His Temporary Live-in Wife

“Do you believe in love at first sight?”

Marcy held her breath. She had no right to ask him such a question. He was her employer, even if only temporarily, and she found him incredibly, inappropriately sexy and appealing, but she really shouldn’t be so personal.

Still, she couldn’t take back the question.

“I don’t know,” he said, his gaze direct. “I haven’t experienced it myself.”

Which gave her an answer in itself. He hadn’t fallen for anyone at first sight, therefore he hadn’t fallen for her. A stifling blanket of disappointment dropped over her.

Which was totally ridiculous, she realized. Why should she be disappointed?

“Now, lust at first sight? That’s different.” He took a lock of her hair in his hand and rubbed it. “It’s soft. I’ve been wondering.”

“You have?”

“Since first sight.”

“Which was only—” she did some quick calculations “—seventeen hours ago.”

“First sight,” he repeated.

Dear Reader,

Have you ever set a goal for yourself then wouldn’t deviate from it—even though you should? Being adaptable can save us a lot of grief through the years, but occasionally it takes a momentous event—like falling in love—to make us realise when we’re sticking too closely to a plan.

That describes the heroine in His Temporary Live-In Wife. For what she believes are really good reasons, she’s working toward a goal but with blinders on, not giving herself a chance to look even side-to-side to see what else might make her happy. Along comes our hero, who’s already achieved his goal and is looking for something new. He’s learned to adapt.

It’s up to Eric to show Marcy that it’s okay to veer off course now and then, especially when the new direction could bring a greater happiness than the original path.

I cheered them on as I wrote their story. I hope you will, too.

Susan

SUSAN CROSBY believes in the value of setting goals, but also in the magic of making wishes, which often do come true—as long as she works hard enough. Along life’s journey, she’s done a lot of the usual things—married, had children, attended college a little later than the average co-ed and earned a BA in English. Then she dove off the deep end into a full-time writing career, a wish come true.

Susan enjoys writing about people who take a chance on love, sometimes against all odds. She loves warm, strong heroes and good-hearted, self-reliant heroines, and she will always believe in happily-ever-after.

More can be learned about her at www.susancrosby.com.

His Temporary Live-In Wife

Susan Crosby

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For Rob and Colleen, who live and love side by

side. “Role model” may be a big, lofty title with

lots of responsibility attached to it, but you’ve both

worn it well.

Chapter One

“You want me to house-sit a vacant home? There’s no furniture? Nothing?” Marcy Monroe asked her employer, bewildered. The request was a first in her four years of working for At Your Service, a Sacramento high-end temp agency. “Who hires someone to do that?”

“A cautious man, apparently.” The agency owner, Julia Swanson, smiled in that serene way she had. “I thought since your other house-sitting job fell through, you wouldn’t mind. The client will pay for a cot and sleeping bag.” She handed Marcy a sheet of paper. “Here’s a list of what he’ll need done in the next few days. As you can see, you’ll be busy. He bought it as a foreclosure, so it’s not in perfect shape. The job is much more than house-sitting. He’ll pay double your rate.”

“Tell him to triple it and I’ll do the cleaning, too,” she muttered, perusing the task list. “It’ll save him having to hire a service, and it’ll keep me occupied while I’m there.”

Julia picked up the phone and dialed.

Marcy waved both hands, the paper flapping. “Julia, stop. I’m kidding!”

“You’re kidding about offering to do the cleaning?” Julia asked.

“No, I’d do it, but—”

“Eric, hi, it’s Julia Swanson… ?. Yes, she’s sitting in my office right now. She wanted me to tell you she’s willing to do the cleaning, too, for an extra fee… ?.”

That sneaky Julia, Marcy thought. She couldn’t say no now, and Julia knew it. “I don’t do windows,” Marcy whispered loudly.

“Of course. Here she is.” Her eyes shimmering, Julia held out the phone to Marcy. “He’d like to speak with you.”

Marcy shook her head at Julia but had to take the phone. “This is Marcy Monroe.”

“Eric Sheridan, Ms. Monroe. Thank you very much for accepting the job. I can’t tell you what a relief that is to me.”

She almost sighed. It was obviously a done deal. “I’m glad I can help.”

“You know the house has been vacant for months. It needs a great deal of elbow grease. Plus, it’s one-and-a-half stories, with lots of windows.”

Great, she thought. Just great. “That’s fine.”

He hesitated a beat. “Did Julia show you the list?”

“Yes, and I don’t foresee any problems, Mr. Sheridan. You can relax. I’m quite competent.”

“I was already promised that. I’m leaving New York City today to drive across the country. Feel free to call me anytime you have questions. I’d rather not be surprised when I get there.”

“I will, thanks.”

“If you would put Julia back on, please?”

Marcy passed her the phone and watched Julia laugh at something the man said. He’d been all business with her. Marcy couldn’t imagine what was so funny—unless it had to do with her somehow.

After a few seconds, Julia hung up. “He said to hire a window-cleaning service.”

Marcy felt her face heat. “He heard me say that?”

“Apparently. Or he’s clairvoyant.”

“What does he do?”

“He’ll be teaching mathematics for the fall quarter at UC Davis starting next month.”

A mathematician—which probably meant he was a stickler for details and more pragmatic than fun. She’d met several in her past life as a flight attendant. “I’ll only be dealing with him, no one else?”

“Right.” Julia leaned forward. “I know you feel trapped into accepting the job, Marcy, but if you’re really not interested, you can back out.”

“No, I’ll do it. It’s just so weird staying in an empty house, you know? Kind of creepy.”

“Invite a friend to stay overnight with you, if you want.” She passed Marcy an envelope. “Here’s the key and some cash for supplies. The utilities have been turned on. Thank you so much for doing this. I think he could end up being a long-time client for other occasions.”

Marcy said goodbye then took the stairs down three flights from the downtown Sacramento office. Julia’s business was often nicknamed “Wives for Hire” because of jobs like this one.

Marcy decided to check out the client’s house before shopping for supplies, so she headed for the town of Davis, a half hour’s drive from Sacramento. She pulled up in front of a quaint Craftsman-style home with wood-shake siding, rock pillars and a wraparound porch, a masculine-looking structure. That was the upside.

The downside was a lawn and landscaping that had died for lack of watering during however long it had been in foreclosure.

And the windows? She counted twenty-four just on the front.

She stepped out of the car, the late August heat hitting her squarely in the face. Today marked the seventh day in a row the temperature had reached one hundred, although the stately old trees that lined the block provided good shade. It was an old, established neighborhood of well-maintained, decades-old houses, the kind of place where kids could play in the street without too much worry.

Grateful she didn’t have to wash the multitude of windows, Marcy was smiling as she opened the front door and stepped inside a wide living room that looked as if it had been a frat house once. Everything needed painting. Walls needed repair. The floors were dirty, but seemed to have weathered the storm well enough.

Like most Craftsman houses, it wasn’t open-concept, but separate rooms. In the dining room she discovered a broken window with glass scattered across the floor, and footprints—human and animal—in the accumulated dust. The half bath was filthy. So was the kitchen. The cabinets were usable but the appliances and countertops old and in need of replacement. Upstairs were three bedrooms and two bathrooms, one within the master suite that must have been renovated sometime in the past twenty years. Overhead light fixtures had been ripped out, and although the walls weren’t badly damaged, they needed paint.

The house would sparkle like a gem when it was clean and fixed up, but it was going to take a lot of effort to get it to that point.

She regretted telling the owner she would do the cleaning. It was a much bigger job than she’d expected.

Marcy glanced at the to-do list. Painters were to arrive starting the next day. An interior designer was on the schedule. The moving van was due on Friday, four days from now. Mr. Sheridan hoped to arrive on Saturday, perhaps Sunday.

Marcy wandered into the backyard, which had a covered deck and built-in barbecue that had somehow survived with only a little weather-related damage. The lot wasn’t overly large, and the neighbors fairly close, but a fence surrounded the property as well as enough greenery to maintain some privacy.

Someone on a bicycle came barreling down the driveway, a teenage boy, maybe sixteen or seventeen years old.

“Hi,” he said, getting off his bike but holding on to it. “I’m Dylan. I saw the For Sale was taken down. Are you the new owner? ‘Cause I’m looking for work, and this place could use it. I know I don’t look it, but I’m strong.”

There was a desperateness about him that drew her sympathy. He was rib-showing skinny, and his hair hadn’t been cut in a while.

“I’m sorry, Dylan. I don’t have any authority to hire anyone. Maybe if you come back next week?”

More than disappointment crossed his face. Despair? Hopelessness?

She dug into her pocket, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and tucked it into his hand. “Come back next week, okay?”

He didn’t debate about taking the money, which told her a lot. He mumbled his thanks then took off.

She watched him until he was out of sight, then walked the perimeter, checking out the neglected yard. She returned to the house to make a list before calling the new owner.

“Mr. Sheridan, this is Marcy Monroe. I’m at your house. When was the last time you saw it?”

“Call me Eric, please. I saw it three months ago, why?”

“There’s damage in almost every room.” She told him what she’d found. “Was the house in that condition when you saw it?”

“No.” Annoyance coated the single word.

“We should postpone the painters until the walls are fixed, don’t you think? I know it’s going to throw your schedule off, but I don’t see that you have a choice.”

He blew out a breath. “My Realtor didn’t tell me. She should have.”

“Maybe she didn’t know. It’s hard to tell when it happened. I think the first priority is to fix the broken window. And honestly, I don’t want to stay here until I know it’s secure.”

“I believe an occupied house will scare off vagrants and prevent more damage from occurring, which is why I asked for someone to spend the night.”

“But—”

“But I agree about the window,” he said, interrupting her before she got started on her argument. “Go ahead and have that fixed, today if possible. Offer a bonus, if necessary. After that, I’d like you to stay at night, as planned. Unless you don’t want the job now?”

She was tempted to back out, but she prided herself on her reliability. She’d agreed to the job. She would stick it out. Plus, the work involved a whole lot of money, and she wouldn’t turn that down. It would help make up for losing out on the two-week house-sitting job she’d counted on.

“I’m not quitting,” she said. “Actually, I’m used to sleeping in strange houses, although not unfurnished ones. I also wondered if you want me to buy a vacuum cleaner.”

“I have one, but it’s in the moving van. Doesn’t do much good there, does it?”

“I can borrow one. I should get going. There’s a lot to do.”

“I appreciate your checking with me.”

She pushed the end button and stared at her phone. He had a pleasant voice. More than that, really—an enticing voice, deep and clear, although a somewhat-formal tone. She didn’t think students would have any trouble listening to him lecture.

She should’ve asked Julia how old he was. She had no visual image of him. He sounded settled. Professorial. She pictured a man in his sixties, wearing a sweater vest and tweed jacket with elbow patches.

Marcy smiled at the stereotype that formed in her head. She wasn’t anywhere near settled, but twenty-eight and still working toward her educational goals, and then to a career to sustain her through good times and bad.

Her future was something she could ponder forever, but for now she had a job to do—get the window fixed so she could spend her first night in the cave Eric Sheridan called home.

Eric made a final walk-through of his empty co-op. Having some last-minute business to tend to before he could leave town, he’d been staying at a hotel since the movers had packed everything a few days earlier. In a few minutes he would hit the road. He could’ve flown, could’ve had the car moved with his belongings, but had decided he needed to clear his head so that he could start fresh in California. A road trip would do that.

He needed to let go of his life in New York City. A year had gone by since Jamie had been taken from him, and Eric was still stuck in the anger stage of mourning, one he was well familiar with, unfortunately. This time he knew he had to find a way to make quicker work of the other grief stages and get on with life. He’d been offered a teaching position at MIT, his alma mater and where his father had taught for many years, as well. But a move to the west coast seemed … cleaner.

He was almost forty, and he was done with the singles scene. He wanted to live near family, not just gather with them for holidays. His brothers were scattered around the country, but his sister lived just north of Sacramento. She was newly married and not bound to leave the area anytime soon.

More important, he wanted marriage and children, and had bought a house suitable for raising a family. He’d been waiting for years to settle down, fulfilling his many other responsibilities before seeing to his own needs. He’d raised his four siblings after their parents died, and he didn’t regret or resent what he’d done, but it was his time now.

His cell phone rang, jarring him out of his reverie. He saw it was Marcy Malone again. “Yes, Marcy?”

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“I’m in my empty apartment, making a final pass-through. What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to let you know that the window has been fixed.”

“Good.”

“However,” she added, “I just realized there are no blinds or curtains. Not a one.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Have you ordered some? I don’t see anything on the list about it.”

The nerves he’d heard in their previous conversation seemed more intense now. “The interior designer is handling it. I take it you’re afraid to stay there without window coverings?”

There was a long pause, as if she was weighing her words and being careful not to displease the client. “I’m okay,” she said finally but in a tone that seemed to indicate she was trying to convince herself.

He should’ve asked Julia Swanson for information on Marcy Malone. He’d like a visual to put to the voice. She sounded young. “If you’re sure,” he said, not wanting to have her replaced, but also not wanting her to fear staying in the house alone.

“I’m sure. Okay, then. That’s all I wanted to know.”

“I’m glad you called,” he said. “Don’t hesitate, no matter how trivial the issue seems.”

“Thanks. Have a safe trip.”

He said good-night then wandered to the living-room window, which overlooked Central Park. He’d taken Jamie there. They’d rollerbladed, eaten ice cream and talked a lot—about life and expectations and what mattered most.

His time with Jamie had given Eric insight into the kind of life he wanted. A wife who was calm and soothing, but stable and competent, too. Maternal. Especially maternal.

And willing to put her career on hold until their children were raised, a hopelessly chauvinistic and politically incorrect demand, but he wasn’t an idealistic young man any more. He knew what he wanted, what he could live with, and what were deal breakers. He wouldn’t settle. He’d earned the right to pursue his own happiness after all he’d been through.

Eric locked the door of his co-op for the last time. Anticipation lightened his step, the same level of excitement he’d felt when his Realtor first took him into the house he’d ended up buying. The feeling was rare for him, and welcome.

He hoped it was a sign of more to come.

By the third day of his drive, Eric had gotten antsy. Talk radio couldn’t hold his attention, music only annoyed him. He’d downloaded an audio book, a thriller that should’ve dug its suspenseful claws into him and made the time pass quickly. It didn’t work.

Why had he ever thought that driving across the country was a good way to transition to his new life? He was miserable. He talked on his cell phone to his siblings, old friends, and a few business acquaintances until they made up excuses to get off the phone.

The only one who didn’t offer an excuse and rush off was Marcy Monroe, but he was also paying her for her time. He’d come to enjoy his conversations with her a lot.

His phone rang. Speak of the devil, he thought, smiling. “Hello, Marcy.”

“Hi. How’s it going?”

“I just passed through Lincoln, Nebraska. I found a great hamburger place on the outskirts of the city. What’s up?”

“The installers are here with your washer and dryer. I just wanted to double-check that you ordered Zephyr Blue?”

She said it with such doubt in her voice, he grinned. “That’s the color.”

“Okay. Let me tell them. Hold on a sec. Yes, that’s fine. Go ahead,” she said to the installers.

“I guess you can’t picture me with Zephyr Blue appliances,” he commented.

“It’s weird because I’m doing all this personal work for you but I don’t know anything beyond the fact you’re a math professor. May I ask why you’re moving here?”

“For the women.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He laughed. “I’m looking to get married and have children. I’ve exhausted New York.”

Her response was a little slow in coming. “I know a lot of women. What are you looking for?”

“Do you? Because I don’t want to do the whole online dating thing, so a personal reference would be great. She has to want kids, even though this would be my second family. I’ve already raised four to adulthood.”

“Four?” she repeated, a little breathlessly. “Ah, what age are you looking for?”

“She needs to be childbearing age, of course, but not too young. I’m not looking to rob any cradles.”

“So, you’re divorced? Or widowed?”

“Neither.”

“You’re a single dad?”

Eric was having way too much fun with her, but he didn’t want to explain everything and turn the conversation serious. He was tired of serious. It was one of his reasons for making the move. “It’s a long story,” he said.

“May I ask you this—did they all have the same mother?”

“Absolutely.”

Dead silence followed. “I hope you’ll share the story sometime,” she said finally.

“That’s a date.”

“Good. In the meantime, I’ll look through my address book and see if I can come up with some names.”

“That is above and beyond the call of duty, Marcy. Thank you.”

Eric started whistling after they hung up, then he found music on the satellite radio that he could sing along with. He was beginning to feel more than a little hopeful about his fresh start. He even had a matchmaker willing to help.

He rolled down his window and flew down the Interstate singing at the top of his lungs. He couldn’t wait to get to California and see who she had in mind.

Chapter Two

Early Friday morning, Marcy dragged herself out of her sleeping bag and stumbled into the bathroom to splash cold water on her face. She stared at her haggard reflection.

“One more night to go,” she reminded herself. It had been a very long week, but Eric was making good time on the road and thought he would arrive sometime tomorrow afternoon. In some ways she was ready to move on, but since her house-sitting job had been canceled, she didn’t have anywhere to go the following week. Usually she stayed at her back-up home, her friend Lori’s apartment, but she had out-of-town company, leaving no room for Marcy. She’d checked with two other friends, but they both had live-in boyfriends, a surprise to her, so that wouldn’t work.

For the first time in ages, she would have to get a motel room.

But whichever way it worked out, a full night’s sleep was in sight for her, for which she was grateful. Eric’s house made noise all night, sounds she couldn’t identify, creaks and groans and clunks. Tree branches scraped against windows. A couple of times she thought she’d heard footsteps, but in the morning there were no signs of anyone having been inside.

She knew she was being ridiculous. Paranoid, probably. In her sane moments, she chalked it up to being in an empty building. Furniture, drapes and carpets absorbed sound, but empty houses echoed, magnifying even a hum into a clatter.

She’d placed her cot and sleeping bag against the locked bedroom door, and had never gotten out of bed to check out a noise.

One more night …

After the quickest shower on record, Marcy opened the bedroom door a crack and peeked out. She listened. A minute later she left the room and tiptoed downstairs, going from room to room, finding nothing out of place. Daylight vanquished ghosts and lessened fears. She’d relaxed by the time she opened the refrigerator. She’d already stocked it with the items on Eric’s list but had bought things for herself, too, like individual-size bottles of orange juice. She grabbed one, then noticed it was the last.

She’d bought five bottles. This was day four.

Marcy moved food around, not finding another bottle. Had one of the workmen taken one?

She searched a little more but didn’t notice anything else missing. From a cabinet she grabbed a loaf of bread and jar of peanut butter, at least a half of which was missing. She’d only made one sandwich.

Marcy dropped the jar to the counter. Half the loaf of bread was gone, too. It wasn’t her imagination.