The Bachelor Bid

“You look beautiful. Every guy in the place is going to be praying you win him. Except me, of course.” About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright

“You look beautiful. Every guy in the place is going to be praying you win him. Except me, of course.”

“Did you just compliment and insult me in the same sentence?”

“Not at all. I excluded myself from the prayerful because you said you couldn’t afford me. Did you get all dolled up just to watch the bidding on me? I’m touched. Especially when you could have had a date for free.”

“Actually, I was considering bidding.... A dollar seemed a good estimation of your value. Then again...who knows? I might win. Decided it wasn’t worth the risk.”

Kate Denton is a pseudonym for the Texas writing team of Carolyn Hake and Jeanie Lambright. Friends as well as co-authors, they concur for the most part on politics and good Mexican restaurants, but disagree about men—tall versus short—and what constitutes good weather sun versus showers. One thing they do agree on, though, is the belief that romance is not just for the young!

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CARA BREEDON had reached the door of her boss’s office, about to make her exit, when Brooke Abbott’s voice halted her in her tracks. “By the way...any progress with Wyatt McCauley?”

Give me strength—not McCauley again! To Cara, the name was starting to grate like nails on a chalkboard. Just to get through one day—even one morning—without hearing that name, that question. No such luck. “Not much headway yet,” Cara reluctantly answered.

“Then you’ve got to get cracking, Cara. I want Wyatt McCauley.”

Tell me something I don’t know. Ever since Brooke’s designation as chair of her sorority’s celebrity bachelor auction, she’d fixated on the idea of computer magnate McCauley as the star attraction. Having delegated to Cara, her secretary, the task of making her fixation a reality, Brooke had reserved for herself the chore of spewing out reminders and demanding updates.

Brooke would have gone after McCauley herself if it hadn’t been for the fact her firm, Brooke Abbott Advertising, had just signed its biggest client to date.

The curse of good fortune meant that all of Brooke’s energies had to be directed toward the new client.

Still, she somehow managed to eke out a few minutes each day to yank Cara’s chain about McCauley. For the past two weeks every other sentence from Brooke had been “Wyatt-this, Wyattthat.” With each new mention of him, Cara’s suspicions became that much firmer that when Brooke said she wanted the man, she wasn’t talking only about the auction. She wanted Wyatt McCauley, period. And she wanted him bad. Were it within Cara’s power, she’d deliver him—gift-wrapped or hog-tied if necessary—just to get Brooke off her case.

Landing McCauley wasn’t the first difficult project Cara had been handed, but it was proving to be the most exasperating. As she drove home from the office Cara tried to keep in mind that Brooke was a generous employer, paying top dollar to her staff. In return she expected lots of late evenings and Saturdays, plus a myriad of personal tasks that had nothing to do with company business. On the whole, Cara didn’t mind. It wasn’t unusual for a company owner to throw in such additional duties. If it meant pleasing the boss, she could tolerate picking up her dry cleaning and doing the grunt work for a favorite Abbott charity. All in all, Cara had few complaints. Few complaints, that is, until the day Brooke first uttered the words “auction” and “McCauley” in the same sentence. Now the job was turning into a gigantic headache.

The problem was Wyatt McCauley wasn’t cooperating. For the past ten days, Cara had called his office only to find him unavailable each time. Just yesterday she tried again, surprised when she’d been put straight through to the man himself.

“Cara Breedon, Mr. McCauley. Thank you for taking my call,” she had begun.

“No problem,” McCauley had answered cordially. “It’s been such a hectic day, I welcome an excuse to escape the pile of work on my desk—now you’ve given me one.”

They’d chatted amiably for a minute or so before he pressed the point. “And what may I do for you, Ms. Breedon?”

There had been no innuendo in his soft Texas accent, but still Cara could just imagine what he could do. The voice alone was enough to help Cara understand Brooke’s fanatical interest.

“I’m recruiting participants on behalf of Brooke Abbott, chair of the Rosemund bachelor auction. You’re probably aware that the auction benefits—”

A loud sigh had stopped her spiel. “Ms. Breedon, too bad you’ve wasted your time and mine. As I’ve told your auction gang repeatedly, I don’t do that sort of thing. Good day.” The line had clicked off.

Cara remembered staring at the receiver by then humming with a dial tone. She had been tempted to dial McCauley back and tell him just what she thought of his manners. He’d been so nice at first until she...until she’d taken advantage of his accessibility with a sales pitch, one he’d apparently heard once too often. Grudgingly Cara had admitted that yes, he did have the right to cut her off.

But, darn it, she thought now, she had to have this man and she’d keep after him until he said yes. Somehow she needed to make him understand that the auction wasn’t “that sort of thing” but an important fund-raiser for a worthy cause.

It was either keep after McCauley or report failure to Brooke. And at the moment, she’d do anything to avoid such a scenario. Caught between the new bigfish client and the fast-approaching auction, Brooke was so uptight she might commit hara-kiri—or ask Cara to.

The next morning Cara called McCauley’s office again. The assistant said the CEO was tied up and couldn’t speak with her. Cara left a message asking that he ring her back. Three days passed with no return call.

Casting about for a different approach, Cara decided to adopt a marketing strategy, beginning with the gift of a bright-red, limited-edition sports cap publicizing the auction. Along with the cap went a letter explaining the cause it benefited—the Rosemund Learning Center for disadvantaged children.

Neither the cap nor the letter elicited a response, so Cara followed up with a tie—special delivery from the Neiman-Marcus flagship store in Dallas. The enclosed card said she hoped to “tie up his support for the auction.” Still no reaction.

After the tie, which she now envisioned twisted tightly around his neck, Cara tried sending Wyatt lunch from her favorite Mexican restaurant, having heard through the grapevine that he was an aficionado of Austin’s heralded “Tex-Mex” cuisine.

Since targeting his head and neck had proved unsuccessful, Cara was aiming lower, following the adage that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. The lunch, with an accompanying written plea nestled among the dessert of pecan pralines, proved a washout as well. No contact. No “Thank you very much, the food was delicious.” No anything. Cara’s murderous thoughts were multiplying.

With Brooke badgering her relentlessly, Cara opted for another telephone call. She was informed “a check is in the mail.” Cara mouthed a silent expletive. McCauley could send over his entire fortune in an armored truck and it wouldn’t get Brooke off her back. He was missing the point here.

The check arrived—a substantial contribution—along with a terse, typed note that he simply wasn’t interested in taking part. Maybe the poor guy thought that if he put it in writing, the message would finally get through.

Cara suffered another twinge of conscience. She’d been so zealous carrying out Brooke’s mandate that she’d overlooked the fact she was practically harassing this man. Wyatt McCauley probably thought her and everyone associated with the auction a collection of crazies who couldn’t grasp the simple meaning of “no.” In fact, she’d begun questioning her own sanity for continuing this ridiculous campaign rather than pleading with Brooke to give up or assign the job to someone else. But no telling how a stressed-out Brooke would react to such a request.

Having tried everything she could think of short of plotting a kidnapping, Cara decided to seek out the lion in his lair. If she showed up in person she could appeal to his sensitive side—assuming that he had one—and perhaps persuade him to reconsider.

Wyatt’s lair was an office in downtown Austin, not far from the state capitol. As she drove by in her aging Volkswagen Jetta, Cara noticed the trees now in full bloom, the capitol grounds teeming with cameratoting tourists and nearby office workers out for a breath of fresh spring air.

She managed to find a parking space, deposited several coins in the meter, and started toward Wyatt’s building. On the way she spotted a florist on the corner. Flowers? What the heck, this was a go-for-broke mission. She entered the store.

“A dozen of the yellow roses, please...no, make that two dozen.” Brooke had told her to do whatever was necessary. Perhaps the flowers would help sway the man...or at least gain her entrance to his inner sanctum.

“Cara Breedon to see Mr. McCauley.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible, Ms. Breedon.” The woman, Frances Peters, Executive Assistant—according to the nameplate on the desk—was courteous and efficient, but offering no encouragement. Still, Cara could have sworn there was a hint of amusement in her expression as she eyed the cellophane-wrapped roses. “I believe Mr. McCauley has made—”

“Frances—oh, excuse me, I didn’t know you had someone with you.” He turned to Cara. “May I cut in a minute, miss?” Without waiting for assent, he turned back to the assistant. “I need the time difference between here and Melbourne.”

“I’ll look it up.” Frances Peters swiveled toward a bookcase and removed an almanac.

“Sorry,” he said, focusing his attention on Cara as Frances studied the almanac.

This was Wyatt McCauley. No wonder Brooke was in such a dither over the man. Cara had seen pictures of him in the business and society pages, but while the grainy photos had shown a handsome man, they’d failed to capture the essence. The nondescript eyes shown in the pictures were actually a heat-seeking brown, his dark hair as glossy as a raven’s wing, and the wide apologetic smile now directed her way seemed capable of illuminating a room, maybe a football field. McCauley might have made his mark in computers, but this was no stereotypical computer nerd.

He was coatless, starched white shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbow, navy pin-striped trousers and... well—what do you know?—her tie. Score one for her side. She knew she was staring—gawking, actually—but then, he was giving her the once-over, too.

No doubt less impressed than she. Wyatt McCauley was a ten, a ten plus, and she... six might be stretching it somewhat. Certainly Cara couldn’t compete in the McCauley league, not with the glamorous women he squired around.

Likely, Wyatt McCauley’s steady perusal of her was motivated by curiosity at discovering a woman in his waiting room clutching twenty-four roses to her bosom, or by the fact he simply had nothing better to do at the moment. It would be presumptuous of her to read any special interest into it.

“Sixteen hours difference, Mr. McCauley,” said Frances.

“Thanks. Again, sony for the interruption,” he said to Cara.

Her reveries now under control, Cara snapped to attention. She couldn’t believe she’d frittered away precious minutes in slack-jawed adulation instead of taking advantage of the perfect opportunity to pitch the auction. Fortunately it wasn’t too late to rectify her lapse.

She shoved the flowers toward him. “Actually, you weren’t interrupting. These are for you. I’m Cara Breedon.”

Obviously taken by surprise at having been waylaid by the very person who’d hounded him for weeks, Wyatt’s hands closed reflexively around the bouquet and he stared at it for a second.

“I’m sorry, Mr. McCauley,” Frances said. “I told her you weren’t available—”

“It’s okay.” Wyatt transferred the flowers to Frances. “Put these in some water. I suppose I can spare a few minutes,” he said resignedly. “Since Ms. Breedon’s gone to so much trouble.” He motioned Cara to join him in his office.

As she entered, she noticed the breathtaking view of Town Lake from his wall of windows, then the beautiful office itself. Functional—computer on the right side of his desk, multi-button phone on the left, open briefcase overflowing with documents resting on the credenza behind. And decorative—southwestern artwork displayed on two walls, a lifelike wood sculpture of cowboy boots standing in a corner, and a goldleaf framed photo of two smiling Irish setters next to the briefcase.

Closing the door, he commented, “Perhaps I should recruit you for my sales force. I doubt I’ve met anyone, male or female, with as much tenacity.”

“Somehow I suspect that wasn’t meant as a compliment. Please be assured I’m not trying to be annoying, Mr. McCauley,” Cara said in what she hoped was a soothing tone.

His cagey look said she didn’t have to try to be annoying, still he offered her a chair. Cara sat down and Wyatt propped a hip on the corner of his desk, one long leg straightened in front of him to bear his weight. The fact that he didn’t take a seat sent an unspoken reminder: Don’t squander another second.

“It’s just that Brooke Abbott and I strongly believe in the Rosemund Learning Center and what it’s doing with kids,” Cara began. “Because the Center receives no government funds, it’s totally dependent on the goodwill of people like yourself. The bachelor auction is the major fund-raiser.”

Wyatt reached across the desk, and retrieved a checkbook. “No argument here. I’ve read a lot about the organization and I agree it’s making a difference. I’ll be happy to—”

“You’ve already sent a check.”

“Obviously more is needed. Or you wouldn’t be here.” He pulled a pen from a gold pen and pencil set and started scribbling, signing his name with a flourish.

“I’m not here for another check,” Cara protested. “It’s the auction that’s on my agenda.”

He slapped his thigh in frustration. “What part of my refusal didn’t you understand, Ms. Breedon? Are you dense or just pathetically stubborn? Any idiot should have figured out by now that hell will freeze over before I go parading around in front of an audience of man-hungry women admiring my tush.”

“Admiring,” he’d said, as if it were a given. He was right, of course—everyone would be admiring. Undoubtedly he was used to approval, not just of his backside, but from any imaginable angle.

For a few moments there in his anteroom, she’d been pretty appreciative herself. After his outburst, however, all idolizing had drained away, victim to his insolent refusal. She felt no more remorse for bothering him either. At that moment all she felt was aggravation at this galling display of ego.

“I can see it now,” he quipped. “A group of us guys prancing around like performers in a male strip joint My turn comes. I strut my stuff until a voice cries out, ‘Five bucks for the guy in the purple briefs.’ ”

“Purple briefs—you?” Cara taunted, raising one eyebrow. For a second, her brain reeled off a picture of Wyatt in purple underwear—dollar bills stuffed in the waistband as he danced before a bunch of screaming, applauding women.

Her thoughts were cut off by Wyatt’s terse, “No comment. Neither you, your boss, nor anyone else connected with that auction will find out, because I intend to hold on to every atom of my dignity.”

“You disappoint me,” Cara said.

“Why? Because I’m not willing to be part of your beefcake parade?”

“No, because you haven’t done your homework. It’s not a strip show. The participants wear tuxes, not skimpy garb. And you needn’t worry about your monetary value being bounced back and forth for all to hear. It’s a silent auction.”

“I’m not a bit worried, and it doesn’t matter what kind of show you’re promoting, because I don’t intend to be there.” He rubbed the back of his neck wearily. “Listen, lady, I’ve been hit on about this for the last three years and my answer has always been the same. Why don’t you people give it up?”

Cara sidestepped the question with a question of her own. “Don’t you want to be known as the most eligible bachelor in Austin?” She was losing steam here, but wouldn’t give up without a fight.

“A few people have already tried to label me with that tag. All it means is that I’m over twenty-one, single, and have money in the bank. Big deal.”

“Only a few?” Cara sniped, then caught herself. What was she doing? It wouldn’t do her cause any good to irritate this man further. Not when he already saw her as a major nuisance. Her only hope was to get back on course—mature, businesslike. Even though anxiety had her ready to climb the walls.

Surprisingly he smiled, as if he found her retort amusing. But his resolution was firm. “Like I said, I’m happy to make a contribution—of money, not my body.” He tore off the check he’d written and dangled it toward Cara.

“I don’t want another check, darn it. I want you!”

Wyatt lay the check down. He gave her a long appraising stare potent enough to raise the hairs on Cara’s neck. “That sounds promising,” he drawled.

“You know I didn’t mean it that way, that I...I was referring to the auction.” Cara seldom blushed, but she felt her face flushing to a scarlet hue. She fantasized about diving under McCauley’s big oak desk, or better still, sprinting out of here at full throttle.

The saving buzz of the intercom provided her a moment’s respite from flushes and fantasies. “Sure, I’ll take it,” Wyatt said. “Just ask him to hold on a second.” He pressed off the intercom button and turned his attention to Cara. “This has been... pleasant, Ms. Breedon, but I’ve got an important call coming through.” He stood up and pushed the check toward her. “By the way, thanks for the tie.” He fingered it casually. “Also the food and the flowers.” He paused. “And if you change your mind about wanting me...for anything other than the auction...”

Cara snatched the check. At least she’d come away from this encounter with something for the kids. But she couldn’t allow Wyatt’s remark to go unanswered. “Just to set the record straight, Mr. McCauley, I’m not the one who wants you. It’s my boss, Brooke Abbott. She’s convinced the auction is doomed without you. I may disagree...” Cara’s expression suggested that in her mind his involvement was about as important to the children’s future welfare as chicken pox. “But Ms. Abbott’s chairing the auction this year and she sees you as the pièce de résistance, a cinch to generate sky-high bids.”

“Then relay this to your boss,” Wyatt said, “and you can quote me. It doesn’t matter if the bids are projected to reach a million dollars—I’m not going to do this.” He stood up. “And that’s my final word on the subject.”

When he took her arm and ushered her toward his door, tingles ran through Cara’s body. The closeness, the feel of his warm fingers against her skin, made her long for something she couldn’t name. As the door closed behind her, she felt unaccountably empty, disillusioned—defeated. “Hemlock cocktail, anyone?” she muttered.

“Pardon?” Frances asked, observing Cara carefully.

“Nothing...sorry.” Cara quickly exited through the frosted-glass doors and headed toward the elevator, wishing she could drive directly home and jump into bed with the covers over her head, rather than go back to the office and Brooke’s displeasure.

She’d just pushed the down button when Frances Peters walked up behind her. “Don’t give up hope,” the woman whispered. “Maybe he’ll have second thoughts.” Without another word, Frances swept down the hall and disappeared into the ladies’ room.

Fat chance, Cara answered silently. I know a lost cause when I see one.

Twilight had long gone before the day’s business dealings came to a close. Lifting his eyes from the computer screen, Wyatt saw it was dark outside, his scenic view replaced by the spangled glow of city lights. He rose from his leather desk chair, stretched, rolled down his shirtsleeves and grabbed his jacket. Time to go home. Briefcase in hand, he opened his office door.

Frances was still at her computer. Wyatt glanced at his watch disapprovingly. “Gad, woman, it’s eight o’clock. Why in blazes are you still here?”

“Most bosses complain that their assistants leave too early. Mine grouses because I work too late.”

“Well, you’re stopping right now. I don’t want you in the building all alone,” Wyatt told her. “Get your purse and I’ll walk you to your car.”

Frances smiled agreeably, closed the document file, and shut down the computer. As she circled her desk, she bent to smell one of the yellow roses Cara Breedon had brought earlier. They were now arranged in a Waterford vase. “Pretty, aren’t they? Sure you don’t want to take them home, enjoy them over the weekend?”

“You take them, if you like. For all I care they can go in the trash.”

“Such a shame.” Frances picked up the vase and cradled it in her left arm. “It’s not like you to take out your bad moods on some lovely—”

“Don’t push it, Frances,” Wyatt growled as they started toward the elevator.

“All I was going to say was ‘flowers.’ ” She smiled again, obviously unruffled by his admonition and the glare he shot her way.

Frances had worked for Wyatt for almost a decade and a half, beginning when McCauley Industries was just getting off the ground, its owner an undergrad hawking computer software to fellow classmates at the University of Texas.

In the ensuing years, the operation had expanded beyond the college crowd and into a national conglomerate. During those same years, Frances had become more than an assistant to Wyatt. To him she was a confidante, a friend, a mother figure. Which meant that she felt perfectly free to meddle in his personal life and to offer unsolicited advice.

Fortunately for Wyatt, the elevator came quickly and was occupied by another late worker, so any further discussion of Cara Breedon’s visit was dropped.

He might have been rescued from Frances’s meddling, but now, as Wyatt drove toward his home in the Tarrytown area of Austin, he couldn’t keep his thoughts from returning to Cara.

The fact was, he’d begun to delight in her campaign of persuasion, to wonder what she’d come up with next. Today’s face-to-face encounter had been unexpected, but he’d savored the good-natured sparring. She was sweet, but not too sweet—just the right amount of tang there.

Most of the women he dated were more beautiful, more sophisticated, yet there was something appealing in her natural manner and her girl-next-door prettiness. Her soft honey-colored hair fairly begged for a man’s touch and those matching tawny eyes almost had Wyatt assenting to the auction or anything else she might suggest. Cara Breedon was the kind of woman who pulled at a man’s heartstrings. Precisely the kind of woman to stay away from.

CHAPTER TWO

“HI, SIS,” two voices sang in unison as Cara dragged through her front door that evening. She dropped onto the couch, slipping out of her high heels and propping her aching feet on the coffee table. “Hi,” she said unenthusiastically. “Hello, Flake,” she said in the same voice to the white cat who’d sprung into her lap.

“What’s wrong?” Mark asked. He undraped himself from his chair and deposited an apple core into the wastebasket.

“Yes, you look like you’ve lost your best friend,” Meg added. “What’s the problem?”