I'm Luke Foster, 32, never married. I own a consulting business called Solid Solutions. You may have heard of it. I need you because I have an extended family with an unwarranted and disturbing interest in seeing me paired off, and apparently anything female qualifies.
Make me your stand-in and I'll send you flowers every day. Meet me. The sooner the better.
I'm waiting to hear from you.
Luke
* * * *
His bold, slashing signature told Jordan that here was a man who left his mark. Luke Foster? The local financial expert featured in magazines and newspapers? The Luke Foster needed her?
Well, it just went to show that money didn't solve everything. He had family problems, too.
Jordan glanced back over the letter and grinned. She might have heard of his business? He did have a sense of humor. She'd have to live in a cave not to have heard of it. No matter what opinion her brothers held, she did not live in a cave.
Apparently, he was willing to resort to bribery to persuade her. He'd given her the advantage of retaining anonymity while he revealed himself, and of choosing the time and place if she even chose to meet him. Only a very confident man would give her the upper hand like that.
Or a very chivalrous one. Maybe her “Single Man” was the last rescuing knight in existence.
Whatever, he was certainly worth meeting. There were plenty of respectable cafes and coffee shops. Any one of those would have people there at all hours. As good a meeting place as any, Jordan figured.
She really didn't have anything to lose by showing up to check him out. He could hardly be worse than Seymour. And if, by some freak of chance, he was a total write-off, she wouldn't be any worse off for trying.
Her mind made up, Jordan glanced at the clock. She could get a reply to the post office by five, and there was a good chance he'd get it the next day. Saturday at the latest. So she should arrange to meet him on Sunday.
If nothing else, she'd have an excuse to escape from Randall's get-together in case her demented brothers had another surprise waiting for her.
Luke:
I suppose if we're engaged, I can't call you Mr. Foster, can I? I appreciate your willingness to meet me at my convenience. Meet me at the cafe on Battery Street, Sunday afternoon at four.
You won't be able to miss me.
Jordan
* * * *
"You won't be able to miss me.” Luke found himself wondering what she meant by that.
It sounded ominous.
There were many ways he could think of that would make a person impossible to miss, and few of them were good. He doubted she'd be stunningly beautiful. Beautiful women collected men as a hobby. She'd have a hundred volunteers without having to place an ad.
But then, she might say the same of him. His problem wasn't lack of feminine attention, but in fact the opposite. For the first time, Luke wondered if that was her problem, too.
For some reason the thought disturbed him and repeatedly intruded as he attempted to focus on a marketing analysis for a new client.
It was simply the natural desire to solve a puzzle, he told himself. Jordan represented a mystery. Sunday he'd meet her and the mystery would be solved. He'd have his holiday conspirator secured. If he ran into Jake Marlow again, he'd be safe from that quarter, too.
Sunday couldn't come soon enough.
When it finally did, Luke settled at a small table that offered a clear view of the door and waited. She'd said he couldn't miss her. A woman came in, brushing stray snowflakes from her hair and he eyed her carefully. Nothing distinctive about her. Still he wondered—until she joined a group of friends at another table.
Well, he was early. She had another fifteen minutes. Luke sipped meditatively at his hazelnut coffee and continued to keep watch on the comings and goings at the popular cafe. At least she'd chosen a place with an interesting view. Lake Champlain was a beautiful sight in the large window as snowflakes swirled.
Caught up in the scenery, the traffic through the cafe door and his private musings concerning the identity and appearance of the mysterious Jordan, he still couldn't fail to notice the next person who came in.
She was dressed in black from head to toe. A long black scarf covered her hair and the ends trailed carelessly down her back. She wore a heavy black cape that came to her knees, under which black jeans were visible down to where they tucked into black leather half-boots.
The woman paused inside the door and her clear gray eyes, visible to Luke even at this distance, wandered over the cafe patrons for a moment. She casually unwound her scarf and draped the ends over her shoulders, revealing white-blond hair cut spiky short. Her cool gaze continued over the tables and patrons and came to rest on Luke.
He held his breath.
She smiled—an elfin expression that lit her composed features with mischief—and strolled confidently towards him.
He stood politely as she reached his table. He towered over her and wondered if maybe he should have stayed seated. He didn't want to intimidate her. But apparently the woman in black wasn't easily intimidated. She tilted her head back to meet him eye to eye and grinned again.
"Luke?"
She had a husky contralto voice, he noted with approval. “If I wasn't, I'd change my name,” Luke answered.
She laughed and he thought she looked more sprite-like than ever. Maybe it was her pale coloring. Or the charming slightly pointed chin, pale pink Cupid's bow mouth and deep dimples. Or her diminutive size. She looked very much like one of the little people come to charm him.
"Flattery will get you everywhere,” she assured him and seated herself before he could move to assist her. “Hello, Luke. I'm Jordan Christian."
Airily she waved one slender hand to indicate the seat across from her as if she thought he was waiting for her permission to sit in her presence. Come to think of it, maybe he had been. Something about her carriage made Luke think of the queen of the fairies.
She continued blithely, “Your fiancée.” As he seated himself across from her, Jordan considered Luke with a sense of ever-growing jubilation.
He was absolutely perfect. Big and macho-looking. Just the type to impress her brothers with his manly ability to defend her delicate person, since they imagined she needed a lot of defending ... merely because she managed to get herself into the occasional scrape. Nothing she couldn't handle herself. But of course big brothers never saw it that way.
He was also very appealing in a way totally atypical of stereotyped movie-star good looks. His broad chest and wide shoulders would appeal to most women with a pulse and he had the face of a rather battered knight. Definitely, he scored high on sex appeal, if not pure aesthetics.
He had nice eyes, too. Jordan firmly believed that eyes revealed a great deal about a person's character. His were light blue and steady. It made her feel she could depend on him, in spite of his rugged appearance that might otherwise be alarming.
And even Randall, the accountant, couldn't complain about his secure, solid financial prospects.
Yes, in every way he was just the kind of man her brothers would love to have her bring home for their inspection. She'd just known it was going to work out perfectly.
Their waiter appeared and Jordan dropped her eyes to the cup and saucer in front of Luke. “What's that?"
"Hazelnut.” He had a low, rumbling voice that went well with his battle-worn face. Jordan wondered if he'd ever been a cowboy, or a fighter. Something about him reminded her of John Wayne in “The Quiet Man."
She turned her smile on the waiter. “I'll have the same.” Turning back to Luke, she added, “I love hazelnut."
He gifted her with a slow smile that lit his blue eyes with warmth. “Something else we have in common."
She nodded and felt a bone-deep conviction that this was absolutely right. He was the man to protect her from the dentists, undertakers and lawyers of her nightmares.
Nothing about him was off-putting or abrasive. She could envisi
on spending the next two months in his company without suffering the agonies of the damned. And best of all, as the man who'd been named Burlington's most eligible bachelor, she didn't have to worry about him getting serious on her or taking advantage of the enforced intimacy due to their unusual circumstances. He wasn't desperate for female companionship.
Which made her wonder why he didn't have a line of volunteers to aid and abet him if he wanted to keep his family off his back.
"So tell me, Luke,” she began lightly, “what's a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?"
He gazed back at her steadily. “I might ask you the same question."
She grinned, undeterred. “I asked you first."
He squared his wide shoulders and braced his hands against the table top. “I believe I told you the answer to that. I have a business that takes most of my time and energy. I also have a large family who think their sole purpose here on earth is to find me a wife. That might not be so bad except for the—shall we say—unusual candidates they come up with."
Wry amusement in his eyes told Jordan what an understatement that was. “At least you've never been stuck with an undertaker, have you?” Jordan challenged. She was still indignant over that one and it showed.
He looked surprised. There were worse things than Cotton Candy, he decided. “No, I can't say I've ever suffered that.” No wonder the poor woman had resorted to running an ad.
"And before that was the sadistic, depressing and egotistical dentist who followed me on a cruise to the Bahamas. Then there was the divorce attorney who wanted me to sign a prenuptial agreement on our first date."
Jordan recited her list of grievances moodily and drank some hazelnut coffee to ease the pain. “The undertaker was the last straw. I was supposed to have dinner with him. Just imagine it—dinner with an undertaker, talking about death and dying."
Luke tried not to laugh at her melodramatic recounting. And failed.
She frowned at him. “It's unkind to laugh at another person's misery. Anyway, now you see why I need you.” She reached forward and took one of his broad hands to emphasize her point. “I do need you, Luke. I'm at the end of my rope. If you can't pull off this charade with me, I'm going to change my name and move to Mexico."
There was nothing sadder than a depressed pixie, Luke decided as he took in the defeated slump of her fragile shoulders. He felt a sudden surge of resentment for the thoughtless, cruel people responsible for her misery. He wanted to find them and flag their bookkeeping systems for an IRS audit.
He turned his hand palm side up to hold her small one comfortingly. “That's what fiancés are for,” he assured her.
She brightened magically at his words and Luke felt rewarded. “Oh, Luke, that's wonderful. I can't tell you how much this means. I love my brothers, but really, sometimes I wonder if they're firing on all cylinders."
So her brothers were the villains. Luke filed that information away for future reference.
"They have this fixation about getting me married off,” she continued. “They think I need a keeper."
There Luke thought he might see eye to eye with them. She was so small. So easily hurt. She looked as if a good gust of wind coming in off the lake would sweep her away, never to be seen again. Maybe she didn't need a keeper, but she certainly needed a fiancé.
She needed him.
Luke drew her out with the ease of a man accustomed to getting information from even unwilling sources as he questioned her about herself. She seemed blithely content to answer. He learned that she lived alone. That she was an orphan and that her four older brothers had taken on the job of raising her. That she earned a living writing greeting cards.
That piece of information surprised him, and she saw his unguarded reaction. She laughed merrily.
"I always wondered who wrote those,” he admitted.
"Now you know.” Her gray eyes sparkled. “People like me, hunched over desks and computer keyboards, yelling out punch lines to the walls to find out how they sound."
"Do you actually do that?"
"Talk out loud? Sure, sometimes. Cards usually get read out loud and things that look good don't always sound right. And constantly coming up with new and different ways to say the same thing is enough to make anybody talk to themselves.” Cheerful candor and a careless shrug finished that admission.
Jordan slid comfortably low in the booth and summed up her abbreviated life story. “So that's about it. I'm a decent, law-abiding, productive member of society. I don't have anything against marriage, but I'm content to wait for the right person and I'm tired of fending off the wrong ones. I want a rest. And that's where you come in.” She gave him another beatific grin.
"I'm glad,” Luke answered soberly. “Are you free on Friday? My brother Aaron is having this ‘thing'."
She nodded. “And what about Thursday?” She pondered the possibilities. “You know, this could work to our advantage. If we time it right, we can eat twice and miss all the dish-washing.” The more she thought about it, the more advantages Jordan could see. “And we can duck out of both places if the interrogation gets too hot, using the other family as an excuse.” A light of fanatical glee lit her gray eyes.
Luke could see her point. It was beautiful. No doubt Wendy would have a number of awkward questions lined up and waiting. She'd had time to prepare. And Aaron and Cassie—his other sister—would be right behind her, if his parents didn't claim seniority. He hadn't even considered the uncles and cousins and assorted others, yet, either.
A prearranged escape route seemed prudent, indeed.
He nodded his agreement with her assessment of the situation. “I'll need your number and directions to your house,” he reminded her. “You might also make some notes for me. Your birthday. Your brothers’ names. That sort of thing."
Jordan rummaged through her shoulder bag. “As a matter of fact, I did write down a few things for you. Also I came up with a pretty good story to explain our whirlwind courtship."
"You did?” She was thorough, Luke thought in approval.
"Uh huh. How about this—we met at the post office. I'm always running in there to send my submissions off, and you had a priority letter to pick up. Your secretary had the flu. The best fictions are the most believable. The closest to the truth,” Jordan added in explanation. “We did meet through the post office ... in a way.
"Then we ran into each other a few other times, started exchanging small talk, and then one thing led to another. We started meeting purposely and lingering."
Luke could almost believe it had happened just like that. He could just imagine it, her elfin face catching his attention as he stood in the mail line, her fey eyes catching his and exchanging a telling look. Her graceful, light walk would draw his eyes after her as she left and he'd be intrigued by the petite pixie.
He'd come back, purposely hoping to catch her again. Something about her seemed so elusive. She was just out of reach, tantalizingly near. He'd wait for her, and hope to catch one of her innocent smiles that he already could tell meant trouble.
He wouldn't be able to resist persuading her to linger and exchange more than a casual hello. He'd draw her into a conversation that would capture her agile mind and lure her into his offer to continue over cappuccino.
Eventually she would agree. With that one, slim thread, he'd draw her closer and weave her into the fabric of his life. He'd have to work quickly, or she'd escape his silken snare. He'd propose before she could brace for it. He'd offer her any terms she wanted. She wouldn't be able to resist. And if she did, he'd wear her down in the sweetest way.
He wouldn't rest from the first fleeting contact until his ring rested on her slender finger.
Mentally, Luke cleared his head. This imagination stuff was dangerous. He blamed Jake for planting ideas about rearranging his priorities, and putting the energy he'd funneled into his business into an equally satisfying personal life.
But the mental lapse had reminded him of something vital.
“I need to know your ring size. Without an engagement ring, they'll see through us in a heartbeat."
She looked impressed. “A man with a mind for detail. Wonderful. And you're absolutely right. But don't worry, I should be able to find something in a pawn shop."
Luke braced his hands flat on the table and leaned forward, set for a fight. “No fiancée of mine is going to buy her own ring, much less from a pawn shop. I'll get the ring. You just tell me your size.” His hard, flat voice warned her not to argue.
Jordan's charming face took on a decidedly stubborn, mutinous expression. “Size five—but don't you think that's going a little overboard?"
He'd overreacted, of course. Luke drew a slow breath and searched for an explanation. “I have appearances to maintain. It wouldn't look right. Don't worry, the money isn't a problem and I won't lose anything on the deal."
"Oh.” She brightened again. “Right. I forgot. It would look funny if your fiancée didn't have the Rock of Gibraltar on her finger, wouldn't it? Sorry, Luke. And I see your point; it's not like it's going anywhere. Of course you'll get it back.” Then she frowned. “Maybe you should insure it, though. I might lose it. And then I'd feel terrible."
Luke stared steadily back, outwardly calm while inwardly he reeled from her words. She hadn't even put his ring on and already she was giving it back. She wouldn't even think enough about it to keep from losing it.
It shouldn't have bothered him. It shouldn't have hit him where it hurt—in his masculine pride. It shouldn't have made him worry that this was proof that he'd already left matters of the heart too late. It shouldn't have ... but it did.
He decided he was on thin ice and it was best to stick to the facts for now. “Fine. I'll get the ring. I'll pick you up at your place on Thursday. What time are you expected for dinner?"
"Around two."
Luke nodded brusquely. “Then I'll be there at one-thirty to go over anything last minute we might need to cover.” He slid a business card over to her. “If you have any questions or need anything, call me. After we get through your family, we'll go deal with mine. Probably from around six to ten."
Yule Be Mine Page 3
