebuffed his marriage proposal–she would never enter a union rooted in responsibility. But her "no" only multiplied Chance's attentions. Could it be their secret desires actually dovetailed…and kissing this handsome stranger meant she would never again be a stranger to love?2001 Ways to Wed: This little book on finding Mr. Right is guaranteed to help three friends make it to the altar!









Daisy Redford’s Shopping List


Paper towels

Candles (for romance; loved the ones Chance had last night)

Lightbulbs

Panty hose (mine were accidentally left at a certain bachelor’s house)

Milk

Orange juice

Eggs (starved—didn’t get a chance to eat breakfast; too busy sneaking out of Chance Foster’s bedroom)

Shampoo

Toothpaste

Home pregnancy kit (oh, my, something tells me I might be needing this….)

Nail polish remover

Hand lotion

Wedding gown (in case the stick turns blue, a gal’s gotta be ready!)


Dear Reader,

May is “Get Caught Reading” month, and there’s no better way for Harlequin American Romance to show our support of literacy than by offering you an exhilarating month of must-read romances.

Tina Leonard delivers the next installment of the exciting Harlequin American Romance in-line continuity series TEXAS SHEIKHS with His Arranged Marriage. A handsome playboy poses as his identical twin and mistakenly exchanges “I do’s” with a bewitching princess bride.

A beautiful rancher’s search for a hired hand leads to more than she bargained for when she finds a baby on her doorstep and a Cowboy with a Secret, the newest title from Pamela Browning. 2001 WAYS TO WED concludes with Kiss a Handsome Stranger by Jacqueline Diamond. Daisy Redford’s biological clock had been ticking…until a night of passion with her best friend’s brother left her with a baby on the way! And in Uncle Sarge, a military man does diaper duty…and learns about fatherhood, family and forever-after love. Don’t miss this heartwarming romance by Bonnie Gardner.

It’s a terrific month for Harlequin American Romance, and we hope you’ll “get caught reading” one of our great books.

Wishing you happy reading,

Melissa Jeglinski

Associate Senior Editor

Harlequin American Romance


Kiss a Handsome Stranger

Jacqueline Diamond






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For Sylvia Hyman, ceramic artist and terrific mother




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Jacqueline Diamond is the daughter of a ceramic artist who inspired Daisy’s talents in this book. Jackie lives in Southern California with her husband, two sons and two formerly stray cats.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Anyone interested in helping save feral (born-wild) cats, as Frannie and Bill do in this story, can get more information from Alley Cat Allies at 1801 Belmont Road NW, Suite 201, Washington, D.C. 20009. Any mistakes made in describing Frannie and Bill’s approach are strictly the author’s own.




Books by Jacqueline Diamond


HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

79—THE DREAM NEVER DIES

196—AN UNEXPECTED MAN

218—UNLIKELY PARTNERS

239—THE CINDERELLA DARE

270—CAPERS AND RAINBOWS

279—GHOST OF A CHANCE

315—FLIGHT OF MAGIC

351—BY LEAPS AND BOUNDS

406—OLD DREAMS, NEW DREAMS

446—THE TROUBLE WITH TERRY

491—A DANGEROUS GUY

583—THE RUNAWAY BRIDE

615—YOURS, MINE AND OURS

631—THE COWBOY AND THE HEIRESS

642—ONE HUSBAND TOO MANY

645—DEAR LONELY IN L.A….

674—MILLION-DOLLAR MOMMY

687—DADDY WARLOCK

716—A REAL-LIVE SHEIKH

734—THE COWBOY & THE SHOTGUN BRIDE

763—LET’S MAKE A BABY!

791—ASSIGNMENT: GROOM!

804—MISTLETOE DADDY

833—I DO! I DO!

855—DADDY, M.D.

875—KISS A HANDSOME STRANGER

HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

435—AND THE BRIDE VANISHES

512—HIS SECRET SON

550—CAPTURED BY A SHEIKH







When three best friends need advice on finding that

perfect love match, they turn to the wisest

relationship book around, 2001 Ways to Wed.

Chapter 8

When Smooching Leads to Sleeping Over

And Other First Date Debacles

He was gorgeous. The stars were twinkling. He bought you dinner, a movie and flowers. You were wearing that little black number that makes you feel sexy. You’d shaved your legs. He asked you up for coffee—and you ended up staying for breakfast.

Heaven knows you’re not that kind of girl! But does he?

It’s understandable that you’re embarrassed, but what if you can’t avoid seeing him again—you work with the guy, he’s your neighbor or your best friend’s notorious playboy brother. So what do you do?

It all depends on how you feel about him. When the lust and the Long Island iced tea wore off, was he just another pretty face? If so, chalk it up to a lesson learned. But if there’s potential for a lasting relationship, don’t let the rapid pace of your first date kill any chance for a second. If he wants to see you again, go. And don’t feel like you have to be intimate again. But beware, some men are just so delicious you can’t resist going back for seconds….




Contents


Chapter One (#u47c6cba4-6120-5e28-b124-66cc24288049)

Chapter Two (#u96e7982e-4633-50ed-ad84-ce8f86f3c719)

Chapter Three (#uae51a6a4-951e-57e6-b7c4-fdbb5444a0b5)

Chapter Four (#u30b7beeb-5828-51e1-90d3-c709c642e21e)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One


Daisy Redford smacked Chance Foster a couple of times. Then she pushed him so hard he compressed into a lump of submissive clay.

“Take that!” she told the clay as it spun around on the potter’s wheel, perfectly centered.

Some internal demon had goaded her earlier into making a little bust of the man. She couldn’t capture the teasing light in his eyes, but, for a quarter-hour’s effort, it had been a creditable likeness of his strong face, full mouth and straight nose.

She’d felt a flash of satisfaction when she pounded him into oblivion. Now, though, the only evidence of her triumph was the neatly spinning lump, ready to be made into a pot, and spatters of wet clay that she could feel drying across her cheeks.

Another woman might have washed a man out of her hair. Daisy Redford had smashed him onto the potter’s wheel. If her actions stopped the images of their stolen night together from tormenting her dreams, she would be happy. More than happy. Ecstatic.

“Now all I have to do is find Mr. Right before my girlfriends match me up with yet another loser,” she announced to her empty studio. “Or before I find another loser on my own.”

It was ironic. Her two best friends, Phoebe and Elise, had set out months ago to find Daisy a mate so she could have a child before endometriosis made her infertile. Both had sworn they weren’t interested in men for themselves, yet along the way they’d fallen in love and gotten engaged.

Not Daisy. She’d met a guy she thought was terrific, only to learn that he was bad news personified. “And then some,” she muttered.

Uh-oh, she was talking to herself. Thank goodness her assistant, Sean, was off on Mondays, when Daisy closed her downtown Phoenix gallery, so there was no one around to hear.

Today no one wandered through the three exhibition rooms or the sales gallery, or examined the photo portfolio of other available works. Today the only activity was confined to one of the two storage rooms, which she had converted to a studio.

Mondays belonged to the artist side of Daisy. She never sold or displayed her own pottery, because she didn’t consider it good enough. But she loved making it, and often gave her creations to her friends and her mother.

Now, carefully applying pressure, Daisy drew up a vase from the wet clay on the wheel. Between her steady hands, the material assumed a high-shouldered shape. It was similar to several previously made pots, each about fifteen inches tall, that stood drying on a canvas-covered table.

The small room was crowded with the potter’s wheel, a shelf of glazes, several drying tables and an electric kiln. It was, however, well ventilated and well lit.

A faint pounding echoed through the room. It sounded like distant hammering, perhaps repair work at the Civic Center a few blocks away. Not until she stopped the wheel to remove the pot did Daisy realize someone was knocking on the gallery’s locked front door.

“Oh, great.” She hurried to scrape and scrub clay off her hands, then wiped them on a towel.

There was no time to change her stained canvas shoes or disreputable jeans. Normally, she might have ignored a visitor to the closed gallery, but she was expecting a shipment from one of her artists, and perhaps the driver didn’t realize he was supposed to use the alley entrance.

After wiping her feet on a mat, she hurried through the gallery, called Native Art because it represented local artists. Although some of the pottery and weavings did indeed show a Native American influence, the painting and sculpture were contemporary.

Sure enough, through the front window she could see a delivery van double-parked on the street. The man outside wore the uniform of a local trucking company.

Daisy pushed a hank of hair off her forehead and unbolted the door. “You have to deliver through the back.”

“Checked your alley recently?” the man demanded. “They’re working on the waterline at the end, and there’s a van blocking the other. The driver’s nowhere around.”

“I’m sure he’ll be back any minute.” She glanced anxiously along the busy street, which was lined with trendy shops and restaurants. At this noon hour, cars and pedestrians bustled by like hungry ants. Double-parking was likely to bring a ticket, and she could just guess who would get stuck paying for it.

“I can’t wait, lady,” the man said. “Sorry, but I’ve got another order to pick up this afternoon.”

Daisy made a snap decision. Better to unload everything right now than to risk having him depart with an exhibit scheduled to open this Saturday.

“Okay, but you’ll have to hurry,” she said, and opened the facing door to create a double aperture.

Daisy didn’t like going outside in such a messy state. Chance Foster’s law office was a block away, and she’d barely avoided running into him several times in the past two months. On the other hand, he didn’t know her real identity and, beneath these clay daubs, he wasn’t likely to recognize her even if he saw her.

“Be careful!” she told the delivery man, who, with his assistant, was carting a painting-shaped package down a ramp. “Go right through here, all the way to the back.”

The dozen acrylic works were heavy, and several had odd-shaped frames. The workmen were none too careful, either, and twice Daisy barely saved potted plants from being knocked over as they trudged through the gallery.

At last, with relief, she made a final check of the truck’s interior and found it empty. “Thanks,” she said.

The men waved and climbed into the cab. Daisy was almost at the gallery entrance when, half a dozen doors down, a woman emerged from Le Bistro Français.

Honey-blond hair swirled around her pouty face. The bee-stung lips quivered and her wide eyes glistened.

A man stepped out right behind her. Daisy’s fists clenched.

Chance Foster radiated good taste, from the elegant cut of his light-brown hair to his expensive business suit. Yet no amount of subdued overlay could disguise the tantalizing leanness of his hips or the masculine way he carried himself.

She knew every inch of him, from those watchful gray eyes and broad shoulders down to the muscular thighs. In spite of her resolve never to have anything to do with Chance again, Daisy wanted him.

She ached not so much for the physical pleasures they’d shared—although those had been amazing—as for the gentle way he’d talked and listened and eased inside her closely guarded heart. Or pretended to, anyway.

A pang shot through her when Chance put his arms around the woman. They stood next to a sleek car, and he held her for several minutes before going to open the driver’s door for her.

He stood in traffic, making sure the blonde got inside safely. Daisy hoped the woman wasn’t naive enough to think that meant he cared about her. Chance was suave, all right, a perfect gentleman and a charmer. He was also the most notorious playboy in Arizona.

Two long strides carried him to the sidewalk, where he waited until the car pulled away. On the point of turning toward his office, he halted and stared straight at Daisy.

Please don’t let him recognize me. She didn’t see how he could, with clay hardening across her nose and cheeks. Yet he remained planted there, indifferent to the people flowing around him. Maybe he’d noticed her distinctive, chin-length auburn hair, she realized.

“Oops.” Daisy hurried inside and locked the door. She straightened the Closed sign before fleeing to the back room.

Long minutes ticked past. When no one rapped on the glass, she wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

She should never have gone to bed with a man she had just met. It wasn’t like Daisy. Being an illegitimate child, the daughter of a man who promised the moon and delivered nothing but empty sky, she’d been careful to avoid casual involvements.

But that night at Elise’s engagement party, the handsome newcomer had brought to life all her fantasies. He’d put her at ease when they talked, and electrified her when they danced together.

When he invited her to his house for a drink, she’d welcomed the chance to continue their talk. Besides, she hadn’t wanted either Elise or Phoebe, the party’s hostess, to spoil this magical mood by fussing over them. Her friends sometimes went a bit overboard in their attempts to pair Daisy off.

She could see, in retrospect, how foolish she’d been to abandon her usual caution. Most of the time, when she met a man, the first thing she assessed was what kind of father he would make. Especially since she’d reached the age of thirty and, due to the severity of her condition, had to marry soon or possibly lose her opportunity for motherhood.

With Chance, though, Daisy hadn’t worried about such things. She’d simply enjoyed being with him. In his house, in his arms, in his bed.

That evening she’d given him her real name, Deirdre, because it made her feel more sophisticated. When he’d said his name was Charles, she hadn’t realized that he, too, was better known by a nickname.

It was after they made love and were talking quietly that she asked how he knew Elise. She’d nearly stopped breathing when he said, “I’m her brother.”

Chance Foster was famous. Or, rather, infamous. According to Elise, his conquests included the most attractive women in Phoenix. A different woman for every occasion, that was his reputation.

When she realized who she’d slept with, Daisy could have smacked herself for being such an idiot. Until that moment she’d believed they were special to each other, that their instant rapport had been as exciting to Chance as to her. Now she knew it was a trick he used to wrap a woman around his finger.

She’d waited until he fell asleep, then called a taxi and fled. Now she was cowering in her studio to avoid him, when the man probably hadn’t given her a moment’s thought in the past two months.

Annoyed at herself, Daisy used a wire to cut the vase’s bottom from the mound of clay remaining on the wheel. Carefully she set it on the table to dry.

Who was that woman at the restaurant? she wondered. The make of car, the clothes and the grooming all shouted, Rich! Or, possibly, In debt and loving it!

Without giving much thought to what she was doing, Daisy seized a few pieces of clay, created a woman’s features and attached them to the side of a partially dried pot. The resulting face, a caricature of the blond woman, had a hungry, predatory look.

On the vase next to it, she devised Chance’s visage with a sly smile and leering eyes. Studying it, she realized she might finally have hit on an individual twist for her work.

“I could make a whole line of Character Crockery,” she mused. “Or maybe I should call them Personality Pots.”

The prospect appealed to her. Daisy enjoyed fooling around with caricatures in clay, but had never shown them to anyone, let alone considered selling them. People weren’t likely to buy little heads with no practical use.

These pots, on the other hand, could hold plants. She smiled. Poison ivy, maybe.

A flame of excitement sprang up. Daisy’s ceramic work, although technically accomplished, had until now lacked uniqueness, but this idea was promising. Although other artists had made pots with faces, she knew she could take her idea in new directions.

How ironic that this development had been inspired by Chance Foster!

She spent the rest of the afternoon experimenting with ways to create character faces on her pots. By making slight depressions, she created eye sockets and other contours that gave her work an even more distinctive look.

By late afternoon Daisy’s arms ached pleasantly and her agitation over the near encounter with Chance had dissipated. She was cleaning the studio when the phone rang.

“Native Art,” she responded.

“Hi, Native, this is Elise!” joked her friend.

How could such a delightful woman have such a heartless brother? Daisy wondered, not for the first time. “What’s up?”

“I picked my colors! Deep-rose and pale-yellow!”

Daisy didn’t immediately grasp her friend’s meaning. Then it hit. “Oh, for the wedding.” Elise and her fiancé, James, would be walking down the aisle in September, three months from now. “That sounds lovely.”

“You know what this means,” Elise said. “We can start looking at bridesmaids’ dresses for you and Phoebe.”

“Great.” Since Elise hadn’t wanted to favor one of them as the maid of honor, they were both going to walk down the aisle together. It would be kind of funky, Daisy thought, but fun.

“How about if we meet for a swim right after work? Say, five-thirty?” Elise went on. “We can talk strategy and cool off at the same time.”

Although it was only June, temperatures hovered in the high eighties. “Sounds great.”

“See you there.”

“There” meant the Mesa Blue condominium complex, where the three women lived. The blue-tiled pool, nestled among ferns and a few squatty palms, provided a refreshing meeting place in summer months.

Daisy couldn’t wait to take a dip and see her friends. After draping loose plastic covers over the pots to prevent cracking, she hurried home.

CHANCE FOSTER COULD HAVE sworn he recognized the smudged redhead outside the art gallery. By the time he strolled by, though, she’d disappeared and the place was closed.

He stood on the sidewalk like a smitten teenager, debating whether he dared knock. But what would he say? That two months ago he’d spent a wonderful evening with a mysterious woman and now he was trying to find her?

He couldn’t understand how such an intriguing woman could get invited to his sister’s engagement party without either Elise or Phoebe knowing her. Afterward, both had roundly denied knowing anyone named Deirdre.

Deciding not to waste any more time on a wild-goose chase, he walked back to his office. Still, Chance’s mind wouldn’t leave the subject.

He told himself for the umpteenth time that he must have been mistaken in his impression of Deirdre. The honest, direct, sunny lady who’d knocked him off balance wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye. There must be a darker side to her personality. Or maybe she’d fooled him from the beginning.

Perhaps she was married and cheating on her husband. Or so afraid of commitment that she panicked when she met a guy she might care about.

As a family law attorney, Chance had seen how many things could go wrong in a relationship. A lot of times the problems sprang from a partner who lacked the character to stick around and stay faithful when the going got tough.

He would like to see Deirdre again, though, at least to learn why she’d bailed out on him. And so he could stop imagining he saw her on the street, the way he’d done today and several times previously.

As he reached the professional building, Chance wondered if his sister and her fiancé had followed his advice to get premarital counseling. People as successful as those two—Elise was a French professor, James a wealthy businessman—didn’t think they needed any preparation for marriage. But to Chance, that was like someone saying he didn’t need medical insurance because he was healthy.

He decided to drop by her condo after work and, as her big brother, take the liberty of nagging a bit.

“I AM NOT GOING TO WEAR a yellow dress!” declared Phoebe. Sitting on the edge of the pool, she swished her feet in the water. “Yellow looks awful on blondes. And rose will do terrible things to Daisy’s complexion! I mean, she’s a redhead, for heaven’s sake.”

“I was thinking of the flowers,” Elise admitted. “Yellow and red roses would look so pretty in a bouquet.”

Daisy tilted her face to soak up the lingering rays of sunshine. With her tendency to freckle, she couldn’t enjoy midday sunbathing, so this was a treat.

“Come on, Daisy!” Phoebe prodded her with an elbow. “Back me up, here. Yellow wouldn’t look so great on you, either.”

Daisy stretched and smothered a yawn. Not that she wasn’t vitally interested in her friends’ arrangements, but after all, Phoebe was the beauty consultant. She was also studying biochemistry with the goal of establishing her own cosmetics company, and she had a good sense of what colors looked right on people.

Daisy’s own taste ran to the offbeat. Her swimsuit, for example, had been created by her mother, Jeanine Redford, a seamstress and costume designer in Tempe.

A single, angled black strap continued as a diagonal black slash across the emerald green stretch fabric of the swimsuit. A geometric cutout at the waist furthered the impact. It wasn’t so much a bathing suit as a dramatic statement.

“We could ask my mom,” she said. “She’d come up with a memorable design.”

Elise grinned. “I love your mother’s costumes, but not for my wedding, thank you.” To Phoebe she said, “The yellow can go, but I like deep-rose.”

Phoebe stood up, a move that displayed her impressive figure to advantage. In fact, the former actress was impressive to look at from any angle.

“I came here to swim, not argue,” she said. “First one to reach the far end gets to pick the colors, okay?”

She dived in, water closing over her head with scarcely a ripple. The pool looked so inviting that Daisy jumped in and swam after her friend.

“It’s my wedding so I get to choose!” shouted Elise, and made a long arcing dive past Daisy. A few furious kicks carried her past Phoebe, as well, and she arrived at the far end first. “Deep-rose,” she reaffirmed when she could speak. “Deep rose and…something.”

Phoebe emerged and caught her breath. “Forget rose. How about green?” she said. “Green and gold.”

Elise grimaced. “That sounds like pom-poms at a high school football game.”

“Purple and white?” Daisy suggested as she paddled alongside.

“That’s for a royal coronation,” said Elise. “I don’t care how rich James is, I don’t want anyone thinking I’m turning into a princess.”

A burst of meowing drew their attention toward apartment 1B. On the patio, a bevy of cats gathered as a fiftyish woman with unnaturally red hair filled their feeding dishes.

“I wonder how Frannie and Bill are getting along?” Phoebe mused.

Red-haired Frannie, with her brightly colored clothes and beehive hairdo, made an odd contrast to the soft-spoken building superintendent who lived in a nearby unit. The two had been edging toward each other for months and finally seemed to be hitting it off, but had parted after a jealous quarrel.

Apparently Bill had also noticed the cat noises. The large, usually jovial man, returning from one of his periodic inspections of the premises, stopped near the pool and gazed wistfully toward Frannie.

She ignored him, and after a moment Jeff Hawkin, the handyman, stuck his head out of the laundry room and requested Bill’s attention. Daisy hoped they were fixing the number three dryer, which ate quarters.

“Pale-pink might work,” Phoebe suggested, returning to their previous conversation.

“Pale pink with what?” Elise asked.

“White?” said Daisy. “No, too boring. How about three colors? Pale pink with black and white?”

“Black? At a wedding?” Elise groaned.

“Let’s go try on dresses and figure out what colors look good on us,” Phoebe said. “That way Daisy and I can buy something we might actually wear again.”

“What if chartreuse looks good on you?” grumped their friend. “Oh, good, here comes big brother. Let’s see what he thinks.”

To her horror Daisy spotted an all-too-familiar figure strolling from the lobby into the courtyard. It had been sheer coincidence that had kept her from meeting Chance before that ill-fated night of the engagement party. Why couldn’t she have the same luck now?

Frantically she gazed around for somewhere to hide. Giving up, she sucked in her breath and sank under the water.




Chapter Two


Chance smiled when he glimpsed his sister and her two friends lolling in the pool. He liked women and enjoyed their company, which was a good thing, since he had seven younger sisters.

He’d scarcely cleared the lobby, however, when a strange-looking woman, standing ankle deep in cats on her patio, regarded him sharply. Her name, he recalled from a previous visit, was Frannie.

“Be careful around those girls,” she said. “Two of them are engaged and the other one’s peculiar.”

“Peculiar?” He wondered what had provoked this unsolicited observation. On the other hand, he had to admit that Elise’s disappearing friend Daisy did seem a bit odd. In the few seconds he’d been distracted by the cat lady, the woman he guessed was Daisy had vanished again as if by magic.

He’d glimpsed her once in hair curlers and a globby green face mask, and another time, from the back, in a flimsy bathrobe. Both times she’d fled from Elise’s place to her next-door unit without acknowledging him.

“She’s an artist,” said the woman. “You never see her out painting anything, though. Peculiar, if you ask me. I’d stay clear, if I were you.”

“Thanks.” He was about to turn away when he caught Frannie’s wink. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Just wanted to see how much you’d believe!” She chuckled. “You’re Elise’s brother, aren’t you?”

“That’s right. And you really had me going.” The lady was quite a character, Chance thought in amusement.

Resuming his approach to the pool, he tried vainly to figure out how Daisy could have disappeared so quickly. “Where’s your other friend?” he called to Elise.

She pointed into the water. “Drowning.” She didn’t sound concerned, so he assumed she was kidding. “We need your advice.”

“I get paid for my advice.” Chance paused a few feet away. “Since you’re my sister, I’ll work on contingency.”

“Don’t you think yellow looks horrible on blondes?” said Phoebe. The blond woman was stunning, he noted for the umpteenth time. There’d never been any chemistry between them, though, just friendly banter.

“I refuse to incriminate myself,” he said.

“Spoken like a lawyer,” said his sister.

“And deep-rose would look simply horrible with…that. Agreed?” Phoebe indicated some reddish brown hair floating on the water, obviously attached to their pal Daisy’s head.

“I plead the fifth amendment,” Chance said. “Don’t you think she’s been under there a long time?”

“She’s a good swimmer,” said Elise. “Well, a good dog paddler, anyway.”

“She isn’t swimming, she’s floating,” he pointed out.

“We absolutely have to pick the wedding colors,” Phoebe said.

“You mean, I have to pick them!” said his sister.

“I’m getting a little concerned about your friend.” Chance didn’t want to overdramatize the situation by plunging into the pool fully clothed, but the woman’s lungs must be near bursting.

“She’s fine,” Elise said. “Her hands are moving under the water. If she’d lost consciousness, she couldn’t maintain a vertical position.”

Chase knelt at the edge of the pool. The hair bobbed upward, then lowered again. The woman was deliberately staying down there, all right, but why was she behaving so bizarrely?

Phoebe joined Chance at the side of the pool. She was focused on Daisy, looking concerned. “Is she on medication?” he asked.

“Maybe hormones. I think she has what they used to call a female condition,” said Phoebe, her face suddenly turning red. “Maybe I shouldn’t have shared that with you. It just slipped out in my worry.”

“Hormones don’t make a person act like a lunatic. At least, I don’t think so.” Chance’s own lungs were aching in sympathy. Unable to stand the suspense, he reached into the pool and grasped the woman’s shoulders, getting his jacket cuffs and watch soaked in the process.

She had smooth shoulders, he noticed distractedly. Touching her bare skin gave him a slight tingle.

When he pulled, she shot to the surface, gasping and sputtering. Waterlogged hair clung to her cheeks, and for a disconnected moment he thought he was imagining the resemblance.

But it was her. Deirdre.

Daisy, he thought in confusion. Deirdre was Daisy. But why on earth had his sister’s friend run away from him?

DAISY HADN’T MEANT to stay under the water so long. She’d gone down on an impulse and then, hearing the blurred echo of Chance’s voice, had clung to her sanctuary single-mindedly.

She was glad he’d pulled her up. And humiliated at being discovered. If she hadn’t been coughing so hard, she would have raced for the building before anyone could start asking questions, but her own frailty trapped her.

Clinging to Chance’s strong arms, she leaned against the edge of the pool and sucked in deep, agonizing lungfuls of air. Only gradually did she realize the man’s sleeves were drenched, not to mention that was obviously a very expensive watch.

Embarrassed, she eased her grip and moved away. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you all right?” His deep tones echoed through her.

She nodded, keeping her eyes averted. Her friends were studying her with varying degrees of puzzlement.

“Is it the hormones?” Elise asked. “Are you having hot flashes?”

“No, of course not!” Could this get any more awkward? Daisy wondered.

The last thing she wanted was for Chance to hear about her medical condition. A guy like him would probably be repelled by the mention of endometriosis.

In fact, a playboy like him would head for the hills if he found out how badly she wanted a child. Especially if he learned that she needed to get pregnant soon to ease her condition and help prevent future infertility.

Daisy longed to hold a baby in her arms. It scared her that already there was a chance she couldn’t conceive.

The gentle, understanding man that she dreamed of marrying would accept her without hesitation and stand by her no matter what. A man like Chance, on the other hand, was likely to wrinkle his nose and hightail it in pursuit of a woman with no imperfections attached.

Did he have to look so gorgeous, with the late-afternoon light bringing out the strength of his face and the deceptive sensitivity of his gray gaze? she wondered. It would have been hard to keep her distance, except for the fact that she could barely move.

“You wouldn’t happen to be in need of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, would you?” he teased, seeming unaware of the breeze that fluttered engagingly through his soft hair. Even the elements conspired on Chance’s behalf.

“I’m a little cold.” Getting out of the pool would feel even colder, but Daisy needed to escape the curious stares of her friends. Not to mention the ever-inquisitive Frannie Fitzgerald, who stood on her patio with hands on hips, watching them with interest.

“Which towel’s yours?” When she pointed, Chance brought it from a nearby bench.

As she climbed from the water, he wrapped it around her, his hands lingering longer than strictly necessary. Despite her better judgment, she didn’t mind.

“Honestly, we didn’t realize anything was wrong,” Phoebe said. “Should I call a doctor?”

“Nothing is wrong.” Daisy wished her teeth would stop chattering. “It’s my own stupid fault. I had this impulse to see how long I could stay underwater.”

“Why?” asked her friend.

“Because I’m an idiot,” she said.

“You look kind of blue,” Elise said. “I don’t care for that shade. We can scratch it off our list for the wedding.”

Daisy couldn’t help chuckling at her friend’s nonsense. Chance circled his arm more closely around her. He didn’t seem to notice the water dripping onto his suit and shoes.

“I repeat, we need to try on dresses before we make a decision,” said Phoebe.

“There is no ‘we’ making this decision,” Elise said. “I’m consulting you two out of the goodness of my heart.”

“Saturday,” Phoebe said. “I’m free to shop in the afternoon.”

Elise shrugged. “Okay by me.” When Daisy coughed, her friend said, “I’ll answer for her. She’s taking a few hours off to join us.”

“But I have a show opening that night.”

“That’s why you hired that assistant. Right?”

There was no denying it. “Right.”

“I’m taking Daisy inside to dry off,” Chance told them.

“I can go alone.”

“No,” he replied firmly. “You need me to look after you.”

Daisy’s heart twisted in a funny, scary, delicious way. She knew it was just Chance’s suave charm coming into play, but she wished so hard that he meant it.

“Before you go,” his sister said, “was there a reason you wanted to see me, big bro?”

“Nothing urgent. I’ll catch you later,” he said.

Daisy knew she shouldn’t let him walk her to her condo. If she did, he might come inside. And if that happened, she might not be able to resist him any more than she had two months ago.

What power did this man have over her? Sternly she reminded herself that he possessed no power that she didn’t grant him.

Yet, despite her resolve to the contrary, she let him escort her all the way to unit 2E.

AFTER SEEING SO MANY devastated marriages, Chance had set very high standards for the woman he would someday wed, and, since college, no one had come close to meeting them. Certainly he was better off not getting involved with someone as unpredictable as Deirdre.

Yet his feelings refused to yield to logic. Her mercurial quality made her all the more fascinating, and the way she nestled within the circle of his arm inspired a longing to protect her.

From his greater height, he studied Daisy’s well-defined nose and thick lashes. Were her eyes really as green as he remembered? When she opened her condo and turned toward him, he saw that they were.

“Thanks,” she said.

“That’s it?” He couldn’t believe she meant to leave him standing there.

“You want to dry your watch and make sure it works?” she asked.

“Of course it works. It’s water resistant,” he said. “That isn’t the point. Either you’re trying to duck the issue or you want to have a highly personal conversation right here in the hallway. Given the nosiness of your neighbors, I would advise against it.”

A panicky expression crossed her face. It made Chance feel like an ogre for twisting her arm, but darn it, he wasn’t going to let Deirdre escape again. Whatever she was hiding needed to come out in the open.

At least now he knew she wasn’t married. Or an escaped felon. Or any of the other unlikely possibilities that had occurred to him.

“Come on.” He made the decision for her, escorting her inside and closing the door behind them. “Let’s get this over with.”

“That sounds…threatening.”

“Absolutely not,” he said. “I just want to clear the air.”

She took a deep breath. “Okay,” she said, then hesitated, as if thinking things over.

The condo surprised him, when Chance allowed himself to look around. Subconsciously he’d expected to find it flowery and old-fashioned, with a few stuffed animals or dolls tucked among ruffled pillows.

Instead it was subtle with a couple of key focal points. His attention fixed first on a red, orange and pink blanket woven in a jagged design, draped across the back of the off-white couch. Then he noticed, in an opposing corner, a large ceramic planter with a band of molten red against a multitextured blue-gray surface.

Everything else in the room flowed in muted colors and shapes. Chairs, lamps, draperies, all had been selected with a discerning taste.

“Who did your decorating?” He wouldn’t mind hiring the same designer to complete the interior of his house.

“I did.” Nibbling at her lower lip, Daisy edged toward the kitchen. “Would you like coffee?”

“No, but help yourself, if it’ll warm you,” he said. “Better yet, get dressed.”

“I’m not cold.”

“I insist.”

“Are you going to supervise to make sure I put on something warm enough?” Dismay at the implication made her eyes fly open. Definitely green.

“Would you like me to?” Chance hadn’t expected the conversation to take such a flirtatious turn, but he didn’t object. “After your antics at the pool, I’d say a little guidance wouldn’t be amiss.”

“Guidance?” She drew the towel tightly around herself. It failed to hide her slim legs or the graceful curve of her neck. “I’m not your little sister.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Back off.” Her toes curled inside her thong sandals. “I don’t need anyone taking charge of me.”

“All I want is information,” he said. “Why did you bail out on me that night?”

“You know, on second thought you’re right. I’d better put on warm clothes.” Like a will-o’-the-wisp, she vanished into the bedroom, leaving Chance gritting his teeth in frustration.

DAISY STRUGGLED to peel the damp suit from her goose-bumpy flesh. It didn’t help to know that the best-looking man she’d ever met was waiting in the next room and that, by all indications, she had only to summon him and he’d come to undress her, inch by quivering inch.

Undress her and how many other women in the next few days and nights?

She couldn’t tear from her mind the image of him standing in the sunshine, holding that blond woman outside the restaurant. Gazing into her pouty face. Surrounding her with his strength, just as he’d done a few minutes ago to Daisy.

It was unfair that a man should possess such tenderness, such endearing manners—and such a complete lack of faithfulness.

Daisy wasn’t usually a sucker for a ladies’ man. She’d seen how her mother struggled to bring up a child alone, and her heart still bore the scars inflicted by an absentee father.

But there was something different about Chance Foster, a genuine quality that sneaked past her defenses. Should she be honest with him about why she’d left and risk letting him persuade her to try again?

Still debating, Daisy put on a long, hand-dyed dashiki her mother had made and went into the bathroom. She dragged a brush through her hair and stared at herself in the mirror.

Her skin looked more flushed than usual, probably from the sun, or could it be the result of her hormone pills? The doctor had changed her prescription a few months earlier, and she’d been suffering minor side effects.

The reminder of her medical condition threw cold water on temptation. A man like Chance Foster, attractive and successful and popular, would never have the patience to put up with her problems.

The doctor had said she might not be able to have a baby at all. The golden boy of Phoenix wasn’t very likely to choose a wife who couldn’t provide him with suitably golden offspring, was he? Even assuming, and it was a huge long shot, that he ever developed serious intentions toward Daisy.

Perhaps other women could afford to risk their hearts on him. She couldn’t. She needed a kind and undemanding family man who was at no risk of dragging her emotions onto a roller coaster the way her father had done.

No matter how much she wanted to hold Chance Foster one more time, she couldn’t afford to.

Squaring her shoulders, Daisy went to face him.

CHANCE COULDN’T FIGURE OUT why it took a woman so long to throw on a few clothes. On the other hand, he enjoyed knowing that Daisy cared enough about him to take pains with her appearance.

He appreciated women who groomed themselves well. And he knew a lot of them. Chance had heard that other men envied the way he showed up at charity and social events with one beauty after another.

What they didn’t know was that most of the ladies were platonic friends. Few men took the time to listen or to share big brotherly advice, and he’d discovered that women were hungry for uncritical companionship.

He was no monk, of course. There’d been a few lovers during the ten years since he finished law school, when his fiancée broke off their engagement to pursue her dream of a high-powered career.

It was a dream Chance had once shared, but he was a realist about his circumstances. Most of the time, anyway.

He didn’t regret that none of his later relationships had resulted in marriage. The women had been wrong for him, and not ready for marriage, either, in his view.

As a divorce attorney, he’d learned to identify the danger signs. Unrealistic expectations. Financial irresponsibility. Unwillingness to discuss differences of opinion.

Chance had long ago discarded the romantic notion that love was the essential ingredient in marriage, because he’d seen how quickly it could fade under adversity. He knew the keys were mutual respect and compatibility, not head-over-heels passion.

At least he’d thought so until he met Deirdre. He couldn’t explain what had hit him. Heaven knew he’d spent two months trying to talk himself out of his burning desire to see her again, without success.

With Deirdre he felt a new kind of connection. He wanted to linger in her arms, to listen to her breathing, to hear her laughter. When he’d awakened the morning after they’d made love and found her gone, the house had echoed with emptiness.

Chance was flipping through an art magazine, wondering if this was where she got her decorating ideas, when Daisy came out wearing an African-style dress whose soft fabric molded to the contours of her body. The dress was neither stylish nor glamorous, but on her, highly appealing.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

Her reddish-brown hair bobbed as she nodded. It reminded him of the woman he’d seen this afternoon.

“You don’t happen to work at an art gallery, do you?” he said.

“I own one.” Daisy led the way into the kitchen, where she poured herself coffee from a carafe and stuck it in the microwave to reheat. “Native Art, downtown.”

“No wonder you did such a great job of selecting your furnishings.” He made a mental note to visit her gallery. Often. “So you work one block from my office. I haven’t been imagining things.”

“You mean you saw that oddball woman ducking into alleys whenever you walked by?” Daisy shrugged. “That was me.”

“Care to provide an explanation?” he said. “Or do you behave this way with all your lovers?”

She snatched the coffee mug from the microwave, and for a moment he feared she was going to throw it at him. “That was uncalled for.”

“A low blow,” he agreed. “I’m sorry. I’m also still awaiting your answer about why you left that night.”

“I left because I don’t think we’re suited to each other,” she said. “And I was embarrassed. It isn’t my custom to go to bed with strangers.”

“That doesn’t explain why you couldn’t wait until morning to tell me. I thought I’d done something to offend you. You owe me an apology and a lot better reason than you’ve given.”

Chance knew he was pressuring her. Had she been a casual friend, he would have backed off and listened sympathetically. But he had no intention of behaving that way with Daisy.

She’d hurt him, and it was going to hurt him even more if he couldn’t make her change her mind. He wanted more of the excitement that had been missing from his relationships since college. He wanted another chance with this woman.

Daisy sniffed at the coffee and set the cup down without tasting it. “You’re right, it was cowardly. I’m sorry. You have every right to be angry. So I guess you don’t want to see me again, and that’s the end of it.”

“Wrong,” he said.

“You can’t possibly expect—I mean, this is all mixed up. My coffee doesn’t even smell appetizing. I must be really wired.” She paced into the living room. “We should never have—done what we did. What would your sister say? And Phoebe?”

“I can’t imagine why they should object,” Chance returned.

“Oh, they won’t. They’ll fuss. They’ll cheer us on. They’ll shove us together at every possible opportunity,” Daisy said. “They’ll drive us both crazy.”

“So you’re rejecting me because I’m Elise’s brother? And because my sister would approve of our getting involved? That doesn’t make sense.”

Daisy took a stance on the pale carpet. “I answered your question about why I left you. I knew we were wrong for each other, and I was embarrassed. That’s the whole story.”

Chance knew it couldn’t be. His lawyer instincts prodded him to back her into a corner, argue until she broke down and win the case through logic. But if he did that, he would lose any hope of winning her heart.

Instead he said, “Maybe we could start over. You have no reason to be embarrassed now, because I’m not a stranger, and—”

“I didn’t agree to a debate,” she said. “This conversation is over.”

“Are you asking me to go?”

“No hard feelings, but yes.”

For one agonizing moment he held her gaze. She was so much smaller than he but equally strong willed. He’d met his match, he thought. Perhaps in more ways than one.

“I yield the point,” he said. “And, Daisy?”

“Yes?”

“Please stop ducking around corners and nearly drowning yourself to avoid me,” he said. “I’m not an ogre.”

“I’ll remember that,” she said.

Judging by the glint in her eye, Chance knew she was teasing. He just hoped that behind the teasing lay an attraction to match his own.




Chapter Three


He certainly wasn’t an ogre, Daisy thought as she closed the door behind him. He was sexy and bewitching and even a bit vulnerable.

If only she could yield to instinct and haul him into her bedroom. If only she had a heart of cast iron and could simply enjoy the moment.

But Chance had the power to hurt her badly. And eventually he’d do it, either through one big abandonment or through little betrayals over time.

In the meantime he was too forceful. Daisy had nearly backed down beneath his verbal onslaught, had nearly apologized and admitted she’d been wrong.

She didn’t want to back down. She didn’t want a man who could override her better judgment and control her actions.

In her adult life she’d been involved seriously with two men. They’d seemed different from each other on the surface, but underneath they’d been alike.

Commanding. Insistent. Wanting to take charge of her. In both cases, she’d broken things off after a nasty argument.

Maybe it was because she’d grown up without a father or even a grandfather, but in Daisy’s experience it simply wasn’t possible to negotiate with a man. There was no way to share power, only fight or flight.

She needed a low-key fellow who wouldn’t lock horns with her. So why wasn’t she attracted to a guy like that?

Daisy wandered into the kitchen and tried to concentrate on fixing dinner. She couldn’t stop thinking about Chance. The lingering scent of his aftershave drifted from the living room, as if a part of him had permeated her condo.

While using the electric opener on a can of soup, she noticed a white paperback wedged between two cookbooks on the counter. What a relief to discover where she’d stuck it! She’d been afraid a deep-lying emotional reluctance had led her to lose the book her friends had bought her, 2001 Ways to Wed.

The book worked, all right. Using it in an attempt to help Daisy, both Phoebe and Elise had fallen in love.

So far she hadn’t done more than glance through it. But if it could help her find Mr. Right, she’d be able to put Chance Foster out of her mind once and for all.

Daisy opened the book. “Okay, Jane Jasmine,” she said, as if the author were standing in front of her. “What pearls of wisdom do you have to offer me?”

Flipping through the pages, she noted and rejected some of the suggestions. She wasn’t going to meet the man of her dreams at the workplace. Sean O’Reilly, her assistant at the gallery, was a kid of twenty-two, eight years younger than she was.

Nor was she likely to find the man of her dreams next door. She’d already ruled out the brother of her next-door neighbor, Elise. The condo on the other side belonged to a middle-aged married couple with school-age children.

Daisy stopped at a chapter entitled “If He Knew Me, He’d Hate Me—Or Would He?”

All of us fear rejection. And many of us secretly feel unworthy of love. Putting the two areas of anxiety together, we may believe that the object of our interest couldn’t possibly love us as we really are.

So we pretend to be something we aren’t, or we hide our real self deep inside. This is exactly the opposite of what we should do if we want to find true love.

We need to be frank and honest. We need to take the risk of showing our true self to the one we care about.

I’m not suggesting you test your loved one’s devotion by dropping your dirty boots on her spotless floor or unloading a day’s worth of frustration by yelling at him. That’s not honesty, it’s inconsideration.

But if you’re watching his football games and haven’t seen your favorite ice skaters in months, tell him what you like. Look for a way to satisfy both your needs. Don’t hide your interests, your fears, your hopes. Sharing them can only create a stronger bond between the two of you.

Skeptical, Daisy stuck the book back into place. The author’s advice made sense up to a point, but how could she tell a formidable man like Chance Foster that she had run away because she knew that sooner or later he would break her heart?

And, having seen him again, she was more certain of that than ever.

“WHAT WAS ALL THAT ABOUT?” Elise demanded when Chance popped into her condo.

His sister had changed into shorts and a sleeveless buttoned shirt. With her medium-length brown hair clipped back, she looked too young to be a college professor. It was hard sometimes to remember that she was thirty-three and had a Ph.D.

“What was all what about?” he temporized. It had become a habit, as an attorney, to reveal as little as possible while he organized his thoughts.

Plus, Chance felt a natural restraint about revealing his emotions. Perhaps it came from being a big brother and taking a lot of responsibility for his sisters. He’d seen the pressure that having eight children put on his parents and had done his best to spare them from unnecessary worry.

In any case, he didn’t like having other people see his vulnerabilities. Not even Elise.

“I got the notion you and Daisy had met before.” She turned her back and marched into the kitchen. Judging by the onions, mushrooms, eggs and cheese on the counter, she was planning to cook an omelette. “You’re going to have to satisfy my curiosity if you expect me to fix you dinner.”

“I had no such expectation,” he said, although the sight of the ingredients made his mouth water. “And naturally, I wouldn’t dream of preparing one of my kitchen-sink salads unless you answer a few questions I happen to have.”

Chance was famous in the Foster household for salads in which, according to his sisters, he tossed everything but the kitchen sink. Starting with a base of greens and tomatoes, he would hunt through the pantry and come up with sardines or tuna, water chestnuts, cashew nuts, crispy Chinese noodles, garbanzo beans or whatever else was on hand.

Elise cracked a couple of eggs into a bowl and regarded him assessingly. “Well, all right. I’ll bet I can tell plenty about you and Daisy from whatever questions you ask, anyway.”

“You should have been a lawyer.”

“Spare me!” she cried in mock horror. “Two in one family?” She cracked a couple more eggs into the bowl. Elise would never put that many eggs in an omelette unless she was expecting company, Chance noted happily.

“By the way, I came over here to talk to you about your wedding plans,” he said. “As an attorney…”

“If you say one word about James and me needing a prenuptial agreement, I’ll wring your neck!” She chopped the onions hard against the cutting board.

From the refrigerator, Chance fetched the salad’s basic ingredients. “If I were his lawyer, seeing how wealthy he is, I’d insist on it. As your brother, however, I’m delighted that he hasn’t asked for one.”

Elise’s mouth twitched. She was only slightly mollified, he could tell. “Then what did you want to say?”

“That I hope you’ve taken my advice about getting premarital counseling.” Opening the cupboard, he stared at the rows of cans before selecting artichoke hearts and pinto beans. Chopped mild chili peppers. Sliced black olives. And a bag of sunflower seeds.

“We don’t need it.” His sister splashed olive oil into her omelette pan. “We love each other and we’re already on the same wave length.”

“How do you plan to handle finances?” Chance challenged. “Which relatives will you spend Christmas with? How many children do you want? What if you get a once-in-a-lifetime offer to teach at a foreign university?”

“We’ll deal with those issues as they come up.” Elise’s thoughtful expression indicated he’d hit home, however.

“It’s better if you discuss potential areas of conflict before there’s an urgent need,” Chance informed her.

His sister released an exasperated breath. “Don’t you ever stop being bossy?”

“Will I ever stop caring about you? No.” He drained the salad ingredients and tossed them together.

Elise didn’t say any more as she concentrated on pouring the mixture into the pan, letting it cook and deftly folding it. A few minutes later the two of them sat at the table, sharing their creations.

“Tell me about you and Daisy,” she said.

There was no point in playing coy. “I met her at your engagement party.”

She stopped, a forkful of salad halfway to her mouth. “Daisy is Deirdre? I don’t believe it!”

He thanked his innate reserve for the fact that he hadn’t told about taking Deirdre home with him. He’d said only that he’d met a charming woman and wondered if anyone knew her phone number. “To make matters worse, I told her my name was Charles. So she didn’t know who I was, either.”

“And you like each other? How perfect!” Elise crowed. “Phoebe and I have been trying to find a guy for Daisy for months!”

“So you’ve told me,” Chance said. “I don’t understand why. An attractive woman like her should have men swarming around.”

“She’s picky,” his sister said. “We’ve been trying to find the right man.”

“So she’s hard to please.” He poured a little more vinegar and oil on his salad. “Does that mean she’s unreliable? Does she change her mind often?”

“There’s a difference between being discerning and being capricious.” Now Elise sounded like the professor she was instead of like his kid sister. “There’s nothing flighty about Daisy.”

Chance hesitated. There was another thing he wanted to know that might shed light on Daisy’s behavior. It was highly personal, though. “Phoebe mentioned a female condition. I don’t know much about these things.”

Elise set down her fork. “I don’t know if I should tell you.”

“Then don’t.”

Elise stared out the window, considering. “I don’t think Daisy would mind if I explained her condition to you. I’ve heard her tell others about it, people who aren’t that close to her. I think she’s actually trying to educate people about the condition.

“She has endometriosis. The way Daisy explained it, tissue that’s supposed to be lining the uterus appears in other parts of the body. It can be minor or really nasty. Her case is kind of in the middle but getting worse. It can make it hard to have a baby, so if she wants one, she needs to have it soon.”

The possibility that Daisy’s life might be in danger sent an icy wave of fear flooding through Chance. “It isn’t like cancer, is it?”

“No, no!” His sister patted his hand. “The way she explained it, it’s as if a bit of your heart tissue landed in your elbow.”

“Excuse me?”

“It would beat, just like it always does, so you’d have this weird pulsing elbow. So this female tissue, well, it behaves normally, only it’s in the wrong place. That can cause a lot of pain. Especially once a month.”

“I get the picture,” he said.

Chance wasn’t sure whether Daisy’s endometriosis had anything to do with her decision to flee from his house and avoid him afterward. It certainly introduced a complication that would affect any man she married. But a guy worth his salt married for better or for worse, in sickness and in health.

Wait a minute. Why was he thinking about Daisy in connection with marriage?

They weren’t even dating, let alone close to becoming engaged. In fact, she’d just thrown him out of her apartment.

Elise regarded him shrewdly. “So have I put you off my friend?” she asked.

“You mean because she has this condition?” he said. “No.”

“I probably shouldn’t have said anything.” She stood up and carted her dishes to the counter. “Me and my big mouth.”

“I’m your brother.”

“Yeah, but she likes you.”

“You think so?” The observation lifted his spirits.

“I’ve seen Daisy around a lot of guys,” Elise said. “You’re different. It wasn’t anything she said or did, exactly. It was that, well, I could tell she was aware of you every second.”

He waited, hoping for more concrete details of the way she’d looked at him, or a comment she’d made after the party.

“You’re doing the dishes, right?” said his sister, seemingly unaware of his hunger for more details about the elusive Daisy.

ALL FRIDAY MORNING Daisy’s stomach churned. At first she thought she might be coming down with a virus, but toward lunchtime she got hungry.

It wasn’t the first time she’d felt queasy since the doctor changed her medication. It hadn’t helped that, lacking medical insurance because she was self-employed, Daisy had allowed a few weeks to elapse while she waited to have her new prescription filled through a cheap mail-order pharmacy.

Going on and off medication must have played havoc with her hormones. Yet she couldn’t justify the cost of another doctor visit when she felt certain the situation would resolve itself as her system adjusted.

“You feeling better?” asked her assistant, Sean, as he carted a collage from Gallery III into the back room. They had to take down one exhibit and put up the new one today.

“Yes. In fact, I’m starving,” she admitted. “Is that the last piece?”

“All done,” he confirmed.

Daisy stepped into the bare-walled gallery. She’d been visualizing the new exhibit ever since she’d arranged for the one-woman show months ago. It would be the artist’s first major exhibit in the United States, and invitations to Saturday night’s wine and cheese opening had been mailed last week.

Shakira Benjamin was a gifted African-American painter and teacher who’d had a studio in Germany before relocating to Mesa, near Phoenix, about a year ago. Daisy felt lucky to have her affiliated with the gallery.

“What now?” asked Sean, joining her. A recent college graduate, he wore his blond hair long and unstyled, hanging over the shoulders of a blue workshirt.

As usual, bits of sawdust clung to his jeans. The loft where he lived and worked on his wood sculptures was no doubt coated with the stuff.

“We’ll need to put these up.” She indicated a pile of rough-textured cloths in the three primary colors.

The artist’s acrylic paintings placed superrealistic images of people on impressionistic backgrounds, in sepia or black-and-white tones reminiscent of old photographs. The overall effect would be harsh without offsetting color on the walls.

Daisy’s favorite was a painting of two Native American children, one in traditional buckskin and the other in modern clothes, playing a game that resembled jacks. The blurry background might be viewed as either a cluster of ancient multilevel pueblos or as a modern cityscape.

“Okay, where do you want me to hang this?” Sean picked up a yellow burlap rectangle.

“I’ll show you.” Daisy fetched a folding ladder and placed it against the back wall. As she climbed, a momentary light-headedness made her halt. “Wow. I must be hungrier than I thought.”

“Do you want me to make a sandwich run?”

“In a minute.” After descending, she handed Sean a sketch she’d made, showing how the rectangles should be draped to complement the paintings. “Think you can handle it?”

“Sure.” His can-do attitude, which she’d appreciated when he first came here as a student intern, was the reason she’d hired him. Working alongside him, she had learned she could rely on his excellent artistic judgment.

“We probably won’t be able to finish mounting everything and adjusting the lights till tomorrow.” Daisy hoped the light-headedness was only a temporary phenomenon, because it was going to be a busy day. “I’ve got a commitment in the afternoon for a few hours, so we’ll have to do it early.”

“Okay by me.”

She didn’t mind that Elise and Phoebe had more or less coerced her into going shopping with them on Saturday afternoon. All the same, she hoped they found dresses quickly.

Bells jingled as the front door opened. Daisy brushed lint off her ivory blouse and calf-length, striped tan and blue skirt—one of her mother’s creations—and went to check on the visitor.

Bright daylight silhouetted Chance Foster’s well-built frame. Even when the door closed, the glare faded slowly, and it was a moment before she realized he was carrying a pizza and a carton of drinks.

His self-possessed stance and the welcoming indentation in his cheek couldn’t hide the hunger in his gaze. How could a man look so pleasantly accommodating and so virile at the same time?

“I hope you haven’t eaten,” he said.

Before Daisy could reply, Sean appeared at her elbow. “Wow!” he said. “You sent out?” Then he noticed Chance’s tailored suit. “Must be some snazzy restaurant if their delivery guys dress like this!”

“We aim to please.” Chance set the pizza and drinks on a low front table that held informational pamphlets. “Chance Foster. I’m a friend of Daisy’s.” Sean introduced himself, and the two men shook hands.

It would be rude to reject his offering of food after he’d gone to so much trouble, Daisy told herself. Besides, the scents of cheese and spices were enough to overpower even the most iron will. “Thanks,” she said.

“It’s Mexican-style pizza.” Chance cleared the pamphlets aside while Sean fetched folding chairs. Ordinarily Daisy ate in the back room, but it would be cramped for the three of them, so she didn’t protest.

A middle-aged couple wandered into the gallery. They smiled at the lunchtime tableau and began browsing through the Gallery I exhibit of beaded jewelry and headdresses.

The hot sausage and chili peppers on the pizza gave Daisy a moment’s pause. She was too hungry to resist, however, and found that they didn’t upset her stomach as much as she’d feared.

“I work a block away,” Chance explained to Sean. “I’m a family law attorney.”

“So how do you two know each other?” the young man asked guilelessly.

“His sister…”

“…lives next door…”

“…ran into each other…”

“…engagement party.”

They finished at the same time. Sean regarded them with a puzzled expression. “I see.”

“Actually, my interest in Daisy is partly professional.” Chance managed to eat his pizza without getting cheese on his chin, a trick that Sean hadn’t mastered, Daisy noted.

“She needs a lawyer?” the young man asked.

“Not my profession. Hers.” Chance handed around cups of soft drinks. “I need artwork for my house and I could use her expert advice.”

Daisy hoped he wasn’t suggesting that she visit his house again. She also hoped this wasn’t a ploy to get her back into his bed. “I could show you our portfolio of artists.”

The middle-aged couple stopped nearby. “Can I help you?” Daisy asked. When they nodded, Sean went to assist them in trying on jewelry.

“I need more than a few items.” Chance spoke coolly, in a low voice. “I’m a strong believer in seeing the big picture, and when it comes to art, I lack your ability to visualize a room in advance.”

Daisy took a deep breath. “From what I’ve seen of your house…”

“You’ll need to take another look. In daylight.” He wasn’t asking, she realized. Chance had made his decision and expected her to go along with it.

“But…”

“I want the whole effect carefully thought out. It’s going to involve getting a few items of new furniture, too, and repainting if necessary. I realize you’re not an interior designer, but the sculpture and paintings will be the focus.”

Daisy wanted to refuse. She didn’t like being railroaded, and she didn’t want to venture into Chance Foster’s house again.

Sitting across from him in her gallery, despite the nearness of Sean and the customers, her whole body sparkled with the man’s energy. The restraint in his gray eyes and elegant suit only emphasized the contours of his body and the potent sexuality she remembered all too vividly.

She wasn’t sure she could stay out of Chance’s bed. Alone in his house…

“We’re talking about a large expenditure,” he went on. “When I bought the house, I budgeted a considerable sum for art. It’s time I spent it.”

Unfair! she wanted to cry. Even a successful gallery like Native Art operated on a thin profit margin. She couldn’t afford to pass up this opportunity. Besides, Daisy owed it to her artists to do her best for them.

And, she recalled, that night when she entered his house, he’d apologized for the sparse furnishings and mentioned that one of these days he was going to buy paintings. So he wasn’t simply manipulating her.

She assumed an impersonal tone. “I represent dozens of artists. I’m sure we can find special pieces for you.”

The couple made a purchase and left, and Sean rejoined them. “What did I miss?”

“Miss Redford is going to take a look at my house this afternoon and make recommendations.” Chance wiped his hands on a napkin and stood up. “I leave work early on Fridays. Pick you up around three, all right? Nice to meet you, Sean.” With a friendly nod, he departed.

Daisy sat motionless, stunned. She hadn’t agreed to go to his house so soon, or to ride with him, either.

“Seems like a nice guy.” Sean took another bite of pizza. “Hey, don’t worry. Using your outline, I can get the show mounted by myself. Fridays are always slow anyway.”

“Let’s see how much progress we can make before three o’clock,” she said.

Daisy knew when she’d been outmaneuvered. Well, she could hold her own with Chance Foster and she was going to prove it to him.




Chapter Four


Chance hadn’t intended to corral Daisy into touring his house that afternoon. He’d gone by her gallery in a polite attempt to reestablish a friendly relationship and to ask for a professional consultation.

Something about the woman brought out the bossy side of him, he admitted as he finished making notes for a custody brief to write over the weekend.

Maybe it was the way she never gave an inch. And why did she have to employ a peppy young assistant who hovered over her adoringly?

She’d looked so cute in that demure long skirt, with a strand of auburn hair clinging to one cheek. And so surprised to see him, as if she weren’t sure how to react. Chance had instinctively seized the advantage.

He wished he knew what it was about her that he found so captivating. It seemed unlikely she would fit his standards for the ideal wife, in light of the way she’d run from him and then refused to give a credible explanation.

Reliability and communication. Those were two musts that he would include if he ever wrote A Lawyer’s Guide to Making Matrimony Work.

Probably no one would buy it, though, even if he did. In his observation, people were irrational when it came to marriage.

Chance copied his notes from the computer’s hard drive onto a diskette and dropped it in his briefcase. At his home office, he kept a library of legal references on CD-ROM, so he didn’t have to cart heavy books home.

It was a quarter to three, which meant that, if he left now, he should arrive at the gallery right on the hour. Perfect timing suited Chance.

In his front office he found Nell Beecham closing the books for the week. The secretary whipped around to regard him sternly.

“Leaving fifteen minutes early, Mr. Foster?” she asked. At sixty-seven, Nell brought nearly a half century of experience to the job, along with strong opinions about how people ought to behave. Including her boss.

“I’m picking someone up at three,” he said.

Her frown mutated into an approving half smile. “Good. You’ll be on time.” If he thought he’d passed inspection, however, Chance had congratulated himself too soon. “I don’t recall setting up an appointment for you.”

When he’d hired Nell, one of his friends had warned that he would be getting a mother figure in the office. Chance didn’t mind.

For one thing, top-notch secretaries were hard to find. For another, as the oldest of eight children, he’d filled the role of a quasiadult for so long that he was on more or less equal terms with his own parents, so he figured he could handle an office mother as well.

“It’s the owner of the Native Art gallery,” he told her. “I’m consulting her about my house.”

“Some of the objects they display are a bit odd,” she said. “I’m not a fan of modern art myself. However, they have an excellent reputation.”

“I’ll be the one who makes the final decisions,” he assured her. “Have a lovely weekend.”

“Don’t forget you’re due in court Monday morning,” she said.

“I won’t.” He didn’t have to remind her about locking up and depositing the week’s checks. Nell Beecham was as reliable as a bank president.

She kept her private life to herself, though. Although she’d mentioned her grown children, the only pictures on her desk were of her two Siamese cats.

He wondered what she did in her spare time. A woman as energetic and organized as Nell wouldn’t likely sit around knitting cat booties. Still, he didn’t intend to get nosy.

Traffic was heavy, Chance found when his sports car exited the parking garage, but he didn’t mind. He liked working in a high-rise, metropolitan area with easy access to suburbs.

In recent years Phoenix had become a haven for the winter weary, and while the migration was good for business, it resulted in L.A.-style jams. The inconvenience was worth the price, in his opinion.

Still, he didn’t have the big-city career he’d once aspired to. Although Phoenix was thriving, it couldn’t compare in significance to New York or the nation’s capital.

Sometimes Chance felt a stirring of regret at not having pushed harder to follow in his former fiancée Gillian’s footsteps. The last he’d heard, she’d made junior partner at her Washington, D.C. law firm and was handling a high-profile case against the government.

The thought of bringing his skills to a case like that gave Chance a jolt of adrenaline. It would be a great feeling, a rush almost like sex.

He double-parked in front of Native Art and was wondering whether to dash inside or go around through the alley when Daisy swung out with a farewell wave to someone inside. The youthful, devoted Sean O’Reilly, no doubt. If the young man ever quit, Chance wondered if Nell Beecham had a contemporary she could recommend as a replacement.

Daisy slid into the low passenger seat. The slit in her long skirt bared one shapely leg, until she tugged it into place and dropped a portfolio in her lap.

Clover, he thought. Or honey, that was what she smelled like.

“Busy afternoon?” he asked.

“We had to lug a bunch of paintings around,” Daisy said. “We have an exhibit opening tomorrow night.”

He recalled seeing a poster inside the gallery. “Shakira Benjamin, right?”

“Yes. Some of her work might suit you,” Daisy said. “You’re welcome to stop by. We’ll have wine and cheese, and our regular clients are interesting people.”

She sounded all business. Chance respected professionalism in a woman. But he wished the invitation were for something a little more personal.

Daisy stared out her window as the flat, grid-pattern streets of the city flew by and they eased into the suburbs. She made no attempt at idle conversation.

Chance remembered what Elise had said about Daisy’s medical condition. He hoped she wasn’t in pain.

A man wanted to protect people he cared about. Especially women, and especially one as open-spirited and vulnerable as Daisy. He was particularly sympathetic to her fears about infertility.

Kids were precious. Chance didn’t have a strong urge to become a father anytime soon, but he treasured the future possibility.

Of course, Daisy and the man she married could adopt children if she were unable to conceive. In the adoption cases Chance had handled, he’d been impressed by how quickly love and bonding occurred.

Startled, he realized that he’d once again associated Daisy with marriage. Was there such a thing as a male biological clock?

This whole attraction might be a simple matter of timing. But he doubted it.

Twenty minutes later they reached the suburb where he lived. Custom designed on a large lot secluded by low walls, the home had been on the market a year ago and he’d had to outbid two other would-be purchasers.

They passed through the gate and followed the curving driveway between low granite boulders and clumps of desert vegetation. The low-lying house might have sprung up by itself, so naturally did its red-tiled roof and salmon stucco walls fit into the landscape.

“It looks different in daylight,” Daisy said. “I didn’t realize how well the colors blended with the desert.”

“I’ve had the landscaping updated around the front and in the courtyard.” Chance parked beneath a carport. “The previous owner had tropical tastes that wasted a lot of water.”

“I see what you mean about putting everything into a larger picture.” Daisy scampered out of the car while he was still unfolding his long legs.

He caught up with her in front of the house and they strolled past relaxed plantings of golden yarrow and white blackfoot daisies. Loose material crunched underfoot. One of the first things Chance had done was to tear out the stark sidewalk and replace it with a naturalistic path of crumbly decomposed granite.

“You could use a bit of height out here,” Daisy said. “I know several sculptors whose work would fit right in. In fact, we’ve got an exhibit in one of our galleries that might appeal to you.”

“I’ll take a look during the opening tomorrow.”

He unlocked the wide door and they stepped into the tile entryway, off which opened an expansive sunken living room. Beyond it, vertical blinds gave a striped glimpse of a walled rear courtyard.

“You’ve got a great setting for a sculpture garden,” Daisy said. “This could be a real showplace. I presume that’s what you have in mind?”

“Absolutely.” At least, it had been in his mind—until she walked into his home.

Now Chance found it difficult to concentrate on anything except her scintillating presence and the memory of a night two months ago when they’d made love, starting right here in the front room.

He forced himself to pay attention to Daisy’s insights about his home as they walked through the airy rooms. From time to time Daisy stopped to open her portfolio and show him photos of artists’ work. Paintings, weavings, sculpture, ceramics.

She understood the effect he wanted and was able to articulate it in a way Chance couldn’t, because he lacked the vocabulary of color and texture. She also noted where a love seat, small table or other furniture would fit into the scheme.

“If you want custom furniture, I know craftsmen who can make it for you,” she said.

“I’m impressed. Did you always have an instinct for art, or did you have to study?”

“Both.” Now that they’d completed their circuit, Daisy lowered the portfolio onto a table. They were standing where the family room joined the kitchen. “I studied design and ceramics at community college, but I’ve always been around artists. My mother designs and makes costumes. She dyes her own fabrics, too.”

“Let’s take a look at the rest of that portfolio,” he said, and pulled a chair out, offering it to Daisy.

Her cheeks flushing with enthusiasm, Daisy flipped open the heavy book. Beneath clear plastic sheets, the photographs showed artists, their studios and a sampling of available pieces.

Many of the sculptors, Chance learned, were willing to create a piece on commission to fit the scale of a space or environment. He would be able to approve preliminary sketches and models.

Collecting art wasn’t as simple as walking into a store and making his selections, he realized. It was far more exciting and personal.

Daisy lived and breathed art and understood her business. Chance would have been grateful to find her even if she didn’t make his heart beat faster.

But despite his interest in the portfolio, he had a hard time not focusing on the fullness of her lips as she spoke. And on the swell of her breasts beneath the ivory blouse, close to where his hand rested on the table.

Daisy’s presence and the lingering June sunlight made him forget the time, until his stomach reminded him. It was, Chance saw by his watch, nearly six o’clock.

“I’ll contact the artists,” he said. They’d decided on half a dozen people whose visions suited his taste.

“Just let me know what you order so I can follow up. Some artists have a tendency to get distracted,” Daisy said. “I’ll handle the billing, as well.”

“Of course.” It was time to take her home, but he didn’t want to. “How about dinner? I’ve got salmon steaks we could grill, and I’ll make one of my famous salads. Did Elise tell you about them?”

She shook her head. “I’m intrigued. But you don’t have to feed me, especially not twice in one day.”

“I’ve got to eat, too,” he said. “And I prefer company.”

Apparently he’d hit the right offhand tone, because she smiled instead of beating a retreat. “What can I fix?”

“How are you at microwaving baked beans?” he asked. “That’s what I had in mind for a side dish.”

Daisy flexed her forefinger. “I work out on the microwave daily.”

Chance took her hand on the pretense of examining her finger muscles. It felt warm and dry and small in his big one. “You’re in prime shape, I can see.”

“Speaking of prime shape…” Her gaze lingered on the white shirt clinging to his chest. He’d removed his jacket and tie earlier, relieved to be free of the constraints. “I didn’t see a home gym, but you must work out.”

“I wear weights while I jog every morning,” he said. “And I’ve got a routine of push-ups and sit-ups. You don’t need special equipment for that.”

She tore her attention away. A pinkish tone to her cheeks indicated she realized she’d been staring at him.

Chance’s body responded with an infusion of heat and tension. It seemed so artificial, this gulf between them, when they were already lovers. Yet anything he said or did to change the situation was likely to spook her.

“Let’s start cooking,” he said. “I’m starved.”

“You and me both.”

They worked together companionably. Instead of asking where things were kept, Daisy examined his drawers and cabinets for herself until she found the can of Boston beans, a microwave-safe casserole and a serving spoon. Chance liked her initiative.

While he grilled the salmon in the courtyard, he reflected that he hadn’t cooked with a woman other than one of his sisters since he’d moved into this house. He’d had a few girlfriends at his previous place, a tract home, but had found it awkward trying to cook as they peppered him with queries.

The food tasted delicious, and for once Daisy didn’t give the impression of trying to edge away from him. As they talked, she wore the same rapt expression as on their first night.

“I’m amazed at how much you’ve accomplished. Buying this house, for instance,” she said. “Elise told me you put yourself through law school and helped pay for your younger sisters’ education as well. It can’t have been easy.”

No, it hadn’t been. “I didn’t mind the long hours,” Chance said. “And, as you can see, I’ve come out well enough. There’s only one thing I regret.”

“What’s that?”

He’d never admitted this to anyone before. “I wanted to get top grades and make the law review, but I couldn’t quite manage it while working so many hours. That bothered me for quite a while.”

“What if you had made the law review?” Daisy asked. “How would your life be different?”

No wasted sympathy, no superficial reassurances that it didn’t matter. She’d cut right to the heart of the matter.

“I’d probably be in Washington or New York right now, handling cases on which the future of a company or an industry was riding,” he said. “That’s what my former fiancée is doing.”

She finished a forkful of salmon before asking, “Is that what you really wish you were doing?”

Chance leaned back in his chair. “I envy Gillian sometimes. Remember the Robert Frost poem about two paths diverging in a yellow wood, and how he could have taken either one?”

Daisy nodded. “We read it in school.”

“Sometimes I think it’s still there, that fork in the road, that path I might have taken,” he admitted.

“Are you tempted to go back and take the other path?”

He supposed he was, but high-stakes careers didn’t land in a man’s lap. “The opportunity will never arise unless I fight for it,” he said. “And I’m too comfortable to do that.”





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