by Cara Colter
The man radiated power and the set of his shoulders telegraphed the fact that, unlike Chuck, this man was pure strength. The word excuse would not appear in his vocabulary.
No, Molly could tell by the fire in his eyes that if the ship was going down, or the building was on fire—if the town needed saving and he had just ridden in on his horse—he was the one you would follow, he was the one you would rely on to save you.
An aggravating conclusion since she was so newly committed to relying on herself, her career and her coworkers to save her from a disastrous life of unremitting loneliness. The little featherless budgie she had at home—the latest in a long list of loving strays that had populated her life—also helped.
The little swish of attraction she felt for the stranger made her current situation even more annoying. It didn’t matter how much he looked like the perfect person to cast in the center of a romantic fantasy! She had given up on such twaddle! She was well on her way to becoming one of those women perfectly comfortable sitting at an outdoor café, alone, sipping a fine glass of wine and reading a book. Not even slipping a look at the male passers-by!
Of course, this handsome devil appearing without warning in her boss’s office on a Monday morning was a test, just like the dress. It was a test of her commitment to the new and independent Molly Michaels, a test of her ability to separate her imaginings from reality.
Look at her deciding he was the one you would follow in a catastrophe when she knew absolutely nothing about him except that he had an exceedingly handsome face. Molly reminded herself, extra sternly, that all the catastrophes in her life had been of her own making. Besides, with the kind of image he portrayed—all easy self-assurance and leashed sexuality—probably more than one woman had built fantasies of hope and forever around him. He was of an age where if he wanted to be taken he would be. And if his ring finger—and the expression on his face as he looked at the dress—was any indication, he was not!
“Sorry,” Molly said to Miss Viv, “I thought you were alone.” She gave a quick, curt nod of acknowledgment to the stranger, making sure to strip any remaining hopeless dreamer from herself before she met his eyes.
“But, Molly, when I rang your office, I wanted you to come, and you must have wanted something?” Miss Viv asked her before she made her escape.
Usually imaginative, Molly drew a blank for explaining away her attire and she could think of not a single reason to be here except the truth.
“The zip is stuck, but I can manage. Really. Excuse me.” She was trying to slide back out the door when his eyes narrowed on her.
“Is your hair caught in the dress?”
His voice was at least as sensual as the silk where the dress caressed her naked skin.
Molly could feel her cheeks turning a shade of red that was probably going to put her hair to shame.
“A little,” she said proudly. “It’s nothing. Excuse me.” She tried to lift her chin, to prove how nothing it was, but her hair was caught hard enough that she could not, and she also could not prevent a little wince of pain as the movement caused the stuck hair to yank at her tender scalp.
“That looks painful,” he said quietly, getting to his feet with that casual grace one associated with athletes, the kind of ease of movement that disguised how swift they really were. But he was swift, because he was standing in front of her before she could gather her wits and make good her escape.
The smart thing to do would be to step back as he took that final step toward her. But she was astounded to find herself rooted to the spot, paralyzed, helpless to move away from him.
The world went very still. It seemed as if all the busy activity on the street outside ceased, the noises faded, the background and Miss Viv melted into a fuzzy kaleidoscope as the stranger leaned in close to her.
With the ease born of supreme confidence in himself—as if he performed this kind of rescue on a daily basis—he lifted the pressure of the dress up off her shoulder with one hand, and with the other, he carefully unwound her hair from the pearls they were caught in.
Given that outlaw remoteness in his eyes, he was unbelievably gentle, his fingers unhurried in her hair.
Molly’s awareness of him was nothing less than shocking, his nearness tingling along her skin, his touch melting parts of her that she had hoped were turned to ice permanently.
The moment took way too long. And not nearly long enough. His concentration was complete, the intensity of his steely-gray gaze as he dealt with her tangled hair, his unsettling nearness, the graze of his fingers along her neck, stealing her breath.
At least Molly didn’t feel as if she was breathing, but then she realized she must, indeed, be pulling air in and out, because she could smell him.
His scent was wonderful, bitingly masculine, good aftershave, expensive soap, freshly pressed linen.
Molly gazed helplessly into his face, unwillingly marveling at the chiseled perfection of his features, the intrigue of the faint crook in his nose, the white line of that scar, the brilliance of his eyes. He, however, was pure focus, as if the only task that mattered to him was freeing her hair from the remaining pearl that held it captive.
Apparently he was not marveling at the circumstances that had brought his hands to her hair and the soft place on her neck just below her ear, apparently he was not swamped by their scents mingling nor was he fighting a deep awareness that a move of a mere half inch would bring them together, full frontal contact, the swell of her breast pressing into the hard line of his chest…
The dress, suddenly freed, fell back onto her shoulder. He actually smiled then, the faintest quirk of a gorgeous mouth, and she felt herself floundering in the depths of stormy sea eyes, the chill gray suddenly illuminated by the sun.
“Did you say the zipper was stuck as well?” he asked.
Oh, God. Had she said that? She could not prolong this encounter! It was much more of a test of the new confidently-sitting-at-the-café-alone her than she was ready for!
But mutely, caught in a spell, she turned her back to him and stood stock-still, waiting. She shivered at the thought of a wedding night, what this moment meant, and at the same time that unwanted thought seeped warmly into her brain, he touched her.
She felt the slight brush of his hand, again, on delicate skin, this time at the back of her neck. Her senses were so intensely engaged that she heard the faint pop of the hook parting from the eye. She registered the feel of his hand, felt astounded by the hard, unyielding texture of his skin.
He looked like he was pure business, a banker maybe, a wealthy benefactor, but there was nothing soft about his hand that suggested a life behind a desk, his tools a phone and a computer. For some reason it occurred to her that hands like that belonged to people who handled ropes…range riders, mountain climbers. Pirates. Ah, yes, pirates with all that mysterious charm.
He dispensed with the hook at the top of the zipper in a split second, a man who had dispensed with such delicate items many times? And then he paused, apparently realizing the height of the zipper would make it nearly impossible for her to manage the rest by herself—she hoped he would not consider how much determination it had taken her to get it up in the first place—and then slid the zipper down a sensuous inch or two.
With that same altered sense of alertness Molly could feel cool air on that small area of her newly exposed naked back, and then, though she did not glance back, she could feel heat. His gaze? Her own jumbled thoughts?
Molly fought the chicken in her that just wanted to bolt out the open door. Instead, she turned and faced him.
“There you go,” he said mildly, rocking back on his heels. The heat must have come from her own badly rattled thoughts, because his eyes were cool, something veiled in their intriguing silver depths.
“Thank you,” she said, struggling to keep her voice deliberately controlled to match the look in his eyes. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”
“No, no, Molly,” Miss Viv said, and it was a mark of the
intensity of her encounter with him that Molly was actually jarred by the fact Miss Viv was still in the room. “I called your office to invite you to meet Mr. Whitford. I’m going on an unscheduled holiday, and Mr. Whitford is taking the helm.”
Molly felt the shock of Miss Viv’s announcement ripple down a spine that had already been thoroughly shocked this morning. But even as she dealt with the shock, part of her mused with annoying dreaminess, helm. Pirate. I knew it.
“Houston Whitford, Molly Michaels,” Miss Viv said. The introduction seemed ridiculously formal considering the rather astounding sense of intimacy Molly had just felt under his touch.
Still, now she felt duty-bound to extend her hand, and be touched again, even as she was digesting the fact he was in charge. How could that be? Molly was always in charge when Miss Viv was away!
And Miss Viv was going on a holiday, but hadn’t told anyone? Second Chances was a family and far better than Molly’s family of origin at providing a place that was safe, and supportive, and rarely unpredictable.
“There are going to be a few changes,” Miss Viv said, cheerfully, as if Molly’s nice safe world was in no way being threatened. “And no one is more qualified to make them than Mr. Whitford. I expect Second Chances is going to blossom, absolutely go to the next level, under his leadership. I’m thrilled to pass the reins to him.”
But Molly felt the threat of her whole world shifting. Miss Viv was stepping down? The feeling only intensified when Houston Whitford’s hand—warm, strong, cool—touched her skin again. His hand enveloped her hand and despite the pure professionalism of his shake, the hardness of his grip told her something, as did the glittering silver light in his eyes.
He was not the usual kind of person who worked an ill-paying job at a charity. His suit said something his hands did not: that he was used to a world of higher finances, higher-power, higher-tech.
The only thing that was higher at Second Chances was the satisfaction, the feeling of changing the world for the better.
The cost of his suit probably added up to their operating budget for a month! He didn’t fit the cozy, casual and rather shabby atmosphere of the Second Chances office at all.
She felt the unmistakable tingle of pure danger all along her spine. There was something about Houston Whitford that was not adding up. Change followed a man like that as surely as pounding rain followed the thunderstorm.
Molly, her father had said, on the eve of leaving their family home forever, there is going to be a change.
And she had been allergic to that very thing ever since! She wanted her world to be safe and unchanging and that view had intensified after she had flirted with a major life change in the form of Chuck. Since then Second Chances had become more her safe haven than ever.
“What kind of changes?” she asked Miss Viv now, failing to keep a certain trepidation from entering her voice.
“Mr. Whitford will be happy to brief you, um, after you’ve changed into something more appropriate,” Miss Viv said, and then glanced at her watch. “Oh, my! I do have a plane to catch. I’m going to a spa in Arizona, my dear.”
“You’re going to a spa in Arizona, and you didn’t tell anyone?” It seemed unimaginable. That kind of vacation usually should have entailed at least a swimsuit shopping excursion together!
“The opportunity came up rather suddenly,” Miss Viv said, unapologetically thrilled. “A bolt from the blue, an unexpected gift from an old friend.”
Molly tried to feel delighted for her. No one deserved a wonderful surprise more than her boss.
“For how long?” she asked.
But the shameful truth was Molly did not feel delighted at her boss’s good fortune. Sudden change. Molly hated that kind more than the regular variety.
“Two weeks,” Miss Viv said with a sigh of anticipated delight.
Two weeks? Molly wanted to shout. That was ridiculous. People went to spas for a few hours, maybe a few days, never two weeks!
“But when you come back, everything will be back to normal?” Molly pressed.
Miss Viv laughed. “Oh, sweetie,” she said. “What is normal? A setting on a clothes dryer as far as I’m concerned.”
Molly stared at her boss. What was normal? Not something to be joked about! It was what Molly had never had. She’d never had a normal family. Her engagement had certainly not been normal. It felt as if she had spent a good deal of her life searching for it, and coming up short. Even her pets were never normal.
Molly’s life had been populated with the needy kind of animal that no one else wanted. A dog with three legs, a cat with no meow. Her current resident was a bald budgie, his scrawny body devoid of feathers.
“I’ve been thinking of retiring,” Miss Viv shocked Molly further by saying. “So, who knows? After the two weeks is up, we’ll just play it by ear.”
Molly wanted to protest that she didn’t like playing it by ear. She liked plans and schedules, calendars that were marked for months in advance.
If Miss Viv retired, would Houston Whitford be in charge forever?
She could not think of a way of asking that did not show her dread at the prospect!
Besides, there is no forever, Molly reminded herself. That was precisely why she had put on this dress. To debunk forever myths.
She particularly did not want to entertain that word anywhere near the vicinity of him, a man whose faintest touch could make a woman’s vows of self-reliance disintegrate like foundations crumbling at the first tremor of the coming quake.
CHAPTER TWO
THE bride flounced out of the room, and unbidden, words crowded into Houston’s brain.
And then they lived happily ever after.
He scoffed at himself, and the words. Yes, it was true that a dress like that, filled out by a girl like Molly Michaels, represented a fairy tale.
But the fact she was stuck in it, the zipper stubborn, her hair wound painfully around the pearls, represented more the reality: relationships of the romantic variety were sticky, complicated, entrapping.
Besides, a man didn’t come from the place Houston Whitford had come from and believe in fairy tales. He believed in his own strength, his own ability to survive. He saw the cynicism with which he had regarded that dress as a gift.
In fact, the unexpected appearance of one of the Second Chances employees in full wedding regalia only confirmed what several weeks of research had already told him.
Second Chances reminded Houston, painfully, of an old-style family operated bookstore. Everyone was drawn to the warmth of it, it was always crowded and full of laughter and discussion, but when it came time to actually buy a book it could not compete with the online giants, streamlined, efficient, economical. Just how Houston liked his businesses, running like well-oiled machines. No brides, no ancient, adorable little old ladies at the helm.
He fought an urge to press the scar over the old break on the bridge of his nose. It ached unbearably lately. Had it ached ever since, in a rare moment of weakness, he had agreed to help out here? This wasn’t his kind of job. He dealt in reality, in cold, hard fact. Where did a poorly run charity, with brides in the hallways and octogenarians behind the desks, fit into his world?
“And that was our Molly,” Miss Viv said brightly. “Isn’t she lovely?”
“Lovely,” Houston managed. He recalled part two of his mission here.
Miss Viv had confessed to him she was thinking of retiring. She loved Molly and considered her her natural successor. But she was a little worried. She wanted his opinion on whether Molly was too soft-hearted for the job.
“Is she getting ready for her wedding?” On the basis of their very brief encounter, Molly Michaels seemed the kind of woman that a man who was not cynical and jaded like him—a man who believed in fairy tales, love ever after, family—would snatch up.
He didn’t even like the direction of those thoughts. The wedding dress should only be viewed in the context of the job he had to do here. What was Miss Michaels doing gett
ing ready for her wedding at work? How did that reflect on a future for her in management?
The job he hadn’t wanted was getting less attractive by the second. A demand of complete professionalism was high on his list of fixes for the ailing companies he put back on the track to success.
“She’s not getting ready for her wedding,” Miss Viv said with a sympathetic sigh. “The exact opposite, I’m afraid. Her engagement broke off before they even set a date. A blessing, though the poor child did not see it that way at the time. She’s not been herself since it happened.”
At this point, with anyone else, he would make it clear, right now, he didn’t want to know a single thing about Molly Michaels’s personal life. But this job was different than any he’d ever taken on before. And this was Miss Viv.
Everybody was a poor child to her. His need to analyze, to have answers to puzzles, surprised him by not filing this poor child information under strictly personal, none of his business, nothing to do with the job at hand. Instead, he allowed the question to form in his mind. If a man believed in the fairy tale enough to ask someone like Molly Michaels to be his wife, why would he then be fool enough to let her get away?
Because the truth was lovely was an unfortunate understatement, and would have been even before he had made the mistake of making the bridal vision somehow real by touching the heated silk of Molly’s skin, the coiled copper of her hair.
Molly’s eyes, the set of her sensuous mouth and the corkscrewing hair, not to mention the curves of a slender figure, had not really said lovely to him. Despite the fairy tale of the dress the word that had come to mind first was sexy.
Was that what had made him get up from his chair? Not really to rescue her from her obvious discomfort, but to see what was true about her? Sexy? Or innocent?
He was no Boy Scout, after all, not given to good deeds, which was another reason he should not be here at Second Chances.
Still, was his need to know that about Molly Michaels personal or professional? He had a feeling at Second Chances those lines had always been allowed to blur. Note to self, he thought wryly, no more rescuing of damsels in distress.
