No More Mr. Nice Guy

by Jennifer Greene

  No More Mr. Nice Guy

  By Jennifer Greene

  Carroll Laker knows she’s found the marrying kind in Alan Smith. The pediatrician is everything a woman could want in a husband—he’s kind, dependable, patient. Maybe too patient: even though they spend Saturday mornings house-hunting, they’ve yet to spend a night in bed together. And suddenly Carroll starts fantasizing about what it would be like to be wildly, wantonly, passionately in love…

  Alan has wanted to marry Carroll since the moment he met her. When he senses he’s on the verge of losing her, he decides it’s time to loosen up. If Carroll needs excitement and seduction, that’s exactly what he’ll give her. From orchids and exotic foods to midnight canoe rides and dancing till dawn, Alan will do anything to sweep Carroll off her feet and into his bed.

  At first, Carroll is delighted by the romantic gestures. But she can’t help but wonder: Will the new Alan love her forever the way the old Alan would have?

  Previously published.

  44,000 words

  Dear Reader,

  I’d forgotten how much I loved this book, until Carina Press gave me the chance to work with it again. I have to confess…I wrote this story for me, as much as I wrote it for readers.

  Then—just like now—romances tend to portray a fantasy hero. Readers always seem to prefer the alpha guys over the “nice men”—the contemporary swashbuckler over an ordinary type of guy. Gentlemen just aren’t sexy. Right?

  Well…that’s what bugged me. Sometimes the nice guys ARE the heroes. Sometimes a man could be overlooked—when maybe, beneath a quiet exterior, he’s the most romantic, the best lover, the most incomparable mate…for the right woman.

  Nice guys shouldn’t finish last. So…I had to give one of the quiet guys a book about them…and about a heroine who had the brilliance to snatch him up before another woman figured out what a gem he was.

  What a joy to see so many wonderful stories come from Carina Press…a chance to reread some great keepers, to find authors we’d never tried before, and to explore what love means—to and for all of us.

  I hope you enjoy the story—and don’t hesitate to contact me, either on Facebook or through my website (www.jennifergreene.com). I love to hear from readers!

  Jennifer Greene

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  “Whoops!” If she hadn’t been precariously balancing a tray of champagne glasses, Carroll would have been happy to disappear from the kitchen again. As it was, she set the tray hastily on the counter with a rattling plunk. “I swear there isn’t a room in the house safe from the two of you!”

  Stéphane, her sister’s new fiancé, removed his hands from Nancy long enough to offer a bold grin. Nancy just chuckled. “I can’t control him,” she confessed.

  That Carroll already knew. Certainly a houseful of people hadn’t inhibited Stéphane’s amorous behavior where her sister was concerned.

  It didn’t matter. All that mattered to Carroll was that beneath the sophisticated trappings of red silk and a frothy hairstyle, Nancy was glowing.

  Nancy was also leaving, with a not very subtle wink at Stéphane. “This is probably the only chance my two favorite people are going to have to get to know each other in this madhouse,” she said deliberately. Seconds later, the door to the dining room was swinging shut behind her.

  Silence swept through the kitchen on the back-swing. Carroll covered it by immediately and noisily filling her mother’s sink with sudsy water. Normally comfortable with people, she was finding it strangely difficult to feel at ease with her future brother-in-law.

  Twenty-four hours ago, Nancy had simply flown in from Quebec with Stéphane in tow. In itself, that wasn’t surprising. Nance did everything in whirlwind fashion, a characteristic she’d inherited from their mother. And while the two other Laker women panicked, Carroll had spent the afternoon between the store, telephone and kitchen, organizing the impromptu engagement party that was now in full swing. Nothing to it, really. Carroll had always been the practical one in the family.

  Being practical suited her. Being itchy-restless and irritable as she’d been all this evening certainly didn’t, but banishing the odd mood was somehow harder with Stéphane standing there.

  The small city of Lafayette, Indiana, didn’t raise men like Stéphane, she thought. Men who looked as if they’d been born in tuxedos. Men with deliciously wild eyes. Men who exuded virility with the simple act of breathing. Men with slight French accents and a way of looking at a woman…well. Carroll held up a glass to inspect it for water spots. Hell’s bells. How was she supposed to hold a conversation with a man like that? “You’re surviving meeting every Laker relative from here to Poughkeepsie?” she asked lightly.

  “Not Aunt Harriet.”

  “No one survives Aunt Harriet,” she assured him.

  “Then, too, my Nance does have her share of third cousins,” Stéphane added dryly, tipping a glass of champagne to his lips. “On the other hand, you and your parents are the only ones who are really important to her.”

  “You’re not worried, are you? You won over Mom and Dad in thirty seconds flat.”

  “Worried about your parents—no.” Stéphane’s midnight-blue eyes slid over her with the skill of a man who knew women. Lots of women. Carroll felt her cream-colored angora sweater and gray slacks promptly stripped and a naked twenty-seven-year-old speech therapist revealed, right down to the dimple on her fanny. “But I think you’ve reserved judgment about me so far, haven’t you, Carroll?”

  His perception embarrassed her. She’d never meant to let on that he made her feel uncomfortable. “I hardly know you.”

  “We met hours ago,” he reminded her. “Long enough to form a first impression.”

  Carroll dipped her hand in the water, but there wasn’t a single glass left to be washed. She reached for the dish towel, not looking at him. “You brought my sister home dripping with diamonds…”

  “Which didn’t impress you in the slightest.”

  “No,” she admitted, and flashed him a smile. “I’ve never been much good at warming up to strangers, but I guarantee that if you make Nance happy, I’ll drown you in so much love and approval that you won’t know what hit you.”

  Stéphane laughed, throwing back his head. “I like you, Carroll—and I have every intention of making your sister happy. Truce?”

  She hadn’t been aware there was a war. She also hadn’t been aware that he’d had any intention of suddenly leaning closer. His mouth touched hers; she tasted the dangerous flavor of an experienced kiss thief, caught the whiff of sandalwood and musk. When he straightened, his palm lingered a second on her chin. “Your sister’s going to give me nothing but trouble, you know. You’re the kind of woman I always wanted to fall in love with, but there you have it. She’s the one—was, is and will be. You can trust me, Carroll.”

  Wonderful, she thought dizzily.

  Seconds later, Stéphane left the kitchen. She knew darn well he’d meant nothing by the kiss. He’d already kissed half the women at the party. Some men were all dark hair, dark eyes, charm, and trouble. Nance could handle him. Carroll shuddered at the thought of even trying. Still…

  Guilt was wanting your toes to tingle when a strange man kissed you. Particularly when you intended to marry another man.

  She looked down at her hands, the same hands that seemed intent on drying and redrying themselves on the kitchen tow
el. Tossing the towel aside, she took a breath, and desperately wanted Alan.

  But instead of searching him out, she ducked into the bathroom down the hall, whisked a lipstick from her purse and bent toward the vanity mirror to apply it. Her reflection showed a frowning woman. It was an average sort of frown.

  And the average frown was backed up by a half dozen other average features… Spaniel-brown eyes, an oval face with delicately arched brows, and a short, windswept hair style. Her hair color was sort of blond and sort of brown, almost streaky-looking but nothing really striking. Decent figure, nothing special. To give herself credit, she had terrific skin…if a man waxed poetic over complexions. Carroll had never had a man wax poetic over anything about her, and would have been annoyed if one had.

  She’d always liked her looks just fine. Anyway, mature adult women didn’t want glib flattery. Mature adult women didn’t want an Adonis who attracted other women like moths to a flame and took effusive public displays of affection for granted. They wanted a man they could count on through thick and thin. Carroll was a mature adult woman. Objectively, she had no interest in a relationship with a man like Stéphane.

  Unobjectively, and probably as a result of two glasses of champagne, she wished she could be less sensible for about thirty short minutes. No longer than that. She’d just like to be kidnapped by a swashbuckling, womanizing, sexy hero-type for one quick fling before she settled down for good. The thought, of course, was idiotic, and promoted more guilt. Alan was absolutely everything she could want in a mate. Everything. It was just…

  A rap on the door made her chin jerk up. Nancy’s head popped in. Within seconds, her sister had perched on the edge of the porcelain tub just as she’d done a thousand times when they were growing up. There were three bathrooms in the house, but this was the one where they’d discussed the truly critical issues in life, like boys, grades, first bras and where babies came from.

  In scarlet silk and spike heels, Nancy looked more polished these days, but her pretty features could still hold that so-young vulnerability when they were alone together. “Well? Did you two have a second to talk? You do like him, don’t you, Carroll?”

  Carroll dropped the lipstick into her purse and took a good look at Nancy’s deliriously happy smile. “Of course I like him,” she reassured.

  Nancy sighed. “He’s wildly romantic. And impulsive. And heaven knows, he’s attractive to other women. He won’t be the easiest man to hold…”

  “You’ll manage.” If anyone could hold the devil who’d kissed her in the kitchen, Carroll laid odds on her sister.

  “Did I show you the earrings he gave me?”

  Only about forty times, but Carroll obediently bent to study the full-carat rocks in her sister’s earlobes. “Gorgeous.”

  “I couldn’t say no to him the first time I met him. That’s just it, Caro. Even after all this time, it’s still the same when he touches me,” Nancy confessed. The dreamy look on her face gradually drifted away. Her lightly penciled brows arched in a scolding frown. “And you didn’t say a word in your letters about your Alan! Here you’re practically at the altar yourself.”

  “He hasn’t asked me,” Carroll said hastily.

  “He will. Caro, he seems like a wonderful man. I’ve been worried about you for so long…”

  “Me?” Carroll said with surprise. No one ever worried about her. No one needed to, and that was how she liked it.

  “You,” her sister affirmed, and then grinned. “I certainly hope you’re sleeping with him. And don’t give me that look. For years you’ve needed a little good solid sin in your life.”

  “On a level with one-a-day vitamins?”

  “Don’t joke. You’ve always needed a man to whisk the caution right out from under you. Make you take down your hair…”

  “That would be tough. I’m wearing it short.”

  “…sweep you right off your feet…”

  “Sounds like a bruise on the rear end to me.”

  Nancy stood up in a swirl of silk and Shalimar. “So you’re not sleeping with him yet,” she said sagely, in that patronizing tone of voice Carroll had nearly killed her for several times when they were teenagers. “Funny. I took one look at your Alan and figured him for a smart man.”

  “He is an extremely intelligent man.”

  “A sweetheart. I loved him on sight,” Nancy affirmed. “I just figured he had more sense.”

  “We’ve only been seriously dating for the last couple of months,” Carroll said irritably.

  “And you’ve got him terrified into believing you have to be treated c-a-r-e-f-u-1-l-y. You’ve been doing that to men ever since I can remember.”

  “What on earth are you talking about? Is there something wrong with getting to know someone before you jump into bed with him?”

  “Nope.” Nancy flashed her mischievous smile and opened the door. “Only you’ve never held out on a man because of principles, Caro. In fact, I’ll bet your fantasies are a thousand times wilder than mine. You just always intimidated the boys by being so good, I think you’ve got yourself fooled. Want me to explain all this to Alan?”

  “If you want your funeral to precede your wedding.”

  “I was just going to tell him that it’s all right to take off your halo,” Nancy said in an injured tone.

  Carroll shook her head, suddenly laughing. “Two years in a big city didn’t change you, thank heavens.”

  “Was it supposed to?”

  “No.”

  Laughing, arms around each other, the sisters joined the party. The Lakers’ blue-and-white living room smelled of spicy canapes, champagne and various perfumes. David Laker owned an insurance agency; Maud taught drama at Purdue. Between David, Maud and their daughters, the family knew nearly everyone in Lafayette—and the whole town seemed to have turned out for the party.

  The mood from room to room was magical. Anyone with a lick of sense could look at Nancy and Stéphane and guess the marriage would have its share of problems. No one cared. Everyone loves a lover, Carroll thought absently. Wandering through the crowded living room, she paused for the dozenth time to watch Stéphane and Nancy together.

  He looked at Nancy as if she were forbidden fruit. Nance’s face was flushed, as if every stolen kiss were dangerous and delicious. And every time Carroll looked at them, she could feel that annoyingly restless mood steal up on her again.

  She knew what she wanted from her life. She was sure of herself, her values, her feelings. Just once, though, it would be nice to be that wanted, by any man. To be that foolish, that crazy in love, that silly with it, that wildly, dramatically, giddily oblivious to the whole damn world.

  Where was Alan?

  She finally tracked him down in the den, trapped in a conversational circle with several young mothers—not surprisingly. Alan Smith was a pediatrician, and at every gathering they’d ever been to he was plucked for free advice.

  One look at him and she told herself she felt safe again. Alan was the kind of man whom a stranger instinctively trusted. He was also the kind of man who reached back and enclosed her hand in his when he couldn’t possibly have seen her come up behind him. Security was the hello-again of his five fingers laced between hers.

  The patter was all about measles symptoms, then whether aspirin was more effective than non-aspirin pain relievers. She’d heard the conversation before, which allowed her a moment to study Alan seriously as she hadn’t studied him in a long time.

  He wasn’t a Stéphane. He wasn’t a wildly romantic adventurer; he wasn’t a man who spoke French and knew women far too well; he wasn’t…a hero.

  Alan was just a man. A good man, and it showed in everything about him. His voice was deep and quiet, with the soothing quality of heated brandy on an icy day. He wasn’t overly tall; his Brooks Brothers suit was inevitably gray, and his conservative tie was inevitably just a little askew. Warm brown hair framed clean-cut, square features. He moved quietly, like the man he was, and his dark blue eyes always se
emed to hold a smile. At thirty-three, he already had a network of fine lines around his eyes, character lines that reflected the compassion, intelligence and patience that were so much a part of him.

  Heaven knew Alan had been patient with her. They’d known each other for six months and had been seriously dating for two. No man waited that long without pressing to sleep with a woman. Why should he? Any female in her right mind would have said yes long before this.

  And Carroll had wanted to say yes, except that these past two months, when he gently steered the conservation toward houses and children, she knew that an invitation to bed was an invitation to marriage as well. Alan wasn’t the type to play games. He was the type to love and be loved, and Carroll did love him. She’d never wanted a wild seducer with wicked eyes; she’d never wanted a Stéphane. She wanted the warmth of a fire, not the burn of it.

  So why on earth was she still holding back from him?

  Alan turned, finally able to separate himself from the others. He flashed her a smile that was uniquely Alan, warm and reassuring. She smiled back, yet that strange panic suddenly assaulted her full force. The “something” was wrong with her, not Alan; she knew that. But knowing that didn’t make it go away. As if a black cat had darted in front of her, she had the sudden urge to hold on tighter, to hurry-hurry them both away from the crowd before something terrible could happen.

  She did no such thing, of course. “I didn’t mean to desert you for so long,” she said lightly. “My sister sidetracked me and—”

  “Of course she did. You two haven’t seen each other in months. I expected that.”

  And understood. Alan always understood. Understanding was such a rare quality in a man, but just once Carroll wished he were slightly less understanding and more inclined to steal her off to a corner and kiss her senseless.

  Actually, she would have killed him if he’d done any such thing.

  Really, it would be tremendously helpful if someone would simply pour a bucket of cold water over her head before this ridiculous mood went too far.